e　another　art　study　was　made。　He　continued　to　lounge　there　while　the　artist　packed　his　camera。　What　had　he　been　afraid　of？　He　could　sit　a　horse　as　well　as　the　next　man；　probably　a　few　little　tricks　about　it　he　hadn't　learned　yet；　but　he'd　get　these；　too。
  〃I　bet　they'll　come　out　fine；〃　he　called　to　the　departing　artist。　〃Leave　that　to　me。　I　dare　say　I'll　be　able　to　do　something　good　with　them。　So　long。〃
  〃So　long；〃　returned　Merton；　and　was　left　alone　on　the　back　of　a　horse　higher　than　people　would　think　until　they　got　on　him。　Indeed　he　was　beginning　to　like　it。　If　you　just　had　a　little　nerve　you　needn't　be　afraid　of　anything。　Very　carefully　he　clambered　from　the　saddle。　His　old　pal　shook　himself　with　relief　and　stood　once　more　with　bowed　head　and　crossed　forelegs。
  His　late　burden　observed　him　approvingly。　There　was　good　old　Pinto　after　a　hard　day's　run　over　the　mesa。　He　had　borne　his　beloved　owner　far　ahead　of　the　sheriff's　posse；　and　was　now　securing　a　moment's　much…needed　rest。　Merton　undid　the　riata　and　for　half　an　hour　practised　casting　it　at　his　immobile　pet。　Once　the　noose　settled　unerringly　over　the　head　of　Dexter；　who　still　remained　immobile。
  Then　there　was　the　lightning　draw　to　be　practised。　Again　and　again　the　trusty　weapon　of　Buck　Benson　flashed　from　its　holster　to　the　damage　of　a　slower　adversary。　He　was　getting　that　draw　down　pretty　good。　From　the　hip　with　straight　wrist　and　forearm　Buck　was　ready　to　shoot　in　no　time　at　all。　Throughout　that　villain…infested　terrain　along　the　border　he　was　known　for　his　quick　draw。　The　most　desperate　of　them　would　never　molest　him　except　they　could　shoot　him　from　behind。　With　his　back　to　a　wall；　they　slunk　from　the　encounter。
  Elated　from　this　practice　and　from　the　memory　of　that　one　successful　rope　cast；　Merton　became　daring　in　the　extreme。　He　considered　nothing　less　than　remounting　his　old　pal　and　riding；　in　the　cool　of　early　evening；　up　and　down　the　alley　upon　which　the　barnyard　gave。　He　coiled　the　rope　and　again　lashed　it　to　the　left　front　of　the　saddle。　Then　he　curved　an　affectionate　arm　over　the　arched　neck　of　Pinto；　who　sighed　deeply。
  〃Well；　old　pal；　you　and　me　has　still　got　some　mighty　long　miles　to　git　over　between　now　and　sunup　to…morrow。　I　reckon　we　got　to　put　a　right　smart　of　distance　between　us　and　that　pesky　sheriff's　posse；　but　I　know　yuh　ain't　lost　heart；　old　pal。〃
  Dexter　here　tossed　his　head；　being　cloyed　with　these　embraces；　and　Two…Gun　Benson　caught　a　look　in　the　desperate　eyes　of　his　pet　which　he　did　not　wholly　like。　Perhaps　it　would　be　better　not　to　ride　him　any　more　to…day。　Perhaps　it　would　be　better　not　to　ride　him　again　until　next　Sunday。　After　all；　wasn't　Dexter　practically　a　wild　horse；　caught　up　from　the　range　and　broken　to　saddle　only　that　afternoon？　No　use　overdoing　it。　At　this　moment　the　beast's　back　looked　higher　than　ever。
  It　was　the　cutting　remark　of　a　thoughtless；　empty…headed　girl　that　confirmed　Merton　in　his　rash　resolve。　Metta　Judson；　again　on　the　back　steps；　surveyed　the　scene　with　kindling　eyes。
  〃I　bet　you　daresn't　get　on　him　again；〃　said　Metta。
  These　were　strong　words；　not　words　to　be　flung　lightly　at　Two…Gun　Benson。
  〃You　know　a　lot　about　it；　don't　you？〃　parried　Merton　Gill。
  〃Afraid　of　that　old　skate！〃　murmured　Metta；　counterfeiting　the　inflections　of　pity。
  Her　target　shot　her　a　glance　of　equal　pity　for　her　lack　of　understanding　and　empty…headed　banter。　He　stalked　to　the　barnyard　gate　and　opened　it。　The　way　to　his　haven　over　the　border　was　no　longer　barred。　He　returned　to　Dexter；　firmly　grasped　the　bridle　reins　under　his　weak　chin　and　cajoled　him　again　to　the　watering　trough。　Metta　Judson　was　about　to　be　overwhelmed　with　confusion。　From　the　edge　of　the　trough　he　again　clambered　into　the　saddle；　the　new　boots　groping　a　way　to　the　stirrups。　The　reins　in　his　left　hand；　he　swept　off　his　ideal　hat　with　a　careless　gesturehe　wished　he　had　had　an　art　study　made　of　this；　but　you　can't　think　of　everything　at　one　time。　He　turned　loftily　to　Metta　as　one　who　had　not　even　heard　her　tasteless　taunts。
  〃Well；　so　long！　I　won't　be　out　late。〃　Metta　was　now　convinced　that　she　had　in　her　heart　done　this　hero　a　wrong。
  〃You　better　be　here　before　the　folks　get　back！〃　she　warned。
  Merton　knew　this　as　well　as　she　did；　but　the　folks　wouldn't　be　back　for　a　couple　of　hours　yet；　and　all　he　meant　to　venture　was　a　ride　at　sober　pace　the　length　of　the　alley。
  〃Oh；　I'll　take　care　of　that！〃　he　said。　〃A　few　miles'　stiff　gallop'll　be　all　I　want。〃　He　jerked　Dexter's　head　up；　snapped　the　reins　on　his　neck；　and　addressed　him　in　genial；　comradely　but　authoritative　tones。
  〃Git　up　there；　old　hoss！〃
  Dexter　lowered　his　head　again　and　remained　as　if　posing　conscientiously　for　the　statue　of　a　tired　horse。
  〃Giddap；　there；　you　old　skate！〃　again　ordered　the　rider。
  The　comradely　unction　was　gone　from　his　voice　and　the　bony　neck　received　a　smarter　wallop　with　the　reins。　Dexter　stood　unmoved。　He　seemed　to　be　fearing　that　the　worst　was　now　coming；　and　that　he　might　as　well　face　it　on　that　spot　as　elsewhere。　He　remained　deaf　to　threats　and　entreaties　alike。　No　hoof　moved　from　its　resting　place。
  〃Giddap；　there；　you　old　Dexter　Gashwiler！〃　ordered　Metta；　and　was　not　rebuked。　But　neither　would　Dexter　yield　to　a　woman's　whim。
  〃I'll　tell　you！〃　said　Merton；　now　contemptuous　of　his　mount。　〃Get　the　buggy　whip　and　tickle　his　ribs。〃
  Metta　sped　on　his　errand；　her　eyes　shining　with　the　lust　for　torture。　With　the　frayed　end　of　the　whip　from　the　delivery　wagon　she　lightly　scored　the　exposed　ribs　of　Dexter；　tormenting　him　with　devilish　cunning。　Dexter's　hide　shuttled　back　and　forth。　He　whinnied　protestingly；　but　did　not　stir　even　one　hoof。
  〃That's　the　idea；〃　said　Merton；　feeling　scornfully　secure　on　the　back　of　this　spiritless　animal。　〃Keep　it　up！　I　can　feel　him　coming　to　life。〃
  Metta　kept　it　up。　Her　woman's　ingenuity　contrived　new　little　tricks　with　the　instrument　of　torture。　She　would　doubtless　have　had　a　responsible　post　with　the　Spanish　Inquisition。　Face　set；　absorbed　in　her　evil　work；　she　tickled　the　ribs　crosswise　and　tickled　between　them；　up　and　down；　always　with　the　artist's　light　touch。
  Dexter's　frame　grew　tense；　his　head　came　up。　Once　more　he　looked　like　a　horse。　He　had　been　brave　to　face　destruction；　but　he　found　himself　unable　to　face　being　tickled　to　death。　If　only　they　had　chosen　some　other　method　for　his　execution　he　would　have　perished　gamely；　but　this　was　exquisitely　poignantbeyond　endurance。　He　tossed　his　head　and　stepped　into　a　trot　toward　the　open　gate。
  Metta　yelled　in　triumph。　The　rider　tossed　his　own　head　in　rhythm　to　Dexter's　trot。　His　whole　body　tossed　in　the　saddle；　it　was　a　fearsome　pace；　the　sensations　were　like　nothing　he　had　ever　dreamed　of。　And　he　was　so　high　above　the　good　firm　ground！　Dexter　continued　his　jolting　progress　to　the　applause　of　Metta。　The　rider　tried　to　command　Metta　to　keep　still；　and　merely　bit　his　tongue。
  Stirred　to　life　by　the　tickling；　Dexter　now　became　more　acutely　aware　of　that　strange；　restless　burden　on　his　back；　and　was　inspired　to　free　himself　from　it。　He　increased　his　pace　as　he　came　to　the　gate；　and　managed　a　backward　kick　with　both　heels。　This　lost　the　rider　his　stirrups　and　left　him　less　securely　seated　than　he　wished　to　be。　He　dropped　the　reins　and　grasped　the　saddle's　pommel　with　both　hands。
  He　strangely　seemed　to　consider　the　pommel　the　steering　wheel　of　a　motor　car。　He　seemed　to　be　twisting　it　with　the　notion　of　guiding　Dexter。　All　might　have　been　well；　but　on　losing　his　stirrups　the　rider　had　firmly　clasped　his　legs　about　the　waist　of　the　animal。　Again　and　again　he　tightened　them；　and　now　Dexter　not　only　looked　every　inch　a　horse　but　very　painfully　to　his　rider　felt　like　one；　for　the　spurs　were　goring　him　to　a　most　seditious　behavior。　The　mere　pace　was　slackened　only　that　he　might　alarmingly　kick　and　shake　himself　in　a　manner　as　terrifying　to　the　rider　as　it　was　unseemly　in　one　of　Dexter's　years。
  But　the　thing　was　inevitable；　because　once　in　his　remote；　hot　youth　Dexter；　cavorting　innocently　in　an　orchard；　had　kicked　over　a　hive　of　busy　bees　which　had　been　attending　strictly　to　their　own　affairs　until　that　moment。　After　that　they　had　attended　to　Dexter　with　a　thoroughness　that　had　seared　itself　to　this　day　across　his　memory。　He　now　sincerely　believed　that　he　had　overturned　another　hive　of　bees；　and　that　not　but　by　the　most　strenuous　exertion　could　he　escape　from　their　harrying。　They　were　stinging　him　venomously　along　his　sides；　biting　deeper　with　every　jump。　At　last　he　would　bear　his　rider　safely　over　the　border。
  The　rider　clasped　his　mount　ever　more　tightly。　The　deep　dust　of　the　alley　road　mounted　high　over　the　spirited　scene；　and　through　it　came　not　only　the　hearty　delight　of　Metta　Judson　in　peals　of　womanly　laughter；　but　the　shrill　cries　of　the　three　Ransom　children　whom　Merton　had　not　before　noticed。　These　were　Calvin　Ransom；　aged　eight；　Elsie　Ransom；　aged　six；　and　little　Woodrow　Ransom；　aged　four。　Their　mother　had　lain　down　with　a　headache；　having　first　ordered　them　to　take　their　picture　books　and　sit　quietly　in　the　parlour　as　good　children　should　on　a　Sabbath　afternoon。　So　they　had　noisily　pretended　to　obtain　the　picture　books　and　then　quietly　tiptoed　out　into　the　b