“He’s out,” he said at length, with his eyes upon the pinto.

“Out?  Who’s out?” cried French.

“Judas priest!” exclaimed Jimmy, using his favourite oath.  “He means the broncho.”

“By Jove! he is out, boy,” said French, “and you are as near out as you are likely to be for some time to come.  What in great Caesar’s name were you trying to do?”

“He wouldn’t move,” said the boy simply, “and I hit him.”

“Listen here, boy,” said Jimmy Green solemnly, “when you go to hit a broncho again, don’t take anything short of a ten-foot pole, unless you’re on top of him.”

The boy said nothing in reply, but got up and began to walk about, still pale and dazed.

“Good stuff, eh, Jimmy?” said French, watching him carefully.

“You bet!” said Jimmy, “genuine clay.”

“It is exceptionally lucky that you were standing so near the little beast,” said French to the boy.  “Get into the buckboard here, and sit down.”

Kalman climbed in, and from that point of vantage watched the rest of the hitching process.  By skillful manoeuvring the two men led, backed, shoved the ponies into position, and while one held them by the heads, the other hitched the traces.  Carefully French looked over all straps and buckles, drew the lines free, and then mounting the buckboard seat, said quietly, “Stand clear, Jimmy.  Let them go.”  Which Jimmy promptly did.

For a few moments they stood surprised at their unexpected freedom, and uncertain what to do with it, then they moved off slowly a few steps till the push of the buckboard threw them into a sudden terror, and the fight was on.  Plunging, backing, kicking, jibing, they finally bolted, fortunately choosing the trail that led in the right direction.

“Good-by, Jimmy.  See you later,” sang out French as, with cool head and steady hand, he directed the running ponies.

“Jumpin’ cats!” replied Jimmy soberly, “don’t look as if you would,” as the bronchos tore up the river bank at a terrific gallop.

Before they reached the top French had them in hand, and going more smoothly, though still running at top speed.  Kalman sat clinging to the rocking, pitching buckboard, his eyes alight and his face aglow with excitement.  There was stirring in the boy’s brain a dim and far-away memory of wild rides over the steppes of Southern Russia, and French, glancing now and then at his glowing face, nodded grim approval.

“Afraid, boy?” he shouted over the roar and rattle of the pitching buckboard.

Kalman looked up and smiled, and then with a great oath he cried, “Let them go!”

Jack French was startled.  He hauled up the ponies sharply and turned to the boy at his side.

“Boy, where did you learn that?”

“What?” asked the boy in surprise.

“Where did you learn to swear like that?”

“Why,” said Kalman, “they all do it.”