dump his oppressor into some prairie wash, only a horse psychologist would be qualified to tell. Certainly not Tom Simpson, who was altogether unprepared for the straightaway dash the team made for the gate. He did the best he could to center the wagon in that gateway, which was a broad one as gateways go, but perilously narrow in Simpson's eyes that moment of fast-flying things.
The near hind hub caught the gatepost, which was a very competent post, and deeply set. It stood almost as firmly as the original oak from which it was hewn, and the wrench of the sudden stop sent Simpson flying over the high dashboard. He came down in the road with more celerity than grace, landing within touch of the rebel who had asserted himself in one burst of defiance and now appeared quite satisfied to let matters hang on the gatepost, a wise enough conclusion, seeing that he was hopelessly stalled.
Mrs. Ellison and Eudora came running. The wagon was slewed across the gate, blocking both their passage and their view of Simpson in his embarrassment. Eudora jumped into the wagon and grabbed the lines, but the stranger on horseback had taken safety measures ahead of her by riding in front of the team.
Simpson got up, feeling somewhat clouded, for it had been a hard flop. He had a notion that his nose was bleeding, which is a common delusion after a lung-collapsing jolt, and that he looked confoundedly silly in the eyes of the women, whom he expected to hear break out in unconfined mirth presently, after the custom of male and female of the species on the range. Then he remembered that these women were different. They would not
