me hand must keep a tight rein upon his mount, to whirl the widening
loop with his right, throwing it at just the right second with just
the right force, was one of the things which in pictures looked to be
so easy and which were not at all easy to accomplish. He grew hot and
red as he became entangled in his own rope.

At last he selected a big roan and threw his rope. He threw awkwardly
and a second too late. The loop fell fifteen paces behind the horse,
who had seen, understood, and shot by in a flash. Again he coiled his
rope, drawing it in to him as he had seen the others do; again he
threw, and again he missed. He heard Rawhide Jones curse softly,
contemptuously.

Now the horse which he was riding began to plunge and rear, frightened
at the rope which now fell upon its back, now struck its flanks in the
unskilled hands of the man who was growing the more awkward as his
anger surged higher within him.

"You blame fool!" yelled Rawhide Jones. "What in hell are you tryin'
to do? Want to throw your own cayuse?"

Conniston glared at him and again coiled his rope. The big roan was
once more surrounded by a crowd of his fellows, his ears erect, his
long neck outstretched, his eyes watchful and distrustful. The man who
was beginning to look upon lassoing as a sheer matter of sleight of
hand made his loop again carefully, slowly, trying to convince himself
that here was an easy matter, and that the next time he should
succeed. And even as he began whirling it above his head, one half of
both mind and muscle given over to restrain his nervous mount, he saw
another rope shoot out from behind him and settle, tightening, about
the roan's neck.

"Bein' as we ain't got all summer to practise up lass'in' bosses,"
Toothy murmured, apologetically.

Conniston tied his rope to his saddle-strings in silence. After all,
there was something to do beyond sit in a saddle. And he soon found
that even that was not always play. For the roan which he had selected
fought at having the saddle thrown upon his back, so that Toothy had
to lend a helping hand. And when the cinch was drawn tight he fought
at being mounted. He had been broken, at least--and at most--as much
broken as the rest of the three and four year olds in the corral. But
he had not been ridden above a dozen times, and certainly had not
known the feel of rope or bridle or saddle for months. When at last
Conniston got his foot into the stirrup and swung up, violating all
r