I

'D just stepped off a bronc which I'd started breaking, it was hot in the corral, and I figgered it'd be a good idea to hunt shade for a few minutes and puff on a cigarette while giving that bronc a fair deal and a breathing spell.

It'd been my fourth setting on that pony, and he was getting so he really knowed how to buck, he was inclined more on the bucking and not so much on the behaving, and he'd made things some interesting for me that fourth time, till I figgered it'd gone far enough and I started to whip the buck out of him.

War had been declared from the time my quirt layed along his neck, and the fight that followed had been mighty fast and wicked, the pony bellered, swapped ends and had lit into bucking with all his heart and strength, his action hadn't lacked speed either, and there'd been a few times when my quirt had missed him entirely on account he wasn't where I'd figgered he'd be.

The battle hadn't been one-sided, and I kinda showed where I'd been in it plain enough. One of my spurs had been kicked off my heel and sent a sailing acrost the corral plumb on to the top of the log stable, and when all was over and I touched the ground I found that one of my ankles wasn't at all willing to stand my weight. I was rubbing my ankle and figgering to go that bronc another round, when I hear the corral gate open and sees a young feller, a boy about ten years old coming toward me, he acts awful shy, but what struck me most was the way he sized me up, just as though I was a Santa Claus or any other such person that kids admire and want to get on the good side of.

I could see he wanted to say something,

but the words didn't seem to want to come, and he had to swallow considerable before he could finally say:

"By golly, Mister, you sure can ride." It'd been mighty hard for him to get them few words out of his system, but he showed relieved a heap after it was over with, I guess it all had to come out somehow, and when I grinned at him and told him I was glad he thought so, it seemed to put him more at ease as to what else he wanted to say.

I listened to his talk and kept serious while it went on. It all had to do with what he was going to be when he got big, and I gathered soon enough that his ambition layed on being a bronco buster, a straight-up riding bronc peeler.

"I rode a big weaner calf the other day," he says, and then, as a kind of proof, he pulled up his shirt-sleeve and showed me where some of the skin had been scraped off his forearm, "this is what I done when I roped him in the corral, I couldn't hold him, and he dragged me all over, but I got my turns around a post and then I had him, it was no tame calf either, and you ought to seen him fight when I put a rope around his belly so as I could have something to hang on with, and you ought to seen him buck when I climbed him, he throwed me off twice too, but by golly I sure rode him the third time."

In another corral was a bunch of big fat weaner calves from four to six months old, I knowed how strong and kinky them little fellers could be, and maybe as I looked the direction where the calves was corralled I might of showed some doubt as to the kid's ability to handle and ride any of them, for he says:

"Want to see me ride one?"

"No, I don't think I do," I says, "your dad might not like to see you riding 'em for fear you'd get hurt."

"Dad don't mind," says the kid as he picks up a rope, "he just laughs and tells mother that I'm just like he used to be when he was a kid, always riding or roping something, it's mother who don't like it, she says she's too busy to be patching my shirts every day, but I'll be careful not to tear it this time."

There was only one way out for me, and that was to get busy with my bronc, I knowed the kid would want to stay and watch till maybe he'd forget all about the calf riding, and that's what I wanted.

I'd been on the outfit just a few days, just long enough to learn that the kid was the son of the cow foreman, the man who hired me. I'd seen the kid's mother only a couple of times and that was on the way to the grub pile the chink cook had fixed and hollered for me to come and get. Both the foreman and his wife seemed mighty fine cow country folks and I wasn't going to take any chances of the young feller getting bruised up, not while I was around and looking on.

He'd forgot all about wanting to show me how he could ride the minute I got ready to climb my bronc, and as me and that pony went around and around I'd get glimpses of the kid. I had to laugh some at the interest he showed, his eyes was near popping out of his head and then I noticed his attention wasn't on the horse none at all, he wasn't worried how that pony bucked, he was just watching how I rode, and it was my turn to wonder that kid was sure out to be what his heart was set on him being.

It was bright and early the next morning when I sees the kid come around the corner of the bunk-house and heading my way, the first sight of him made me want to grin some, he was all togged up like a full-grown cowpuncher and looked ready for anything, a blue jumper fitted him tight around the shoulders and waist, a stetson was pulled down to his eyebrows, and the best of all was a well fitting pair of batwing chaps and a hanging just right; then a neat made to order pair of boots and at the heels of 'em was straightshanked, silver mounted spurs all a fitting him like the light gloves that was on his hands.

"This is the outfit my dad gave me last

Christmas," he says as he grins his way up for inspection. The whole of what he was wearing sure met up with my liking, and as I watched the kid go in the stable, get his rope, and line out for the calf corral I knowed his outfit would show considerable more wear before he'd come out of there again.

I'm working along trying to ease my saddle up on a bronc when I hear a beller come from the next corral, I glances over, and sees that the kid has snared himself a calf, one of the biggest and fattest of the bunch and he was working hard to get his rope around a post before the weaner could begin dragging him too fast around the big corral.

It was about then and when I was getting the most fun out of watching the kid that my bronc started acting up and I had to put all my attention to my own work, I'd just bought me a new pair of flowerstamped tapidaros and that pony was doing his bestest a trying to disfigger 'em with his hind hoofs.

The bellering coming from the next corral kept up and my curiosity was doing its daggonedest to make me look, but as my bronc was doing considerable bellering and fighting himself I gradually found it some easier to keep my mind in my own corral.

All finally quietened down, and of a sudden, as I made ready to climb my horse, I knowed the kid had let up on his calf and was peeking thru the bars at me, even my horse had come to a shaking standstill and the way it all felt was like the quiet of the land just the minute before a cyclone hits.

I rode my horse, sashayed him around the corral a few times, and then I opened the gate and rode him out to where there

was more room.

On account of me having other broncs to top off I couldn't stay away very long, and as I rode back to the corral a half an hour or so later I see that the kid had somehow hazed his calf on my corral and tied him down, he was standing by his critter seemed like waiting, and when I come closer and where I could get a good look at the goings on I seen the kid take the foot rope off the calf, climb on him as he got up, and start fanning him from there.

The trouble that kid had went to show off his riding ability had me grinning, but my grin soon faded to admiration for the little son of a gun. He was riding loose and reckless, and as I figgered that he'd VOL. LXXXI.-3

last only a couple of jumps, I seen where I'd sure figgered wrong, he stuck on like a leach and every chance he got he'd glance over my way to see how I was taking it-I guess I was taking it all with a

33

mighty blank face, mouth open and eyes a staring, 'cause every time the kid looked at me it seemed like he'd go at it all the wilder and a trying to show me what he really could do. I guess my opinion meant a considerable to him.

It was as the kid was doing his best work and the calf bringing in his wickedest twists that something happened which was too quick for eyes to see. In half a second the kid was standing on his head on the calf's withers, throwed against the side of the corral, and before he hit the ground the calf had kicked him.

I was off my horse and into the corral in mighty quick time as I seen the kid land in a heap. I straightened him out and went for water, poured it on him, and was just getting him to breathing regular again, when off toward the foreman's house I hear a screen door slam and then a woman's voice calling.

"BIL-L-e-e."

The kid was all right, but daggone it I sure didn't want the lady to see him just then, and I thanked the luck that the corrals was so well hid from the main house. I picked the kid up and packed him away around the corner of the stables and layed him in the shade of a big cottonwood. That done, I took one more glance at him to make sure there was nothing about him that needed rushing attention, and then hightailed it back to the corral and where I'd left my bronc.

I was right busy fooling around with the latigoes of my saddle when the lady turned the corner of the bunk house and seeing me headed my way.

'Have you seen anything of little Billy?" she asks.

I'd been prepared for that question long before she asked it, and had managed to keep my tongue in working order by swallowing a few times, and that way keep my throat moist.

"Why, I think," I says, trying hard to keep from getting tangled up in my words, "that he's down in the big pasture, I seen him ride out on his little sorel horse not long ago."

The lie seemed to work all right for she seemed relieved considerable as I sprung it.

"Well, if he's out on Concho I won't worry about him.”

She smiled, and turned back to the house, I drawed a long breath and soon as she was out of my sight I run back where I'd packed the kid. Billy was laying in the same position I'd left him, but his eyes was open, and vacant like was staring up in the branches of the big cottonwood.

I reached over in the creek with cupped hands and splattered water on his face, and pretty soon he looked at me pretty natural. I grinned at him and he tried to grin back, but somehow it hurt him to do that. There was a swollen lump raised on the bridge of his nose close to his forehead, and it was turning black, so was both his eyes.

"How are you feeling, cowboy?" I asks. Me calling him cowboy tickled him into pretty prompt answer and he smiled kinda proud as he says:

a

"I don't know yet, I'll have to feel of myself first."

Then something came to his mind which by the look of his expression seemed mighty important.

"But say, Mister, will you watch out that my mother don't find me for a spell, she gets worried every time I get a scratch."

"Don't be afraid Billy, I'll tend to that. You just take it easy for a spell, I'm going to saddle up another bronc then I'll be over to see you, and if you need help just holler, I'll be listening."

I walked over to the chuck house and. talked the chink cook out of a nice piece of raw meat. I had to do a lot of explaining before I could get it, but when I told him I wanted to use it for bait to catch the bob cats that'd been eating his chickens he never stopped to think that I was using mighty good meat for such a purpose, he just handed me the butcher knife and showed me a hind quarter of fresh beef.

Back to the corral I went and then around to where Billy was stretched out, the little feller seen me come and wondered at the steak I was packing.

"Looks to me like," I said sort of explaining, "that you're due to pack a couple of black eyes for a spell, but that's all that's ailing you, and when I get the rough off of 'em with this hunk of meat, you'll be as good as new."

It was getting near noon, and while I was busy working with my broncs I kept

and just when his mother would be calling him to come and eat. That suited the boy fine, for he'd been thinking about how his mother would feel when she'd see him with them two "shiners," and he wanted to put off the meeting as long as possible. I was in the bunk house when the screen door slammed again, close to within hearing distance, and as his mother called I showed myself natural like, and, walking up to her, told her I thought Billy had found a den of coyotes. I could see the boy out on the meadow about a mile, and as me and him had arranged it, he was moving back and forth the same as he was watching something. The distance was too far for him to hear if she called, but she could see him plain, and that seemed to satisfy her.

"If he's found a coyote den, there's no use me waiting for him to come and eat," she says, and she started back for the house. I headed her off once again, but I sure felt guilty somehow, and I didn't

been and be able to grin and enjoy grub a few hours afterwards.

Ever since Billy had been knee high to a grasshopper and able to navigate by his lonesome, his company, outside of his mother, had been cowboys, his dad was of the bowlegged, sunburnt, and hard riding breed, his dad's daddy had been the same, was one of the first cowboys through the times when he had to make his own chaps out of a green cow hide, and even his saddle from the tree to the stirrups was turned out by his own injun fighting hands.

Billy was a chip of the old block, and if anything, a better chip on account that the blood of the pioneer generation before him had already made it second nature for him to be what he was, he had the start on 'em by inheriting some of what his father and the father before him had to learn through experience. They'd had to find a way to meet odds that was strange