The boy had liked his level eye and his clean, brown jaw before, just as
now he approved the swift economy of his motions.

Probably Billie was about twenty years of age, but in that country
men ripened young. Both of these lads had been brought up in that
rough-and-ready school of life which holds open session every day of the
year. Both had already given proofs of their ability to look out for
themselves in emergency. A wise, cool head rested on each of these pairs
of young shoulders. In this connection it is worth mentioning that the
West's most famous outlaw, Billie the Kid, a killer with twenty-one
notches on his gun, had just reached his majority when he met his death
some years later at the hands of Pat Garrett.

The new rider for the Flying V Y outfit did not accept the judgment of
Prince without confirming it. He examined the hoofs of the horse and felt
its legs carefully. He looked well to its ears to make sure that ticks
from the mesquite had not infected the silky inner flesh.

"A good bronc, looks like," he commented.

"One of the fastest in the remuda--not very gentle, though."

Thursday picked the witches' bridles from its mane before he saddled. As
his foot found the stirrup the cinnamon rose into the air, humped its
back, and came down with all four legs stiff. The quirt burned its flank,
and the animal went up again to whirl round in the air. The boy stuck to
the saddle and let out a joyous whoop. The battle was on.

Suddenly as it had begun the contest ended. With the unreasoning impulse
of the half-broken cowpony the cinnamon subsided to gentle obedience.