But Marianne did not hear Corson's remark. She watched Rickety slacken
his run as that longdrawn yell began, so wild and high that it put a
tingle in her nose. Now he was trotting, now he was walking, now he
stood perfectly still, become of a sudden, an abject, cowering figure.
The shout of the spectators was almost a groan, for Rickety had been
beaten fairly and squarely at last and it was like the passing of some
old master of the prize ring, the scarred veteran of a hundred battles.

"What happened?" breathed Marianne.

"Rickety's lost his spirit," said Corson. "That's all. I've seen it come
to the bravest men in the world. A two-year-old boy could ride Rickety
now. Even the whip doesn't get a single buck out of the poor rascal."

The quirt slashed the flank of the piebald but it drew forth only a meek
trot. The terrible Rickety went back to the corrals like a lamb!

"Arizona's got a good man to beat," admitted Corson, "but he's got a
chance yet. They won't get any more out of Rickety. He's not only been
rode--he's been broke. I could ride him myself."

"Mr. Corson," said Marianne, full of an idea of her own, "I'll wager
that Rickety is not broken in the least--except for Red Perris."

"Meaning Perris just sort of put a charm on him?" suggested Corson,
smiling.

"Exactly that. You see?"

In fact, the moment Perris slipped from the saddle, Rickety rocked