The Man of the Forest, Zane Grey [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

CHAPTER XI

“I’ll ride you if it breaks — my neck!” panted Bo,

passionately, shaking her gloved fist at the gray pony.

 

Dale stood near with a broad smile on his face. Helen was

within earshot, watching from the edge of the park, and she

felt so fascinated and frightened that she could not call

out for Bo to stop. The little gray mustang was a beauty,

clean-limbed and racy, with long black mane and tail, and a

fine, spirited head. There was a blanket strapped on his

back, but no saddle. Bo held the short halter that had been

fastened in a hackamore knot round his nose. She wore no

coat; her blouse was covered with grass and seeds, and it

was open at the neck; her hair hung loose and disheveled;

one side of her face bore a stain of grass and dirt and a

suspicion of blood; the other was red and white; her eyes

blazed; beads of sweat stood out on her brow and wet places

shone on her cheeks. As she began to strain on the halter,

pulling herself closer to the fiery pony, the outline of her

slender shape stood out lithe and strong.

 

Bo had been defeated in her cherished and determined

ambition to ride Dale’s mustang, and she was furious. The

mustang did not appear to be vicious or mean. But he was

spirited, tricky, mischievous, and he had thrown her six

times. The scene of Bo’s defeat was at the edge of the park,

where thick moss and grass afforded soft places for her to

fall. It also afforded poor foothold for the gray mustang,

obviously placing him at a disadvantage. Dale did not bridle

him, because he had not been broken to a bridle; and though

it was harder for Bo to try to ride him bareback, there was

less risk of her being hurt. Bo had begun in all eagerness

and enthusiasm, loving and petting the mustang, which she

named “Pony.” She had evidently anticipated an adventure,

but her smiling, resolute face had denoted confidence. Pony

had stood fairly well to be mounted, and then had pitched

and tossed until Bo had slid off or been upset or thrown.

After each fall Bo bounced up with less of a smile, and more

of spirit, until now the Western passion to master a horse

had suddenly leaped to life within her. It was no longer

fun, no more a daring circus trick to scare Helen and rouse

Dale’s admiration. The issue now lay between Bo and the

mustang.

 

Pony reared, snorting, tossing his head, and pawing with

front feet.

 

“Pull him down!” yelled Dale.

 

Bo did not have much weight, but she had strength, an she

hauled with all her might, finally bringing him down.

 

“Now hold hard an’ take up rope an’ get in to him,” called

Dale. “Good! You’re sure not afraid of him. He sees that.

Now hold him, talk to him, tell him you’re goin’ to ride

him. Pet him a little. An’ when he quits shakin’, grab his

mane an’ jump up an’ slide a leg over him. Then hook your

feet under him, hard as you can, an’ stick on.”

 

If Helen had not been so frightened for Bo she would have

been able to enjoy her other sensations. Creeping, cold

thrills chased over her as Bo, supple and quick, slid an arm

and a leg over Pony and straightened up on him with a

defiant cry. Pony jerked his head down, brought his feet

together in one jump, and began to bounce. Bo got the swing

of him this time and stayed on.

 

“You’re ridin’ him,” yelled Dale. “Now squeeze hard with

your knees. Crack him over the head with your rope… .

That’s the way. Hang on now an’ you’ll have him beat.”

 

The mustang pitched all over the space adjacent to Dale and

Helen, tearing up the moss and grass. Several times he

tossed Bo high, but she slid back to grip him again with her

legs, and he could not throw her. Suddenly he raised his

head and bolted. Dale answered Bo’s triumphant cry. But Pony

had not run fifty feet before he tripped and fell, throwing

Bo far over his head. As luck would have it — good luck,

Dale afterward said — she landed in a boggy place and the

force of her momentum was such that she slid several yards,

face down, in wet moss and black ooze.

 

Helen uttered a scream and ran forward. Bo was getting to

her knees when Dale reached her. He helped her up and half

led, half carried her out of the boggy place. Bo was not

recognizable. From head to foot she was dripping black ooze.

 

“Oh, Bo! Are you hurt?” cried Helen.

 

Evidently Bo’s mouth was full of mud.

 

“Pp—su—tt! Ough! Whew!” she sputtered. “Hurt? No! Can’t

you see what I lit in? Dale, the sun-of-a-gun didn’t throw

me. He fell, and I went over his head.”

 

“Right. You sure rode him. An’ he tripped an’ slung you a

mile,” replied Dale. “It’s lucky you lit in that bog.”

 

“Lucky! With eyes and nose stopped up? Oooo! I’m full of

mud. And my nice — new riding-suit!”

 

Bo’s tones indicated that she was ready to cry. Helen,

realizing Bo had not been hurt, began to laugh. Her sister

was the funniest-looking object that had ever come before

her eyes.

 

“Nell Rayner — are you — laughing — at me?” demanded Bo,

in most righteous amaze and anger.

 

“Me laughing? N-never, Bo,” replied Helen. “Can’t you see

I’m just — just —”

 

“See? You idiot! my eyes are full of mud!” flashed Bo. “But

I hear you. I’ll — I’ll get even.”

 

Dale was laughing, too, but noiselessly, and Bo, being blind

for the moment, could not be aware of that. By this time

they had reached camp. Helen fell flat and laughed as she

had never laughed before. When Helen forgot herself so far

as to roll on the ground it was indeed a laughing matter.

Dale’s big frame shook as he possessed himself of a towel

and, wetting it at the spring, began to wipe the mud off

Bo’s face. But that did not serve. Bo asked to be led to the

water, where she knelt and, with splashing, washed out her

eyes, and then her face, and then the bedraggled strands of

hair.

 

“That mustang didn’t break my neck, but he rooted my face in

the mud. I’ll fix him,” she muttered, as she got up. “Please

let me have the towel, now… . Well! Milt Dale, you’re

laughing!”

 

“Ex-cuse me, Bo. I — Haw! haw! haw!” Then Dale lurched off,

holding his sides.

 

Bo gazed after him and then back at Helen.

 

“I suppose if I’d been kicked and smashed and killed you’d

laugh,” she said. And then she melted. “Oh, my pretty

riding-suit! What a mess! I must be a sight… . Nell, I

rode that wild pony — the sun-of-a-gun! I rode him! That’s

enough for me. YOU try it. Laugh all you want. It was funny.

But if you want to square yourself with me, help me clean my

clothes.”

 

Late in the night Helen heard Dale sternly calling Pedro.

She felt some little alarm. However, nothing happened, and

she soon went to sleep again. At the morning meal Dale

explained.

 

“Pedro an’ Tom were uneasy last night. I think there are

lions workin’ over the ridge somewhere. I heard one scream.”

 

“Scream?” inquired Bo, with interest.

 

“Yes, an’ if you ever hear a lion scream you will think it a

woman in mortal agony. The cougar cry, as Roy calls it, is

the wildest to be heard in the woods. A wolf howls. He is

sad, hungry, and wild. But a cougar seems human an’ dyin’

an’ wild. We’ll saddle up an’ ride over there. Maybe Pedro

will tree a lion. Bo, if he does will you shoot it?”

 

“Sure,” replied Bo, with her mouth full of biscuit.

 

That was how they came to take a long, slow, steep ride

under cover of dense spruce. Helen liked the ride after they

got on the heights. But they did not get to any point where

she could indulge in her pleasure of gazing afar over the

ranges. Dale led up and down, and finally mostly down, until

they came out within sight of sparser wooded ridges with

parks lying below and streams shining in the sun.

 

More than once Pedro had to be harshly called by Dale. The

hound scented game.

 

“Here’s an old kill,” said Dale, halting to point at some

bleached bones scattered under a spruce. Tufts of

grayish-white hair lay strewn around.

 

“What was it?” asked Bo.

 

“Deer, of course. Killed there an’ eaten by a lion. Sometime

last fall. See, even the skull is split. But I could not say

that the lion did it.”

 

Helen shuddered. She thought of the tame deer down at Dale’s

camp. How beautiful and graceful, and responsive to

kindness!

 

They rode out of the woods into a grassy swale with rocks

and clumps of some green bushes bordering it. Here Pedro

barked, the first time Helen had heard him. The hair on his

neck bristled, and it required stern calls from Dale to hold

him in. Dale dismounted.

 

“Hyar, Pede, you get back,” he ordered. “I’ll let