CHAPTER XXXI
“I think I ought to take him up; don’t you think so, Tom?”
“I declare, Bushy, I have not heard a word the old fellow has said,” answered Tom, with a start. “I was ’way back in Iowa in my mind, you know, having a good time at the foundry again.”
“Then listen to him now; do, Tom, because I am going to take the bet.”
This positive statement, accompanied with several wise nods of Bushy’s head, awakened Tom thoroughly from his dream of being in Iowa. He looked about him to realize again with a sigh that he was only one of many men on a prospecting tour for gold, hoping every day to “strike it rich and go home.”
The sun was setting behind the mountains, and the round red ball sent its good-night glances through the great high peaks on to the camp, making the decline of day gorgeous by tingeing the clouds above them a deep red and gold. The miners had stopped here for the night because there was good grass for the horses and a spring of water not far distant. Mr. Sukolt, Shanks, and the wagon-master had ridden on to a place two miles ahead where mail was delivered once a week. There was only Tom in the camp who possessed the least bit of control over Bushy, and he felt sometimes unable to cope with her when she got her head set on doing anything. She needed a lesson, for she was without doubt growing too wilful, and this day she got a good one.
“What is it all about, boys?” called out Tom to the crowd that sat cross-legged around the blazing pine-log camp-fire. Tom was sitting on a feed-box, leaning back against the wagon tongue, smoking a huge clay pipe. Bushy had found a comfortable seat in a big pile of harness close to Tom, and there, half lying, she rested her chin on the palms of both hands, and listened to the miners as they talked and told stories. Rover had snuggled as close as possible to Bushy, and Jip ate his dinner from the feed-box on one end of which Tom sat. Everybody was waiting for the three men to return before they would sit down to the evening meal. A savory side of bacon simmered on a stick close to the fire; a pot of potatoes with their jackets on, steamed on the other side; a Dutch oven, which is something like a skillet with an iron cover, was still hidden from sight by red-hot coals that had been piled over it, to bake the choice biscuits that were to prove a great treat for the men that night.
“Why, I was saying,” spoke up a tall, raw-boned miner, “that my mustang might as well be killed, because she is so beastly wicked that none of us is willing to ride her. We know she bucks like all get out. Several times we have saddled her, but gone no farther. I will bet the first good strike that I make, that nobody can stick on her as far as from here to the creek yonder!”
“And I’ll bet the first good strike that I make that I can ride her even farther,” sang out Bushy, in a clear, loud voice that brought the men to their feet in admiration.
“Heigh-ho! What do I hear?” cried the old miner. “A challenge from a midget of a youngster like you! I’d take your bet but for the danger attached to the carrying of it out. You might get hurt, and then I’d mourn the rest of the days of my life—sure I would!” The old miner hitched his blue overalls high up on one hip, then on the other; tightened his revolver-belt and fidgeted about, feeling annoyed as well as amused over having his bet taken up by a mere child.
The miners crowded about Bushy; Rover was excited, and Jip neighed uneasily, but Bushy only laughed and said:
“I won’t get hurt if I look out, and I do want the first claim you find. I know you will make a great strike, and to think how rich I can become just by riding a wild mustang several hundred yards! I’m not afraid, for I have broken a lot of ’em, haven’t I, Tom?”
Tom looked worried, and said he wished Bushy would stop talking so foolishly, because it always made him ill to see her on any horse that was not perfectly gentle.
“But I’m not fooling. I’m in earnest, and I’m going to ride her.” She got up and walked toward the mare, followed by the men—some anxious and others jubilant.
“I’ll not give my consent to it, Bushy, and I ask you to wait till the Padre comes back. We don’t want to hand over to him a little dead girl, or a little girl with a broken leg or a broken neck, either.”
“Now, Tom, dear old fellow, you know I can ride. You are always so squeamish! It makes no difference what I do, you never think it is right. I’m going to win the bet.” Then she leaned over and whispered in Tom’s ear: “I heard Shanks tell Padre last night that this man, Daddy Bob, was the luckiest and most skilful miner in the camp, and he never failed to find the richest veins of ore whenever he went with a band to any new field. Now, he gives his first rich strike if I can ride the mare. Why, Tom, you wouldn’t be so silly as not to want me to take the bet, would you, when you know I can win it as easy as rolling off a log?”
Tom still protested, but Bushy ordered the saddle put on, and a great time the men had in doing it. One old fellow, who simply looked on as he puffed away at his pipe, said if the wagon-master was there no such doings would go on.
“The child will get killed,” he repeated over and over, but no one paid any attention to him. Tom got out his horse and saddled it, to be on hand to follow the bucking mustang. If she acted dreadfully, and Bushy should be in danger of being thrown, he must be near to lift her on to his horse. There is always danger in getting near a bucking animal, yet Tom was going to be prepared to aid the headstrong child in case she did need his help. That was all he could do, for he could not make her let the animal alone.
Most everybody has seen the bucking ponies in the Wild West Show. This unbroken animal acted in the same manner. She shivered when the saddle first touched her; then she squatted and jumped sideways, leaving the saddle on the ground where her feet had been pawing the soft earth. Again and again she played the men the same trick. It was given up as a bad job, but Bushy asked them to try once more. The surcingle this time was caught and tightened before the lunge was made that had hitherto sent the saddle flying to the ground. Quickly the pony was girted and the straps buckled, so there was, after that, no danger of the saddle coming off.
The mustang was blindfolded and kept so until Bushy was ready to mount.
“Now, ready!” cried the men who held the rope bridle, and Bushy was lifted lightly to the animal’s back. Clinching her legs tight to the mare’s sides, she settled herself for the stiff-legged jump that is generally the first effort a horse makes to get the rider off. The blind was slipped off. The horse shivered, sunk down until her back swayed like a hammock, then bringing her four feet together she humped preparatory to the jump. Bushy was ready, and with a stinging whip, or quirt as they called the small rawhide out there, she lashed the mare’s sides with all her might. The pony was not prepared for such treatment, and though she did jump, it was not such a terrible stiff-legged bound as she would have made had she not flinched under the whip-lash. She then started on the dead run. The camp was in a valley between two high mountains, with a pretty good road extending for fully three-quarters of a mile up grade. Bushy remembered this, and determined that since the pony would run, she should not stop until tired out. Bushy applied the whip with all the might that lay in her tough, brown arm. Tom followed, for he was on a good horse and it was an easy matter to keep right behind the infuriated mustang.
“Can you stick on?” he yelled. Bushy said nothing, only whipped the harder.
“I guess you have taken the right course, Bushy,” he again screamed, but Bushy did not hear; she kept her seat with difficulty, for the mustang would shy from one side of the road to the other, so quickly that often Tom stretched out his arm to try and save Bushy, supposing she was going off sure. On they sped, leaving the miners far behind; finally nothing could be seen but the stately mountains on both sides and the rocky road ahead.
“Free yourself from the stirrups,” called Tom. “The little beast may stumble, and look out not to fall under her.”
There was no time to scold, though Tom regretted that he had not taken Bushy by force and shut her up in one of the wagons until her father should arrive.
“Can you stick it out till she gets tired, do you think?” asked Tom when he got near again.
“Oh, yes, I can stay on if she just runs,” answered Bushy with difficulty, because the wild runaway was trying to slacken her speed, and Bushy, in her determination that she should not have an opportunity to get her feet together to buck, kept plying the whip. “Help me whip her, can’t you?”
They had run a mile, mostly up hill at that, but Tom saw the science in her treatment and whipped from behind, and the poor pony started on with greater speed—up and down, up and down—stumbling now, once in a while.
“I think you can let up now, Bushy,” advised Tom, but Bushy foolishly wanted to make the mustang run till she couldn’t go any farther; she knew that White Face, as the mare was called, would be gentle as a lamb ever afterward if she could get her thoroughly tired out. Bushy had taken her feet out of the stirrups—she rode astride, of course, for it would have been sure failure to attempt to ride a bucking horse otherwise—and thinking the pony needed just one more good whipping began again to use the quirt. White Face, suddenly rebelled and turned off into a deer path that led from the main road. The rope bridle was no use to her, for the pony did not know what it meant, and Bushy now realized that she was in great danger of being dashed against the tree-trunks or dragged off by the low limbs. Before she had time to jump, or even prepare to jump, she saw ahead of them a sudden drop in the path. It was like a deep ditch or gorge. Bushy understood in a second that her only hope was in the horse leaping safely over. If she tried to stop her they would both roll bodily into it, and that would undoubtedly mean death. Quick in her instinct, she determined to try the leap, and lash after lash fell on the fat side of White Face, the rawhide cutting into her flesh now as if applied with a man’s strong arm instead of a little girl’s.
“I am in for it!” she murmured, and shut her eyes as she felt the horse nerve herself for the spring and got a glimpse of the black strip right under them. In much less time than it takes to tell it, Tom understood the situation. He brought his horse to a halt, shaded his eyes, and listened for the awful scream and thud he thought must follow such a leap. There came the thud, but no scream. Tom looked up, and, pushing his horse to the very edge, saw that Bushy lay in a heap ten feet beyond, while White Face, who had safely covered the break, sank on her knees and then with a groan fell over on her side, almost rolling over the edge into the water below. Tom sat like one stupefied, his face white as death. Not a word escaped him, but his eyes were riveted on the little bunch of buckskin clothes that now passed for Bushy. In a minute it straightened out, and Bushy staggered to her feet. After pushing back her hair from her eyes she looked about and saw Tom still and motionless.
“Oh, I am not hurt one bit,” she called, “but I was tangled up awfully! I fell on my shoulders and feet, and for a long time, Tom, I could not tell how to stand up. Can you come over?”
Tom reached her by going by the roadway, which had a bridge lower down across this very opening. Together they got the horse on her feet, and found that she was not hurt, only wearied out and shaking with fear. Plucky Bushy led her back to the road and insisted on mounting her again. Tom made no objection, because he well knew that White Face could not make her tired legs go fast again for some time.
“Are you certain that you are not hurt?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“There is a funny pain in my neck,” answered Bushy, as she twisted about, trying to determine what was the matter; “but it’s not an awful pain, so I guess I got off easy; and my foot aches a little, too. I fell so in a lump—just like a ball, wasn’t I, Tom?”
They both laughed, and Bushy rode proudly into camp a half hour later to tell the tale to the men.
“Well, you have won the bet, and I’ll keep my word; I wager my head I will!” said the old miner as he lifted Bushy off the drooping horse.
“If it is a million dollars will you stick to it?” asked Bushy as she limped to a camp-stool and tried to look brave—her foot was paining her dreadfully.
“I solemnly promise, do you hear, boys!” he called, and then Mr. Sukolt, Shanks, and the wagon-master rode up and dismounted. It did not take Shanks long to see that Bushy was hurt. He took her into the tent and there was much mourning over the supper that night, when Shanks came out to tell them that Bushy had cracked her collar-bone and cut her foot so on a sharp stone that she would not be able to ride horseback or walk for several days.
“It serves me right,” said Bushy when her father looked at her reproachfully. “I should have minded Tom. I am learning, Padre, that every time I do foolish things I get punished.”
Although Bushy took the whole blame on herself, every man in camp who had seen her mount the bucking mare felt in his heart that he, particularly, was the cause of the whole thing; yet nobody felt quite so badly as did Daddy Bob, the miner who made the bet. Late in the night he came to the tent and awakened Mr. Sukolt, to be assured again that Bushy would be all right in time. “I’ll pray that my first find be a good one,” murmured the old man as he finally turned in for a few hours sleep, “and by thunder! she shall have every gold nugget in it.”