“Look out, don’t let him buck,” he called.
But Dexter had again become motionless, except for a recurrent trembling under this monstrous infliction.
“Now, there,” began the artist. “Hold that. You’re looking off over the Western hills. Atta boy! Wait till I get a side view.”
“Move your camera,” said the rider. “Seems to me he doesn’t want to turn around.”
But again the artist turned Dexter half around. That wasn’t so bad. Merton began to feel the thrill of it. He even lounged in the saddle presently, one leg over the pommel, and seemed about to roll another cigarette while another art study was made. He continued to lounge there while the artist packed his camera. What had he been afraid of? He could sit a horse as well as the next man; probably a few little tricks about it he hadn’t learned yet, but he’d get these, too.
“I bet they’ll come out fine,” he called to the departing artist. “Leave that to me. I dare say I’ll be able to do something good with them. So long.”
“So long,” returned Merton, and was left alone on the back of a horse higher than people would think until they got on him. Indeed he was beginning to like it. If you just had a little nerve you needn’t be afraid of anything. Very carefully he clambered from the saddle. His old pal shook himself with relief and stood once more with bowed head and crossed forelegs.
His late burden observed him approvingly. There was good old Pinto after a hard day’s run over the mesa. He had borne his beloved owner far ahead of the sheriff’s posse, and was now securing a moment’s much-needed rest. Merton undid the riata and for half an hour practiced casting it at his immobile pet. Once the noose settled unerringly over the head of Dexter, who still remained immobile.
Then there was the lightning draw to be practiced. Again and again the trusty weapon of Buck Benson flashed from its holster to the damage of a slower adversary. He was getting that draw down pretty good. From the hip with straight wrist and forearm Buck was ready to shoot in no time at all. Throughout that villain-infested terrain along the border he was known for his quick draw. The most desperate of them would never molest him except they could shoot him from behind. With his back to a wall, they slunk from the encounter.
Elated from this practice and from the memory of that one successful rope cast, Merton became daring in the extreme. He considered nothing less than remounting his old pal and riding, in the cool of early evening, up and down the alley upon which the barnyard gave. He coiled the rope and again lashed it to the left front of the saddle. Then he curved an affectionate arm over the arched neck of Pinto, who sighed deeply.
“Well, old pal, you and me has still got some mighty long miles to git over between now and sunup tomorrow. I reckon we got to put a right smart of distance between us and that pesky sheriff’s posse, but I know yuh ain’t lost heart, old pal.”
Dexter here tossed his head, being cloyed with these embraces, and Two-Gun Benson caught a look in the desperate eyes of his pet which he did not wholly like. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him any more today. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him again until next Sunday. After all, wasn’t Dexter practically a wild horse, caught up from the range and broken to saddle only that afternoon? No use overdoing it. At this moment the beast’s back looked higher than ever.
It was the cutting remark of a thoughtless, empty-headed girl that confirmed Merton in his rash resolve. Metta Judson, again on the back steps, surveyed the scene with kindling eyes.
“I bet you daresn’t get on him again,” said Metta.
These were strong words; not words to be flung lightly at Two-Gun Benson.
“You know a lot about it, don’t you?” parried Merton Gill.
“Afraid of that old skate!” murmured Metta, counterfeiting the inflections of pity.
Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of understanding and empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard gate and opened it. The way to his haven over the border was no longer barred. He returned to Dexter, firmly grasped the bridle reins under his weak chin and cajoled him again to the watering trough. Metta Judson was about to be overwhelmed with confusion. From the edge of the trough he again clambered into the saddle, the new boots groping a way to the stirrups. The reins in his left hand, he swept off his ideal hat with a careless gesture — he wished he had had an art study made of this, but you can’t think of everything at one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who had not even heard her tasteless taunts.
“Well, so long! I won’t be out late.” Metta was now convinced that she had in her heart done this hero a wrong.
“You better be here before the folks get back!” she warned.
Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at sober pace the length of the alley.
“Oh, I’ll take care of that!” he said. “A few miles’ stiff gallop’ll be all I want.” He jerked Dexter’s head up, snapped the reins on his neck, and addressed him in genial, comradely but authoritative tones.
“Git up there, old hoss!”
Dexter lowered his head again and remained as if posing conscientiously for the statue of a tired horse.
“Giddap, there, you old skate!” again ordered the rider.
The comradely unction was gone from his voice and the bony neck received a smarter wallop with the reins. Dexter stood unmoved. He seemed to be fearing that the worst was now coming, and that he might as well face it on that spot as elsewhere. He remained deaf to threats and entreaties alike. No hoof moved from its resting place.
“Giddap, there, you old Dexter Gashwiler!” ordered Metta, and was not rebuked. But neither would Dexter yield to a woman’s whim.
“I’ll tell you!” said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount. “Get the buggy whip and tickle his ribs.”
Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for torture. With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she lightly scored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with devilish cunning. Dexter’s hide shuttled back and forth. He whinnied protestingly, but did not stir even one hoof.
“That’s the idea,” said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the back of this spiritless animal. “Keep it up! I can feel him coming to life.”
Metta kept it up. Her woman’s ingenuity contrived new little tricks with the instrument of torture. She would doubtless have had a responsible post with the Spanish Inquisition. Face set, absorbed in her evil work, she tickled the ribs crosswise and tickled between them, up and down, always with the artist’s light touch.
Dexter’s frame grew tense, his head came up. Once more he looked like a horse. He had been brave to face destruction, but he found himself unable to face being tickled to death. If only they had chosen some other method for his execution he would have perished gamely, but this was exquisitely poignant — beyond endurance. He tossed his head and stepped into a trot toward the open gate.
Metta yelled in triumph. The rider tossed his own head in rhythm to Dexter’s trot. His whole body tossed in the saddle; it was a fearsome pace; the sensations were like nothing he had ever dreamed of. And he was so high above the good firm ground! Dexter continued his jolting progress to the applause of Metta. The rider tried to command Metta to keep still, and merely bit his tongue.
Stirred to life by the tickling, Dexter now became more acutely aware of that strange, restless burden on his back, and was inspired to free himself from it. He increased his pace as he came to the gate, and managed a backward kick with both heels. This lost the rider his stirrups and left him less securely seated than he wished to be. He dropped the reins and grasped the saddle’s pommel with both hands.
He