rope strapped to the saddle horn. Taking it, Dusty walked slowly towards the horse. Snorting and pawing the ground, it watched him suspiciously. All the time, he kept up a flow of soft-spoken, soothing talk. With the picket rope knotted to the bosal , he could not flip his loop over the bay’s head. Instead he slid the stem of his Manila rope across the top of its neck. Catching the end of the stem underneath the neck, ho quickly formed a running noose and drew it tight.
Naturally the news of the bet had attracted considerable attention. Recalling their non-coms’ experiences with the bay, Glock’s men waited to see how Dusty would fare. Equally interested, the Texans kept clear of their prisoners and remained alert for trouble. Neither Red nor Billy Jack looked too happy about the affair, being aware of what might happen to Dusty should he lose.
A smile played on Hoffinger’s lips as he watched the rope tighten about the horse’s neck. Then it wavered and died. Instead of fighting to tear free, the bay stood still. Keeping the rope taut, Dusty backed until he could pick up his saddle and blanket. Still moving unhurriedly, he returned with them in his hand. The horse let out another snort, yet did not fight against the rope. Up close, Dusty set down his saddle. Then he caressed the bay’s head with his hands, stroking its nostrils and eyes before taking hold of the head-piece of the bosal . Keeping the head steady, he leaned forward and began to blow into its flaring nostrils.
‘What’s he do—!’ Hoffinger yelped, the words ending as Red rammed an elbow into his ribs.
‘You try yelling to spook the hoss again,’ Red growled in a low, savage tone, ‘and I’ll raise lumps all over your pumpkin head with my Colt’s butt.’
Knowing that his escort meant to carry out the threat, Hoffinger lapsed into silence. Yet, to give him his due, surprise rather than any foul motive had caused the outburst. He had been amazed by the bay’s lack of resistance and at Dusty’s actions.
After standing by the horse’s head for a short time, Dusty took up his saddle. Anticipation bit at Hoffinger, mingled with the thought that something was wrong. Not until Dusty had slid the folded blanket into place did the dude realize what it was. With growing delight, he saw that the small Texan was standing on the right side of the horse instead of at the left. Yet the bay showed none of its usual objections to either the blanket or the saddle, despite the change of procedure. Not even the adjustment of the girths about its belly provoked the kind of savage protests which had met attempts by Glock or Mullitz to saddle it. Instead it stood quietly and allowed Dusty to unfasten the picket-rope from the bosal .
‘He’s not using a bridle or bit!’ Hoffinger croaked, watching Dusty slip his right foot into the stirrup iron and swing astride the bay.
‘Danged if he’s not forgot,’ grinned Red, knowing that the bosal served as a bit and beginning to realize why Dusty had accepted the bet.
Settling on the saddle, Dusty felt the horse tense itself between his legs. Gripping the reins in his right hand, he cautiously freed his rope. A nudge with his heels sent the bay off in a long ‘straightaway’ buck. Although it sailed high, it came down without twisting, whirling or the dangerous powerful hindquarter’s kick that could drive the base of the rider’s spine against the cantle of the saddle. Performed without the refinements, bucking straightaway posed no problems for a man with Dusty’s skill. In fact he soon realized that his mount was doing no more than try him out. It continued to crow-hop for a short time. The see-saw motion of the bucking looked spectacular, but required little effort to ride out. Nor did it sustain the fight and it soon began to respond to the messages of the reins.
‘I — I don’t believe it!’ Hoffinger croaked as Dusty rode towards him.
At the same time, the dude knew that his last chance had
Naturally the news of the bet had attracted considerable attention. Recalling their non-coms’ experiences with the bay, Glock’s men waited to see how Dusty would fare. Equally interested, the Texans kept clear of their prisoners and remained alert for trouble. Neither Red nor Billy Jack looked too happy about the affair, being aware of what might happen to Dusty should he lose.
A smile played on Hoffinger’s lips as he watched the rope tighten about the horse’s neck. Then it wavered and died. Instead of fighting to tear free, the bay stood still. Keeping the rope taut, Dusty backed until he could pick up his saddle and blanket. Still moving unhurriedly, he returned with them in his hand. The horse let out another snort, yet did not fight against the rope. Up close, Dusty set down his saddle. Then he caressed the bay’s head with his hands, stroking its nostrils and eyes before taking hold of the head-piece of the bosal . Keeping the head steady, he leaned forward and began to blow into its flaring nostrils.
‘What’s he do—!’ Hoffinger yelped, the words ending as Red rammed an elbow into his ribs.
‘You try yelling to spook the hoss again,’ Red growled in a low, savage tone, ‘and I’ll raise lumps all over your pumpkin head with my Colt’s butt.’
Knowing that his escort meant to carry out the threat, Hoffinger lapsed into silence. Yet, to give him his due, surprise rather than any foul motive had caused the outburst. He had been amazed by the bay’s lack of resistance and at Dusty’s actions.
After standing by the horse’s head for a short time, Dusty took up his saddle. Anticipation bit at Hoffinger, mingled with the thought that something was wrong. Not until Dusty had slid the folded blanket into place did the dude realize what it was. With growing delight, he saw that the small Texan was standing on the right side of the horse instead of at the left. Yet the bay showed none of its usual objections to either the blanket or the saddle, despite the change of procedure. Not even the adjustment of the girths about its belly provoked the kind of savage protests which had met attempts by Glock or Mullitz to saddle it. Instead it stood quietly and allowed Dusty to unfasten the picket-rope from the bosal .
‘He’s not using a bridle or bit!’ Hoffinger croaked, watching Dusty slip his right foot into the stirrup iron and swing astride the bay.
‘Danged if he’s not forgot,’ grinned Red, knowing that the bosal served as a bit and beginning to realize why Dusty had accepted the bet.
Settling on the saddle, Dusty felt the horse tense itself between his legs. Gripping the reins in his right hand, he cautiously freed his rope. A nudge with his heels sent the bay off in a long ‘straightaway’ buck. Although it sailed high, it came down without twisting, whirling or the dangerous powerful hindquarter’s kick that could drive the base of the rider’s spine against the cantle of the saddle. Performed without the refinements, bucking straightaway posed no problems for a man with Dusty’s skill. In fact he soon realized that his mount was doing no more than try him out. It continued to crow-hop for a short time. The see-saw motion of the bucking looked spectacular, but required little effort to ride out. Nor did it sustain the fight and it soon began to respond to the messages of the reins.
‘I — I don’t believe it!’ Hoffinger croaked as Dusty rode towards him.
At the same time, the dude knew that his last chance had
Similar Books
