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
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.