There is also another side. A woman at best is physically handicapped
when roughing it with husband or brother. Then why increase that handicap
by wearing trailing skirts that catch on every log and bramble, and which
demand the services of at least one hand to hold up (fortunately this
battle is already won), and by choosing to ride side-saddle, thus making
it twice as difficult to mount and dismount by yourself, which in fact
compels you to seek the assistance of a log, or stone, or a friendly hand
for a lift? Western riding is not Central Park riding, nor is it Rotten
Row riding. The cowboy's, or military, seat is much simpler and easier
for both man and beast than the Park seat--though, of course, less
stylish. That is the glory of it; you can go galloping over the prairie
and uplands with never a thought that the trot is more proper, and your
course, untrammelled by fenced-in roads, is straight to the setting sun
or to yonder butte. And if you want a spice of danger, it is there,
sometimes more than you want, in the presence of badger and gopher holes,
to step into which while at high speed may mean a broken leg for your
horse, perhaps a broken neck for yourself. But to return to the
independence of riding astride:

One day I was following a game trail along a very steep bank which ended
a hundred feet below in a granite precipice. It had been raining and
snowing in a fitful fashion, and the clay ground was slippery, making a
most treacherous footing. One of the pack animals just ahead of my horse
slipped, fell to his knees, the heavy pack overbalanced him, and away he
rolled over and over down the slope, to be stopped from the precipice
only by the happy accident of a scrub tree in the way. Frightened by this
sight, my animal plunged, and he, too, lost his footing. Had I been
riding side-saddle, nothing could have saved me, for the downhill was on
the near side; but instead I swung out of the saddle on the off side and
landed in a heap on the uphill, still clutching the bridle. That act