BLACK MOSE! Mysterious as Ever. The Celebrated Dead Shot. Visits Wagon Wheel, and Swiftly Disappears. "Damn 'em!" said Mose, "can't they let me alone? Seems like they can't rest till they crowd me into trouble." CHAPTER XVII MOSE RETURNS TO WAGON WHEEL As Mose threw the rope over the bald-faced pinto the boys all chuckled and drew near, for they knew the character of the horse. Reynolds had said, "Take your pick o' the bunch," and Mose, with the eye of a horseman, had roped the pinto because of his size, depth of chest, and splendid limbs. As he was leading his captive out of the bunch the cook said to Mose, "Better not take that pinto; he's mean as a hornet." "Is his wind all right?" "He's one o' the best horses on the range, all right, but he shore is mean all the way through. He always pitches at the start like he was fair crazy." "Does he go when he gets through?" asked Mose of Reynolds. "Yes, he's a good traveler." "I don't want to be delayed, that's all. If he'll go, I'll stay by him." The boys nudged elbows while Mose threw the saddle on the cringing brute and cinched it till the pinto, full of suffering, drew great, quiet gulps of breath and groaned. Swift, practiced, relentless, Mose dragged at the latigo till the wide hair web embedded itself in the pony's hide. Having coiled the rope neatly out of the way, while the broncho stood with drooping head but with a dull red flame in his eyes, Mose flung the rein over the pony's head. Then pinto woke up. With a mighty sidewise bound he attempted to leave his rider, but Mose, studiedly imperturbable, with left hand holding the reins and right hand grasping the pommel, went with him as if that were the ordinary way of mounting. Immense power was in the stiff-legged leaping of the beast. His body seemed a ball of coiled steel springs. His "watch-eye" rolled in frenzy. It seemed he wished to beat his head against his rider's face and kill him. He rushed away with a rearing, jerking motion, in a series of jarring bounds, snapping his rider like the lash of a whip, then stopped suddenly, poised on his fore feet, with devilish intent to discharge Mose over his head. With the spurs set deep into the quivering painted hide of his mount Mose began plying the quirt like a flail. The boys cheered and yelled with delight. It was one of their chief recreations, this battle with a pitching broncho.