"Shucks!" exclaimed Bailey; "that hoss would jest nacherally pitch you
so high you wouldn't git back in time for the fall round-up, kid. He's
bad."

"Well, you said they wa'n't no job till fall, anyhow," said Pete.
"Mebby I'd git back in time for a job."

Bailey shook his head. "I was joshin'--this mornin'."

"'Bout my ridin' that hoss? Well, I ain't. I'm kind of a stranger up
here, and I reckon you fellas think, because that doggone ole soap-foot
fell down with me, that I can't ride 'em."

"Oh, mebby some of 'em," laughed Bailey.

Pete's black eyes flashed. To him the matter was anything but a joke.
"You give me a job if I stick on that hoss for fifteen seconds? Why,
I'm game to crawl him and see who wins out. If I git pitched, I lose.
And I'm taking all the chances."

"Throw a saddle on him and give the kid a chanct," suggested a cowboy.

Bailey turned and looked at Pete, whose eyes were alight with the hope
of winning out--not for the sake of any brief glory, Pete's compressed
lips denied that, but for the sake of demonstrating his ability to hold
down a job on the ranch.

"Rope him, Monte," said Bailey. "Take the sorrel. I'll throw the
kid's saddle on him."