not an adept horsewoman and had proceeded to take advantage of the fact. It
did not help Carley's predicament to remember that Glenn had decidedly
advised her against riding this particular mustang. To be sure, Flo had
approved of Carley's choice, and Mr. Hutter, with a hearty laugh, had
fallen in line: "Shore. Let her ride one of the broncs, if she wants." So
this animal she bestrode must have been a bronc, for it did not take him
long to elicit from Carley a muttered, "I don't know what bronc means, but
it sounds like this pony acts."

Carley had inquired the animal's name from the young herder who had saddled
him for her.

"Wal, I reckon he ain't got much of a name," replied the lad, with a grin,
as he scratched his head. "For us boys always called him Spillbeans."

"Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!" ejaculated Carley, "But according to
Shakespeare any name will serve. I'll ride him or--or--"

So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that
sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced
Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans had ambled
along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass
waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next
insubordination, and finally direct hostility. Carley had urged, pulled,
and commanded in vain. Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he
jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was
descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her. The jolt
she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body. Likewise it hurt.
Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented,
it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be