"Slick as a whistle, I'll tell a man." She raised her voice to a shout as
he disappeared through the outer door. "Kiss her once for me, Vic."

In the center of the little pasture he stood shaking out the noose, and the
three horses raced in a sweeping gallop around the fence, looking for a
place of escape, with Grey Molly in the lead. Nothing up the Doane River,
or even down the Asper, for that matter, could head Molly when she was full
of running, and the eyes of Gregg gleamed as he watched her. She was not a
picture horse, for her color was rather a dirty white than a dapple, and
besides, there were some who accused her of "tucked up belly." But she had
the legs for speed in spite of the sloping croup, and plenty of chest at
the girth, and a small, bony head that rejoiced the heart of a horseman. He
swung the noose, and while the others darted ahead, stupidly straight into
the range of danger, Grey Molly whirled like a doubling coyote and leaped
away.

"Good girl!" cried Vic, in involuntary approbation. He ran a few steps. The
noose slid up and out, opened in a shaky loop, and swooped down. Too late
the gray saw the flying danger, for even as she swerved the riata fell over
her head, and she came to a snorting halt with all fours planted, skidding
through the grass. The first thing a range horse learns is never to pull
against a rope.

A few minutes later she was getting the "pitch" out of her system, as any
self-respecting cattle horse must do after a session of pasture and no
work. She bucked with enthusiasm and intelligence, as she did all things.
Sun-fishing, sun-fishing is the most deadly form of bucking, for it
consists of a series of leaps apparently aimed at the sun, and the horse
comes down with a sickening jar on stiff front legs. Educated "pitchers"