He sat beside the good-natured driver, huddled in the corner of the seat and clinging desperately to the iron rod which supported the top of the stage, and the man told Dean that he didn’t believe the poor young one had shifted his position once since they had left Monterey. “Hello, old top!” said Dean, robustly, swinging him to the ground. “Come along and meet Snort and Rusty, and your pony!” (He had succeeded in renting a small and amiable old horse for him from one of the ranchers.) The boy went with him, setting his cramped legs stiffly to walk again. He kept the Ranger’s hand and shrank back against him when they came nearer the animals. “Does he bite?” he whispered when the Airedale rose languidly and approached him, sniffing indifferently. “Do--do they kick?” he wanted fearfully to know when he found himself within range of the horses’ heels. “Never!” said the Ranger, cheerily. He tied Elmer’s bundle to his own saddle and lifted him on to the small horse. “Let’s see about these stirrups--must always have your stirrups right, Scout.” He adjusted them swiftly and capably. “Now, then, all set?” “I g-guess so,” said Elmer Bunty, palely. “We’re just going to walk our horses, this time--and lots of times till you get used to it. Then we’ll ‘Ride ’em, Cowboy!’ like they do in the movies, won’t we?” “I g-guess so,” said the Scout again. Dean sprang into his saddle and spoke to the two horses, and they set off at a brisk walk, and instantly the boy leaned forward and clutched the pommel of his small saddle desperately with both thin hands. “Oh, come, Scout, that will never do--hanging on that way! That’s what we call (‘we,’ he grinned to himself) ‘pulling leather,’ and any regular cow-puncher would rather break his neck than be caught doing it! It simply isn’t done in these circles, old top. Just try letting go, and holding your reins, and keeping the balls of your feet in the stirrups, and sitting _easy_--like this, see? You can’t fall off, and even if you could, I’m right here to catch you!” The Scout reluctantly unclasped his small claws and sat erect. He was the color of thriftily skimmed milk, his eyes rolled with terror, and he kept swallowing hard. Snort, impatient at the snail’s pace, pranced and curvetted, but the boy’s mount went sedately, and Dean kept up a running fire of casual talk, and at the end of ten minutes he could see that his lad was breathing more easily. “That’s right,” he said, cordially. “Now you’re letting yourself go! Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it fun?” “Yes, sir,” said the Scout. After an instant, nodding toward the drooping head of his steed, he inquired, “What’s his name?” “His name is Mabel,” answered Dean, gravely. “Oh...” said Elmer, pondering. “Is he--” he hesitated delicately, “is he a lady horse?” “He is a lady horse. Almost, I should say, by the gentleness of this present performance, a perfect lady.”