The Moonstone riders dismounted, slapped the dust from their shirts and trousers, and ambled over toward the refreshments.

The little group, happy, talkative, pledged each other and the Moonstone Ranch generously.

Brand Williams, close to Collie, nudged him. "If you are thinkin' of takin' a fall out of the outlaw cayuse, don't hit this stuff much," he said. And Collie nodded.

The Moonstoners would one and all back Boyar for a place in the finals of the pony races, despite the Mexican "outfit" that already mingled with them making bets on their favorite pinto.

"Who's ridin' Boyar?" queried Bud Light.

"In the races? Why, Miguel here," said Williams, slapping the Mexican on the shoulder. "He don't weigh much, but he's some glue-on-a-sliver when it comes to racin' tricks. The other Mexicans are after our pesos this time. Last year we skinned 'em so bad with Boyar takin' first that some of 'em had to wait till dark to go home."

Collie, listening, felt his heart pump faster. He turned away for an instant that his fellows might not see the disappointment in his face.

He had hoped to ride Boyar to victory.

"Miss Louise could get more out of Boyar in a race than even Miguel here," said Billy Dime.

"I dunno," said Williams. "She give me orders that Miguel was to ride Boyar if they was any racin'."

So Louise herself had chosen Miguel to ride the pony. Collie grew unreasonably jealous. Once more and again he pledged the Moonstone Rancho in a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup. Then he wandered over to the Mexican ponies, inspecting them casually.

A Mexican youth, handsome, dark, smiling, offered to bet with him on the result of the races. Collie declined, but gained his point. He learned the Mexican's choice for first place, a lean, wiry buckskin with a goat head and a wicked eye, but with wonderful flanks and withers. Collie meditated. As a result he placed something like fifty dollars in bets with various ranchers, naming the Mexican horse for first place. Word went round that the Moonstone Kid was betting against his own horse.

Later Brand Williams accosted him. "What you fell up against?" he asked sternly. "What made you jar yourself loose like that?"

"It's horses with me to-day--not home-sweet-home, Brand. Bet you a pair of specs--and you need 'em--to a bag of peanuts that the Chola cayuse runs first."

"Your brains is afloat, son. You better cut out the booze."

Unexpectedly Collie encountered Louise as he went to look after his own horses.

"I hear that you intend to ride the outlaw Yuma. Is it so?"

Collie nodded.

"I had rather you didn't," said Louise.

"Why?" asked Collie, tactlessly.

Louise did not answer, and Collie strode off feeling angry with himself and more than ever determined to risk breaking his neck to win the outlaw.

Boyar, the Moonstone pony, ran second in the finals. The buckskin of the Mexicans won first place. Collie collected his winnings indifferently.

He grew ashamed of himself, realizing that a foolish and unwarrantable jealousy had led him into a species of disloyalty. He was a Moonstone rider. He had bet against the Moonstone pony, and _her_ pony. He was about to ask one of the other boys to see to the horses when a tumult in the corrals drew his attention. He strolled over to the crowd, finding a place for himself on the corral bars.

Mat Gleason, superintendent of the Oro Ranch, loafed, his back against a post. Two men with ropes were following the roan pony round the corral.

Presently a riata flipped out and fell. Inch by inch the outlaw was worked to the snubbing-post. One of the Oro riders seized the pony's ear in his teeth and, flinging his legs round her neck, hung, weighing her head down. There was the flash of teeth, a grunting tug at the cinchas, a cloud of dust, and Jasper Lane, foreman of the Oro outfit, was in the saddle. The cloud of dust, following the roan pony, grew denser. Above the dun cloud a sombrero swung to and fro fanning the outlaw's ears.

Jasper Lane had essayed to ride the Yuma colt once before. His broken shoulder had set nicely, in fact, better than Bull O'Toole's leg which had been broken when the outlaw fell on him. Billy Squires, a young Montana puncher working for the Oro people, still carried his arm in a sling. All in all, the a.s.sembled company, as Brand Williams mildly put it, "were beginning to take notice of that copper-colored she-son of a cyclone."

Jasper Lane plied spurs and quirt. The visiting cowmen shrilled their delight. The pony was broncho from the end of her long, switching tail to the tip of her pink muzzle.

Following a quick tattoo of hoofs on the baked earth came a flash like the trout's leap for the fly--a curving plunge--the sound as of a breaking willow branch, and then palpitating silence.

The dun cloud of dust settled, disclosing the foam-flecked, sweat-blackened colt, oddly beautiful in her poised immobility. Near her lay Jasper Lane, face downward. The pony sniffed at his crumpled sombrero.

"That horse is plumb gentle," said Collie. "Look at her!"

"Crazy with the heat," commented Billy Dime, jerking his thumb toward Collie.

Tall, slim, slow of movement, Collie slipped from the corral bars and secured the dangling reins. Across the utter silence came the whistle of a viewless hawk. The cowmen awakened from their momentary apathy. Two of them carried Jasper Lane toward the ranch-house. Some one laughed.

Gleason, the superintendent, gazed at the outlaw pony and fingered his belt. "That's the fourth!" he said slowly and distinctly. "She ain't worth it."

"The fourth Oro rider," said a voice. "You ain't countin' any Moonstone riders."

"Ain't seen any to count," retorted Gleason, and there was a general laugh.

Strangely enough, the outlaw pony followed Collie quietly as he led her toward Gleason, "The boys say there's a bet up that n.o.body can stick on her two minutes. She's the bet. Is that right?" said Collie.

"What you goin' to do?" queried Gleason, and some of the Oro boys laughed.

"I don't know yet," said Collie. "Maybe I'll take her back to the Moonstone with me."

Miguel of the Moonstone removed his sombrero and gravely pa.s.sed it.

"Flowers for the Collie kid," he said solemnly.

Collie, grave, alert, a little white beneath his tan, called for Williams to hold the pony. Then the younger man, talking to her meanwhile, slipped off the bridle and adjusted a hackamore in its place.

He tightened the cinchas. The men had ceased joking. Evidently the kid meant business. Next he removed his spurs and flung them, with his quirt, in a corner.

"Just defending yourself, eh, Yuma girl?" he said. "They cut all the sense out of you with a horse-killin' bit and rip you with the spurs, and expect you to behave."

"He'll be teachin' her to say her prayers next," observed Bud Light.

"He's gettin' a spell on her now."

"He'll need all _his_ for himself," said Pars Long.

The pony, still nervously resenting the memory of the mouth-crushing spade-bit, and the tearing rowels, flinched and sidled away as Collie tried to mount. Her glossy ears were flattened and the rims of her eyes showed white.

"Jump!" whispered Williams. "And don't rough her. Mebby you'll win out."

And even as Collie's hand touched the saddle-horn, Williams sprang back and climbed the corral bars.

With a leap the Moonstone rider was in the saddle. The pony shook her head as he reined her round toward the corral gate. The men stared.

Gleason swore. Billy Dime began to croon a range ditty about "Picking little Posies on the Golden Sh.o.r.e." The roan's sleek, sweating sides quivered.

"Here's where she goes to it," said Williams.

"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" shouted the crowd.

Rebellion swelled in the pony's rippling muscles. She waited, fore feet braced, for the first sting of the quirt, the first rip of the spurs, to turn herself into a h.e.l.lish thing of plunging destruction.