who can make a “pretty” ride where other broncho-fighters resemble nothing so much as a scarecrow in a cyclone. Andy not only could ride—he could ride gracefully. And the reason for that, not many knew: Andy, in the years before he wandered to the range, had danced, in spangled tights, upon the broad rump of a big gray horse which galloped around a saw-dust ring with the regularity of movement that suggested a machine, while a sober-clothed man in the center cracked a whip and yelped commands. Andy had jumped through blazing hoops and over sagging bunting while he rode—and he was just a trifle ashamed of the fact. Also—though it does not particularly matter—he had, later in the performance, gone hurtling around the big tent dressed in the garb of an ancient Roman and driving four deep-chested bays abreast. As has been explained, he never boasted of his circus experience; though his days in spangled tights probably had much to do with the inimitable grace of him in the saddle. The Happy Family felt to a man that Andy would win the purse and add honor to the Flying U in the winning. They were enthusiastic over the prospect and willing to bet all they had on the outcome.
* * * *
The Happy Family, together with the aliens who swelled the crew to round-up size, was foregathered at the largest Flying U corral, watching a bunch of newly bought horses circle, with much snorting and kicking up of dust, inside the fence. It was the interval between beef-and calf-roundups, and the witchery of Indian Summer held the range-land in thrall.
Andy, sizing up the bunch and the brands, lighted upon a rangy blue roan that he knew—or thought he knew, and the eyes of him brightened with desire. If he could get that roan in his string, he told himself, he could go to sleep in the saddle on night-guard; for an easier horse to ride he never had straddled. It was like sitting in grandma’s pet rocking chair when that roan loosened his muscles for a long, tireless gallop over the prairie sod, and as a stayer Andy had never seen his equal. It was not his turn to choose, however, and he held his breath lest the rope of another should settle over the slatey-black ears ahead of him.
Cal Emmett roped a plump little black and led him out, grinning satisfaction; from the white saddle-marks back of the withers he knew him for a “broke” horse, and he certainly was pretty to look at. Andy gave him but a fleeting glance.
Happy Jack spread his loop and climbed down from the fence, almost at Andy’s elbow. It was his turn to choose. “I betche that there blue roan over there is a good one,” he remarked. “I’m going to tackle him.”
Andy took his cigarette from between his lips. “Yuh better hobble your stirrups, then,” he discouraged artfully. “I know that roan a heap better than you do.”
“Aw, gwan!” Happy, nevertheless, hesitated. “He’s got a kind eye in his head; yuh can always go by a horse’s eye.”
“Can yuh?” Andy smiled indifferently. “Go after him, then. And say, Happy: if yuh ride that blue roan for five successive minutes, I’ll give yuh fifty dollars. I knew that hoss down on the Musselshell; he’s got a record that’d reach from here to Dry Lake and back.” It was a bluff, pure and simple, born of his covetousness, but it had the desired effect—or nearly so.
Happy fumbled his rope and eyed the roan. “Aw, I betche you’re just lying,” he hazarded; but, like many another, when he did strike the truth he failed to recognize it. “I betche—”
“All right, rope him out and climb on, if yuh don’t believe me.” The tone of Andy was tinged with injury. “There’s fifty dollars—yes, by gracious, I’ll give yuh a hundred dollars if yuh ride him for five minutes straight.”
A conversation of that character, carried on near the top of two full-lunged voices, never fails in the range land to bring an audience of every male human within hearing. All other conversations and interests were immediately suspended, and a dozen men trotted up to see what it was all about. Andy remained roosting upon the top rail, his rope coiled loosely and dangling from one arm while he smoked imperturbably.
“Oh, Happy was going to rope out a sure-enough bad one for his night hoss, and out uh the goodness uh my heart, I put him wise to what he was going up against,” he explained carelessly.
“He acts like he has some thoughts uh doubting my word, so I just offered him a hundred dollars to ride him—that blue roan, over there next that crooked post. Get a reserved seat right in front of the grand stand where all the big acts take place;” he sung out suddenly, in the regulation circus tone. “Get-a-seat-right-in-front-where-Happy-Jack-the-Wild-Man-rides-the-bucking-broncho—Go on, Happy. Don’t keep the audience waiting. Aren’t yuh going to earn that hundred dollars?”
Happy Jack turned half a shade redder than was natural. “Aw, gwan. I never said I was going to do no broncho-busting ack. But I betche yuh never seen that roan before he was unloaded in Dry Lake.”
“What’ll yuh bet I don’t know that hoss from a yearling colt?” Andy challenged, and Happy Jack walked away without replying, and cast his loop sullenly over the first horse he came to—which was not the roan.
Chip, coming up to hear the last of it, turned and looked long at the horse in question; a mild-mannered horse, standing by a crooked corral post and flicking his ears at the flies. “Do you know that roan?”he asked Andy, in the tone which brings truthful answer. Andy had one good point: he never lied except in an irresponsible mood of pure deviltry. For instance, he never had lied seriously, to an employer.
“Sure, I know that hoss,” he answered truthfully.
“Did you ever ride him?”
“No,” Andy admitted, still truthfully. “I never rode him but once myself, but I worked right with a Lazy 6 rep that had him in his string, down at the U up-and-down, two years ago. I know the hoss, all right; but I did lie when I told Happy I knowed him from a colt. I spread it on a little bit thick, there.” He smiled engagingly down at Chip.
“And he’s a bad one, is he?” Chip queried Over his shoulder, just as he was about to walk away.
“Well,” Andy prevaricated—still clinging to the letter, if not to the spirit of truth. “He ain’t a hoss I’d like to see Happy Jack go up against. I ain’t saying, though, that he can’t be rode. I don’t say that about any hoss.”
“Is he any worse than Glory, when Glory is feeling peevish?” Weary asked, when Chip was gone and while the men still lingered. Andy, glancing to make sure that Chip was out of hearing, threw away his cigarette and yielded to temptation. “Glory?” he snorted with a fine contempt. “Why, Glory’s—a—lamb beside that blue roan! Why, that hoss throwed Buckskin Jimmy clean out of a corral—Did yuh ever see Buckskin Jimmy ride? Well, say, yuh missed a pretty sight, then; Jimmy’s a sure-enough rider. About the only animal he ever failed to connect with for keeps, is that same cow-backed hoss yuh see over there. Happy says he’s got a kind eye in his head—” Andy stopped and laughed till they all laughed with him. “By gracious, Happy ought to step up on him, once, and see how kind he is!” He laughed again until Happy, across the corral saddling the horse he had chosen, muttered profanely at the derision he knew was pointed at himself.
“Why, I’ve seen that hoss—” Andy Green, once fairly started in the fascinating path of romance, invented details for the pure joy of creation. If he had written some of the tales he told, and had sold the writing for many dollars, he would have been famous. Since he did not write them for profit, but told them for fun, instead, he earned merely the reputation of being a great liar. A significant mark of his genius lay in the fact that his inventions never failed to convince; not till afterward did his audience doubt.
That is why the blue roan was not chosen in any of the strings, but was left always circling in the corral after a loop had settled. That is why the Flying U boys looked at him askance as they passed him by. That is why, when a certain Mr. Coleman, sent by the board of directors to rake northern Montana for bad horses, looked with favor upon the blue roan when he came to the Flying U ranch and heard the tale of his exploits as interpreted—I should say created—by Andy Green.
“We’ve got to have him,” he declared enthusiastically. “If he’s as bad as all that, he’ll be the star