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her neck and then I put my bridle on the horse and fastened the throat latch a little tight. This handsome horse wasn’t bein’ mean, but he was showin’ a lot of interest in things. I led him around in a little circle a few minutes. I reached up and took ahold of the cheek of the bridle with one hand, twisted my stirrup, and reached for the saddle horn and stepped on him and turned his head aloose.
    He stood there for a few minutes and I could feel him swellin’ up under me and he’d begun to let his ears back. I knew that he was fixin’ to come undone! This didn’t bother me much because when he started the ruckus I was goin’ to help him. I was wearin’ spoke rowel spurs and carryin’ a loaded quirt. I glanced around the little country town; business had stopped and everybody was out on the courthouse square or standin’ in the doorways awaitin’ for a bronc ride. Mr. Undertaker had a pretty good crowd listenin’ and said in his loudest tone of voice, “Ben, you forgot to ask me if he was broke to ride!”
    People began to laugh and holler up and down the street and were waitin’ for the show. I thought I could ride this ole pony, but it seemed he had more reputation than I had heard about or all the natives wouldn’t be showin’ so much interest.
    I pulled my hat down real tight and I felt my heels quiverin’ a little in my stirrups, and I decided I’d better hit him before I got scared. I squalled at him and cut him across the rump with that quirt; he jumped high enough the first jump for me to scare the courthouse pigeons! When he hit the ground, he bawled like a bull buffalo that had just been caught on the cow catcher of an early-day train engine.
    For the next few minutes I was awful busy … his headmade three in front and his tail made three behind … the place on his back where I cinched my saddle wasn’t no bigger’n a prairie dog mound on a mountain. He bucked all the stuff out of my britches pockets—my pocketknife and change … and if my shirt hadn’t been buttoned good, it would’ve come off me while we was sailin’ on one of them long jumps through the air. I’d lost my hat, tore my fingernails off on the saddle horn, and was damn near throwed when he lost his breath and throwed his head up and stopped!
    This country courthouse square was graveled and the thought of being throwed on that hard ground had sure encouraged me to stay on, but if he’d made just one more jump, he would’ve had the battle won. The crowd was ahollerin’ and agoin’ wild, and you could still hear Mr. Undertaker when he could get his breath from laughin’, being sure to tell all the natives that I hadn’t asked if the horse was broken to ride.
    Lester Lewis came out to the horse and eased up real careful and picked up the bridle reins and handed ’em back to me … you see, I lost them in the early part of the war. Lester was an old-time friend who was kind of a wore-out horse trader and mule dealer, and hadn’t been in on this “What was goin’ on” until he heard the commotion and had walked up the street from the livery stable.
    He had gathered up my belongin’s and my hat, and as he handed my stuff to me, he said in a low tone, “Ben, this horse has throwed a lot of good riders; don’t you get off of him this side of bedtime.”
    I said, “Much obliged,” and this time I wrapped the reins around my hand good and tight and pulled that old horse’s head up way high where he couldn’t buck and started out at the corner of the square headed to the northwest. Lipan was a good twenty miles away.
    Of course, this horse was bridle-wise because he had been worked in harness. About five miles out of town he’d begunto walk pretty near like a common horse and my arms were gettin’ tired so I let him have a little