The Sky Pilot | Page 5

from the dim, gray,
misty light of dawn to the soft glow of shadowy evening, was full of
new delights to me. On the evening of the third day we reached the
Line Stopping Place, where Jack Dale met us. I remember well how my
heart beat with admiration of the easy grace with which he sailed down
upon us in the loose- jointed cowboy style, swinging his own bronco
and the little cayuse he was leading for me into the circle of the wagons,
careless of ropes and freight and other impedimenta. He flung himself
off before his bronco had come to a stop, and gave me a grip that made
me sure of my welcome. It was years since he had seen a man from
home, and the eager joy in his eyes told of long days and nights of
lonely yearning for the old days and the old faces. I came to understand
this better after my two years' stay among these hills that have a strange
power on some days to waken in a man longings that make his heart
grow sick. When supper was over we gathered about the little fire,
while Jack and the half-breed smoked and talked. I lay on my back
looking up at the pale, steady stars in the deep blue of the cloudless sky,
and listened in fullness of contented delight to the chat between Jack
and the driver. Now and then I asked a question, but not too often. It is

a listening silence that draws tales from a western man, not vexing
questions. This much I had learned already from my three days' travel.
So I lay and listened, and the tales of that night are mingled with the
warm evening lights and the pale stars and the thoughts of home that
Jack's coming seemed to bring.
Next morning before sun-up we had broken camp and were ready for
our fifty-mile ride. There was a slight drizzle of rain and, though rain
and shine were alike to him, Jack insisted that I should wear my
mackintosh. This garment was quite new and had a loose cape which
rustled as I moved toward my cayuse. He was an ugly-looking little
animal, with more white in his eye than I cared to see. Altogether, I did
not draw toward him. Nor did he to me, apparently. For as I took him
by the bridle he snorted and sidled about with great swiftness, and
stood facing me with his feet planted firmly in front of him as if
prepared to reject overtures of any kind soever. I tried to approach him
with soothing words, but he persistently backed away until we stood
looking at each other at the utmost distance of his outstretched neck
and my outstretched arm. At this point Jack came to my assistance, got
the pony by the other side of the bridle, and held him fast till I got into
position to mount. Taking a firm grip of the horn of the Mexican saddle,
I threw my leg over his back. The next instant I was flying over his
head. My only emotion was one of surprise, the thing was so
unexpected. I had fancied myself a fair rider, having had experience of
farmers' colts of divers kinds, but this was something quite new. The
half-breed stood looking on, mildly interested; Jack was smiling, but
the boy was grinning with delight.
"I'll take the little beast," said Jack. But the grinning boy braced me up
and I replied as carelessly as my shaking voice would allow:
"Oh, I guess I'll manage him," and once more got into position. But no
sooner had I got into the saddle than the pony sprang straight up into
the air and lit with his back curved into a bow, his four legs gathered
together and so absolutely rigid that the shock made my teeth rattle. It
was my first experience of "bucking." Then the little brute went
seriously to work to get rid of the rustling, flapping thing on his back.

He would back steadily for some seconds, then, with two or three
forward plunges, he would stop as if shot and spring straight into the
upper air, lighting with back curved and legs rigid as iron. Then he
would walk on his hind legs for a few steps, then throw himself with
amazing rapidity to one side and again proceed to buck with vicious
diligence.
"Stick to him!" yelled Jack, through his shouts of laughter. "You'll
make him sick before long."
I remember thinking that unless his insides were somewhat more
delicately organized than his external appearance would lead one to
suppose the chances were that the little brute would be the last to
succumb to sickness. To make matters worse, a