The doctor sagged
drunkenly in the saddle, and his head first swung far back, and then
snapped over so that the chin banged against his chest. Nevertheless he
clung to the saddle with both hands, and stayed in his seat. The piebald
swung his head around sufficiently to make sure of the surprising fact,
and then he commenced to buck in earnest.
It was a lovely exhibition. He bucked with his head up and his head
between his knees. He bucked in a circle and in a straight line and then
mixed both styles for variety. He made little spurts at full speed,
leaped into the air, and came down stiff-legged at the end of the run,
his head between his braced forefeet, and then he whirled as if on a peg
and darted back the other way. He bucked criss-cross, jumping from side
to side, and he interspersed this with samples of all his other kinds of
bucking thrown in. That the doctor stuck on the saddle was a miracle
beyond belief. Of course he pulled leather shamelessly throughout the
contest, but riding straight up is a good deal of a myth. Fancy riding
is reserved for circus men. The mountain-desert is a place where men
stick close to utility and let style go hang.
And the doctor stuck in the saddle. He had set his teeth, and he was a
sea-sick greenish-white. His hat was a-jog over one ear--his shirt tails
flew out behind. And still he remained to battle. Aye, for he ceased the
passive clinging to the saddle.
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