Tully told a personal experience, which, if it was the truth, argued
that in time I might become as indifferent to my recent mishap as any
one could wish.
"My prospects of marrying a few years ago," said Tully, lying full
stretch before the fire, "were a whole lot better than yours, Quirk. But
my ambition those days was to boss a herd up the trail and get top-notch
wages. She was a Texas girl, just like yours, bred up in Van Zandt
County. She could ride a horse like an Indian. Bad horses seemed afraid
of her. Why, I saw her once when she was about sixteen, take a black
stallion out of his stable,--lead him out with but a rope about his
neck,--throw a half hitch about his nose, and mount him as though he
was her pet. Bareback and without a bridle she rode him ten miles for a
doctor. There wasn't a mile of the distance either but he felt the quirt
burning in his flank and knew he was being ridden by a master. Her
father scolded her at the time, and boasted about it later.
"She had dozens of admirers, and the first impression I ever made on her
was when she was about twenty. There was a big tournament being given,
and all the young bloods in many counties came in to contest for the
prizes.
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