Bostil put her down and led her
through the lines of admiring Indians and applauding riders, and left her with
the women.
When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount Wildfire.
It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in the air. When he
came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up again he
was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild beast,
mad to throw the rider. Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by a
horse. Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this stranger.
Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts.
The rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now appeared a part of
him. He could not be dislodged. This was not a bucking mustang, but a fierce,
powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight took place
every time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort of thing riders loved.
Most of them would not own a horse that would not pitch.
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