To be unable to stick on the back of a wild mustang, or a cayuse, was an unpardonable sin in Arizona.

My frank admission was made relatively, with my mind on what cowboys held as a standard of horsemanship.
The mount Frank trotted out of the corral for me was a pure white, beautiful mustang, nervous, sensitive, quivering.

I watched Frank put on the saddle, and when he called me I did not fail to catch a covert twinkle in his merry brown eyes.

Looking away toward Buckskin Mountain, which was coincidentally in the direction of home, I said to myself: "This may be where you get on, but most certainly it is where you get off!" Jones was already riding far beyond the corral, as I could see by a cloud of dust; and I set off after him, with the painful consciousness that I must have looked to Frank and Jim much as Central Park equestrians had often looked to me.

Frank shouted after me that he would catch up with us out on the range.