He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, no travel.

I say the broncho was not so ver' bad, and I tell him try the paces.

I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb.

He mount, and sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start.

For a minute it was pretty; and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was the broncho bucking--doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead.
Once that--groom--come down on the pommel, then over on the ground like a ball, all muck and blood." The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him.