The Dude Wrangler | Page 8

careful!" his aunt admonished him. "I don't like you to
ride strange horses."
Wallie laughed lightly, and as he went down to meet the groom who
was now at the foot of the steps with the horses he assured her that

there was not the least cause for anxiety.
"Why, that's a Western horse!" Miss Spenceley exclaimed. "Isn't that a
brand on the shoulder?"
"It looks like it," Pinkey answered, ruffing the hair then smoothing it.
"Shore it's a brand." He stepped off a pace to look at it.
"Pardon me, but I think you're mistaken," Wallie said, politely but
positively. "The Academy buys only thoroughbreds."
"If that ain't a bronc, I'll eat it," Pinkey declared, bluntly.
"Can you make out the brand?" asked Miss Spenceley.
Pinkey ruffed the hair again and stepped back and squinted. Then his
cracked lips stretched in a grin that threatened to start them bleeding:
"'88' is the way I read it."
She nodded: "The brand of Cain."
Then they both laughed immoderately.
Wallie could see no occasion for merriment and it nettled him.
"Nevertheless, I maintain that you are in error," he declared,
obstinately.
"I doubt if I could set one of them hen-skin saddles," observed Pinkey,
changing the subject.
Wallie replied airily:
"Oh, it's very easy if you've been taught properly."
"Taught? You mean," wonderingly, "that somebody learnt you to ride
horseback?"
Wallie smiled patronizingly:

"How else would I know?"
"I was jest throwed on a horse and told to stay there."
"Which accounts for the fact that you Western riders have no 'form,' if
you'll excuse my frankness."
"Don't mention it," replied Pinkey, not to be outdone in politeness.
"Maybe, before I go, you'll give me some p'inters?"
"I shall be most happy," Wallie responded, putting his foot in the
stirrup.
He mounted creditably and settled himself in the saddle.
"Thumb him," said Miss Spenceley, "and we'll soon settle the
argument."
"How--thumb him? The term is not familiar."
"Show him, Pinkey." Her eyes were sparkling, for Wallie's tone implied
that the expression was slang and also rather vulgar.
"He'll unload his pack as shore as shootin'." Pinkey hesitated.
"No time like the present to learn a lesson," she replied, ambiguously.
"Certainly--if there's anything you can teach me," Wallie's smile said as
plain as words that he doubted it. "Mr. Fripp--er--'thumb' him."
"You're the doctor," said Pinkey, grimly, and "thumbed" him.
The effect was instantaneous. The old horse ducked his head, arched
his back, and went at it.
It was over in less time than it requires to tell and Wallie was
convinced beyond the question of a doubt that the horse had not been
bred in Kentucky. As he described an aërial circle Wallie had a
whimsical notion that his teeth had bitten into his brain and his spine

was projected through the crown of his derby hat. Darkness and
oblivion came upon him for a moment, and then he found himself
being lifted tenderly from a bed of petunias and dusted off by the
groom from the Riding Academy.
The ladies were screaming, but a swift glance showed Wallie not only
Mr. Appel but Mr. Cone and Mr. Budlong with their hands over their
mouths and their teeth gleaming between their spreading fingers.
"Coward!" he cried to Pinkey. "You don't dare get on him!"
"Can you ride him 'slick,' Pinkey?" asked Miss Spenceley.
"I'll do it er bust somethin'." Pinkey's mouth had a funny quirk at the
corners. "Maybe it'll take the kinks out of me from travellin'."
He looked at Mr. Cone doubtfully: "I'm liable to rip up the sod in your
front yard a little."
"Go to it!" cried Mr. Cone, whose sporting blood was up. "There's
nothin' here that won't grow again. Ride him!"
Everybody was trembling, and when Miss Eyester looked at her lips
they were white as alabaster, but she meant to see the riding, if she had
one of her sinking spells immediately it was over.
When Pinkey swung into the saddle, the horse turned its head around
slowly and looked at the leg that gripped him. Pinkey leaned down,
unbuckled the throat-latch, and slipped off the bridle. Then, as he
touched the horse in the flank with his heels, he took off his cap and
slapped him over the head with it.
The horse recognized the familiar challenge and accepted it. What he
had done to Wallie was only the gambolling of a frisky colt as
compared with his efforts to rid his back of Pinkey.
Even Helene Spenceley sobered as she watched the battle that
followed.

The horse sprang into the air, twisted, and came down
stiff-legged--squealing. Now with his head between his forelegs he shot
up his hind hoofs and at an angle to require all the grip in his rider's
knees to stay in the