willing to do things for him.

"Come on, boys," said Lonny, urging Hot Tomales into a gallop with
his knees. With a whoop, the inspired lobby tore after him through
the dust. Lonny led his cohorts straight for the Capitol. With a
wild yell, the gang endorsed his now evident intention of riding
into it. Hooray for San Saba!

Up the six broad, limestone steps clattered the broncos of the
cowpunchers. Into the resounding hallway they pattered, scattering
in dismay those passing on foot. Lonny, in the lead, shoved Hot
Tamales direct for the great picture. At that hour a downpouring,
soft light from the second-story windows bathed the big canvas.
Against the darker background of the hall the painting stood out
with valuable effect. In spite of the defects of the art you could
almost fancy that you gazed out upon a landscape. You might well
flinch a step from the convincing figure of the life-size steer
stampeding across the grass. Perhaps it seemed thus to Hot Tamales.
The scene was in his line. Perhaps he only obeyed the will of his
rider. His ears pricked up; he snorted. Lonny leaned forward in
the saddle and elevated his elbows, wing-like. Thus signals the
cowpuncher to his steed to launch himself full speed ahead. Did Hot
Tamales fancy he saw a steer, red and cavorting, that should be
headed off and driven back to the herd? There was a fierce clatter
of hoofs, a rush, a gathering of steely flank muscles, a leap to the
jerk of the bridle rein, and Hot Tamales, with Lonny bending low in
the saddle to dodge the top of the frame, ripped through the great
canvas like a shell from a mortar, leaving the cloth hanging in
ragged shreds about a monstrous hole.