gain it was over in an instant; for the second time the steer turned a
somersault. Again there followed a space during which there was no
movement.

Then Randerson slacked the rope. It seemed to Ruth that Patches did this
of his own accord. The steer scrambled to its feet, hesitated an instant,
and then lunged furiously toward the tormenting horse and rider.

Patches snorted; Ruth was certain it was with disgust. He leaped--again
the girl thought Randerson had no hand in the movement--directly toward
the enraged steer, veering sharply as he neared it, and passing to its
rear. For the third time the rope grew taut, and this time the pony
braced itself and the steer went down with a thud that carried clearly
and distinctly to the girl.

She thought the beast must be fatally injured, and felt that it richly
deserved its fate. But after a period, during which Patches wheeled to
face the beast, Randerson grinning coldly at it, the steer again
scrambled to its feet.

This time it stood motionless, merely trembling a little. The fear of the
rope had seized it; this man-made instrument was a thing that could not
be successfully fought. That, it seemed to the girl, was the lesson the
steer had been taught from its experience. That it was the lesson
Randerson had set out to teach the animal, the girl was certain. It
explained Randerson's seeming panic; it made the girl accuse herself
sharply for doubting him.

She watched the scene to its conclusion. The steer started off, shaking
its head from side to side. Plainly, it wanted no more of this sort of
work; the fight had all been taken out of it. Again the pony stiffened,
and again the steer went down with a thud. This time, while it struggled
on the ground, Randerson gave the rope a quick flirt, making undulation
that ran from his hand to the loop around the steer's leg, loosening it.
And when the beast again scrambled to its feet it trotted off, free, head
and tail in the air, grunting with relief.

A few minutes later Randerson loped Patches toward her, coiling his rope,
a grin on his face. He stopped before her, and his grin broadened.

"Range steers are sort of peculiar, ma'am," he said gently. "They're
raised like that. They don't ever see no man around them unless he's
forkin' his pony. No cowpuncher with any sense goes to hoofin' it around
a range steer--it ain't accordin' to the rules. Your range steer ain't
used to seein' a man walkin'. On his pony he's safe--nine