Carley had inquired the animal's name from the young herder who had

saddled him for her.

"Wal, I reckon he ain't got much of a name," replied the lad, with

a grin, as he scratched his head. "For us boys always called him

Spillbeans."

"Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!" ejaculated Carley, "But according to

Shakespeare any name will serve. I'll ride him or--or--"

So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of

that sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had

convinced Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans

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had ambled along well enough until he reached level ground where a long

bleached grass waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a

contrary nature, next insubordination, and finally direct hostility.

Carley had urged, pulled, and commanded in vain. Then when she gave

Spillbeans a kick in the flank he jumped stiff legged, propelling her up

out of the saddle, and while she was descending he made the queer jump

again, coming up to meet her. The jolt she got seemed to dislocate every

bone in her body. Likewise it hurt. Moreover, along with her idea of

what a spectacle she must have presented, it quickly decided Carley that

Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be opposed. Whenever he wanted a

mouthful of grass he stopped to get it. Therefore Carley was always

in the rear, a fact which in itself did not displease her. Despite

his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently no intention of

allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.

Several times Flo waited for Carley to catch up. "He's loafing on you,

Carley. You ought to have on a spur. Break off a switch and beat him

some." Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle

rein, which punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with

alacrity. Carley had a positive belief that he would not do it for her.

And after Flo's repeated efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn,

had kept Spillbeans in a trot for a couple of miles Carley began to

discover that the trotting of a horse was the most uncomfortable motion

possible to imagine. It grew worse. It became painful. It gradually got

unendurable. But pride made Carley endure it until suddenly she thought

she had been stabbed in the side. This strange piercing pain must

be what Glenn had called a "stitch" in the side, something common to

novices on horseback. Carley could have screamed. She pulled the mustang

to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain subsided. What a

blessed relief! Carley had keen sense of the difference between riding

in Central Park and in Arizona. She regretted her choice of horses.

Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding him

was a delusion. Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking

chair. This Western girl, according to Charley, the sheep herder, was

not above playing Arizona jokes. Be that as it might, Spillbeans now

manifested a desire to remain with the other horses, and he broke out of

a walk into a trot. Carley could not keep him from trotting. Hence her

state soon wore into acute distress.




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