Jeff was a fair rider in a country where riding was understood as a
natural instinct, and not as a purely artificial habit of horse and
rider, consequently he was not perched up, jockey fashion, with a
knee-grip for his body, and a rein-rest for his arms on the beast's
mouth, but rode with long, loose stirrups, his legs clasping the barrel
of his horse, his single rein lying loose upon her neck, leaving her
head free as the wind. After this fashion he had often emerged from a
cloud of dust on the red mountain road, striking admiration into the
hearts of the wayfarers and coach-passengers, and leaving a trail
of pleasant incense in the dust behind him. It was therefore with
considerable confidence in himself, and a little human vanity, that he
dashed round the house, and threw his mare skilfully on her haunches
exactly a foot before Miss Mayfield--himself a resplendent vision of
flying riata, crimson scarf, fawn-colored trousers, and jingling silver
spurs.

"Kin I do anythin' for ye, miss, at the Forks?"

Miss Mayfield looked up quietly. "I think not," she said indifferently,
as if the flaming-Jeff was a very common occurrence.

Jeff here permitted the mare to bolt fifty yards, caught her up sharply,
swung her round on her off hind heel, permitted her to paw the air once
or twice with her white-stockinged fore-feet, and then, with another
dash forward, pulled her up again just before she apparently took Miss
Mayfield and her chair in a running leap.

"Are you sure, miss?" asked Jeff, with a flushed face and a rather
lugubrious voice.