Bushy a romance founded on fact
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