his teeth and hung to the rope. The corral revolved and the buildings
teetered drunkenly. Blue Smoke was not a running bucker, but did his
pitching in a small area--and viciously. Pete's head snapped back and
forth. He lost all sense of time, direction, and place. He was jolted
and jarred by a grunting cyclone that flung him up and sideways, met
him coming down and racked every muscle in his body. Pete dully hoped
that it would soon be over. He was bleeding at the nose. His neck
felt as though it had been broken. He wanted to let go and fall.
Anything was better than this terrible punishment.

He heard shouting, and then a woman's shrill voice. Blue Smoke gave a
quick pitch and twist. Pete felt something crash up against him.
Suddenly it was night. All motion had ceased.

When he came to, Mrs. Bailey was kneeling beside him and ringed around
were the curious faces of the cowboys.

"I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder River," muttered Pete. "Did I make it?"

"That horse liked to killed you," said Mrs. Bailey. "If I'd 'a' knew
the boys was up to this . . . and him just a boy! Jim Bailey, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Ma Bailey wiped Pete's face with her
apron and put her motherly arm beneath his head. "If he was my boy,
Jim Bailey, I'd--I'd--show you!"

Pete raised on his elbow. "I'm all right, mam. It wa'n't his fault.
I said I could ride that hoss. Did I make it?"

"Accordin' to your watch here," said the puncher who held Pete's
irresponsible timepiece, "you rid him for four hours and sixteen