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passed me the hold-rope, he said, “See them scars acrost this blue devil’s muzzle? Them’s hackamore scars; he’s got a tender nose bone. Keep your hold-rope hauled up tight, so’s he can’t neither bog or h’ist his head. Don’t try to grab a-holt of nothin’ when you get throwed!”
    Then I eased into the saddle, found the stirrups, and Sid drew his horse away to turn us loose.
    Blueboy went up like a geyser, and came down running and crowhopping. He didn’t twist or side-jump, and I’d ridden yearling calves that were harder to stay on. After three crowhopping, bouncing turns around the breaking pen, he settled into a fairly even gait.
    I was sitting in the saddle sort of loose-jointed—thinking what I was going to say to Hazel—when Blueboy suddenly busted wide open. He caught me when I wasn’t ready, and I didn’t have a chance. From the instant of his first side-jump, I bounced around in my saddle like a pea in a gourd. I forgot what Sid had told me about keeping the hackamore tight, and couldn’t even hold an arm out for balance. Both arms and both legs were flailing and I was flying in mid-air when Sid’s arm looped around me and pulled me across his horse’s neck. I don’t think Blueboy even missed me; he kept right on pitching as if he were trying to throw the saddle over the moon.
    The wind was knocked out of me so much I couldn’t talk when Sid gathered me in—but he could. He spluttered at me like an old setting hen, wanting to know why in the world I’d picked Blueboy in the first place, why I hadn’t been watching out for tricks, and why I didn’t take a dive when he caught me napping. There weren’t any good answers, and I didn’t try to give any. It seemed as if I’d made a monkey of myself with everything I’d tried to do all afternoon, and I didn’t feel very happy when Sid let me slide down at the gate. If I could have slipped away, climbed onto Lady, and headed for home, I think I’d have done it.
    Blueboy was still kicking and bucking, and Mr. Batchlett looked pretty sore when he opened the gate and came in. “Well, young fellah,” he said, “you picked yourself a big handful, didn’t you? What you goin’ to do with him now you’ve got him?”
    â€œI haven’t got him,” I said. “He had me thrown clear when Sid grabbed me.”
    â€œRode out your ten count, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I said, “but then he wasn’t bucking like . . .”
    â€œThen he’s yours! You going to ride him or ruin him?”
    For a second it seemed as if the bottom had dropped out of my stomach, and my mouth went dry as powder. The first thought that crossed my mind was that Mr. Batchlett was sore at me for having picked Blueboy, and that he wanted me to get hurt.
    I hadn’t been so scared since the first time I was dumped off a horse—and I think that’s what saved me.
    That first tumble came back to me in a flash. It had been when I was eight years old. Father had picked me up, caught the horse, and told me to get back on. “Unless you show him who’s boss right now, it will ruin you both,” he’d told me. “He’ll lose respect for you, and you’ll lose respect for yourself.” When I’d hung back and told him I was afraid, he’d said, “You don’t have to be ashamed of that. Every man who ever did a brave thing was afraid. It doesn’t take courage to do the things you’re not afraid of.”
    It almost seemed as if I could hear Father’s voice again. I looked up at Mr. Batchlett, and said, “I’ll ride him now . . . and thank you.”
    He slapped me on the shoulder, and called, “Get a rope on that blue devil, Sid! We got a bronc-twister comin’ up.”
    There wasn’t any real bronc-twisting to my second ride on