business of taming bronks was resumed in a dead silence broken only by
the trampling of the horses and a muttered oath now and then. A lump over
Aleck's ear was swelling so that the hair lifted there, and Bud limped
and sent scowling glances at Johnny Jewel. Tex spat dirt off his tongue
and scowled while he did it; indeed, no eyes save those of little Curley
seemed able to look upon Johnny with a kindly light.

Mary V's father stood dispassionately watching them for five minutes or
so before he turned back to the gate. Not once had he smiled or shown any
emotion whatever. But he had a new story to tell his friends in the clubs
of Tucson, Phoenix, Yuma, Los Angeles. And whenever he told it, Sudden
Selmer would repeat what he called _The Skyrider's Dream_ from the first
verse to Mary V's last--even unto Bud's improvisation. He would paint
Johnny's bombardment of the choir practice until his audience could
almost hear the thud of the rocks when they landed. He would describe the
welt on Aleck's head, the exact shade of purple in Curley's face when his
boss called him off the fence. He would not smile at all during the
recital, but his audience would shout and splutter and roar, and when he
paused as though the story was done, some one would be sure to demand
more.

Then a little twitching smile would show at the corner of Sudden's lips,
and he would drawl whimsically: "Those boys were so scared they never
chirped when the poet actually went sky-riding to an altitude of about
ten feet above the saddle horn, and lit on the back of his neck. Johnny's
a good rider, too, but he was mad. He was so mad I don't believe he knows
yet that he was piled. Afterwards? Oh, well, they came to along about
supper time and yawped his poetry all over the place, I heard. But that
was after I had left the ranch."