Just because they were all lying around camp with nothing to do but eat, Patsy was late with his supper that night.  It would seem that he dallied purposely and revengefully, and though the Happy Family flung at him taunts and hurry-up orders, it is significant that they shouted from a distance and avoided coming to close quarters.

Just how and when they began their foolish little game of imitation broncho-fighting does not matter.  When work did not press and red blood bubbled they frequently indulged in “rough-riding” one another to the tune of much taunting and many a “Bet yuh can’t pitch me off!” Before supper was called they were hard at it and they quite forgot Patsy.

“I’ll give any man a dollar that can ride me straight up, by cripes!” bellowed Big Medicine, going down upon all fours by way of invitation.

“Easy money, and mine from the start!” retorted Irish and immediately straddled Big Medicine’s back.  Horses and riders pantingly gave over their own exertions and got out of the way, for Big Medicine played bronk as he did everything else:  with all his heart and soul and muscles, and since he was strong as a bull, riding him promised much in the way of excitement.

“Yuh can hold on by my collar, but if yuh choke me down I’ll murder yuh in cold blood,” he warned Irish before he started.  “And don’t yuh dig your heels in my ribs neither, or I’m liable to bust every bone yuh got to your name.  I’m ticklish, by cripes!”

“I’ll ride yuh with my arms folded if yuh say so,” Irish offered generously.  “Move, you snail!” He struck Big Medicine spectacularly with his hat, yelled at the top of his voice and the riding began immediately and tumultuously.

It is very difficult to describe accurately and effectively the evolutions of a horse when he “pitches” his worst and hardest.  It is still more difficult to set down in words the gyrations of a man when he is playing that he is a broncho and is trying to dislodge the fellow upon his back.  Big Medicine reared and kicked and bellowed and snorted.  He came down upon a small “pin-cushion” cactus and was obliged to call a recess while he extracted three cactus spines from his knee with his smallest knife-blade and some profanity.

He rolled down his trousers’ leg, closed his knife and tossed it to Pink for fear he might lose it, examined critically a patch of grass to make sure there were no more cacti hidden there and bawled:  “Come on, now, I’ll sure give yuh a run for your money this time, by cripes!” and began all over again.

How human muscles can bear the strain he put upon his own must be always something of a mystery.  He described curves in the air which would sound incredible; he “swapped ends” with all the ease of a real fighting broncho and came near sending Irish off more than once.  Insensibly he neared the cook-tent, where Patsy so far forgot himself as to stand just without the lifted flap and watch the fun with sour interest.