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The ranger's quirt was going up and down, stinging Dead Easy to

more violent exertions, if possible. But the outlaw had shot its

bolt. The plunges grew less vicious, the bucks more feeble. It

still pitched, because of the unbroken gameness that defied

defeat, but so mechanically that the motions could be forecasted.

Then Steve began to soothe the brute. Somehow the wild creatute

became aware that this man who was his master was also disposed

to be friendly. Presently it gave up the battle, quivering in

every limb. Fraser slipped from the saddle, and putting his arm

across its neck began to gentle the outlaw. The animal had always

looked the incarnation of wickedness. The red eyes in its

ill-shaped head were enough to give one bad dreams. A quarter of

an hour before, it had bit savagely at him. Now it stood

breathing deep, and trembling while its master let his hand pass

gently over the nose and neck with soft words that slowly won the

pony back from the terror into which it had worked itself.