He did not know the art of such riding, but the courage was there and when he was thrown it was only at the moment when the sorrel put into the battle his best. VB got to his feet and wiped the dust from his eyes. "Hurt?" asked Jed. "Nothing but my pride," muttered the boy. He grasped the saddle again, got one foot in the stirrup, and, after being dragged around the inclosure, got to the seat. Again he was thrown, and when he arose and made for the horse a third time Jed slipped down from the fence to intervene. "Not again to-day," he said, with a pride that he could not suppress. "Take it easy; try him again to-morrow." "But I don't want to give up!" protested the boy. "I _can_ ride that horse." "You ain't givin' up; I made you," the other smiled. "You ought to have been born in the hills. You'd have made a fine bronc twister. Ain't it a shame th' way men are wasted just by bein' born out of place?" VB seemed not to hear. He rubbed the nose of the frantic horse a moment, then said: "If I could get this near the Captain-- Jed, if I could ever get a leg over that stallion he'd be mine or I'd die trying!" "Still thinkin' of him?" "All the time! I never forget him. That fellow has got into my blood. He's the biggest thing in this country--the strongest--and I want to show him that there's something a little stronger, something that can break the power he's held so long--and that _I_ am that something!" "That's considerable ambition," Jed said, casually, though he wanted to hug the boy. "I know it. Most people out here would think me a fool if they heard me talk this way. Me, a greenhorn, a tenderfoot, talking crazily about doing what not one of you has ever been able to do!" "Not exactly, VB. It's th' wantin' to do things bad enough that makes men do 'em, remember. This feller busted you twice, but you've got th' stuff under your belt that makes horses behave. That's th' only stuff that'll ever make th' Captain anything but th' wild thing he is now. Sand! _Grit!_ Th' _wantin'_ to do it!" A cautious whistle from Jed that afternoon called VB into a thicket of low trees, from where he looked down on a scene that drove home even more forcibly the knowledge of the strength of spirit that was incased in the glossy coat of the great stallion. "Look!" the old man said in a low voice, pointing into the gulch. "It's a Percheron--one of Thorpe's stallions. He's come into th' Captain's band an' they're goin' to fight!" VB looked down on the huge gray horse, heavier by three hundred pounds than the black, stepping proudly along over the rough gulch bottom, tossing his head, twisting it about on his neck, his ears flat, his tail switching savagely. Up the far rise huddled the mares. The Captain was driving the last of them into the bunch as VB came in sight. That done, he turned to watch the coming of the gray.