You're
going to ride the range with me, son, and learn to stick to your
saddle when the bronc and you disagrees. Oh, I'll bet all you
need is training. I'll make a man out of you yet," the ranger
assured his charge cheerfully. "Will you?" came the innocent
reply, but Bucky for a moment had the sense of being laughed at.
"Yes, I 'will you,' sissy," he retorted, without the least
exasperation. "Don't think you know it all. Right now you're
riding like a wooden man. You want to take it easy in the saddle.
There's about a dozen different positions you can take to rest
yourself." And Bucky put him through a course of sprouts. "Don't
sit there laughing at folks that knows a heap more than you ever
will get in your noodle, and perhaps you won't be so done up at
the end of a little jaunt like this," he concluded. And to his
conclusion he presently added a postscript: "Why, I know kids
your age can ride day and night for a week on the round-up
without being all in. How old are you, son?"
"Eighteen."
"That's a lie," retorted the ranger, with immediate frankness.
"You're not a day over fifteen, I'll bet."
"I meant to say fifteen," meekly corrected the youth.
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