biting of the bur beneath it had been gradually wiped from her mind, and the new saddle was connected indissolubly with the voice and the hand of the man. At the end of that day's work Andrew carried the saddle back into the house with a happy heart.
And the next day he took his first real ride on the back of the mare.
Only a lover of horseflesh can dream what the gait of a new mount may mean, the length of stride, the suppleness which comes of flexible fetlock joints and hind legs, angling well out; and there is the swing of the gallop, during which one must watch the shoulders and forelegs, and be watchful of the least sign of pounding with the front hoofs, since that tells soonest that a horse cannot stand a long ride, and, above all, there is the run, with the long drives coming from the hind quarters, a succession of smooth, swift impulses. A man who rides for pleasure will note such things as these, but to Andrew his horse meant life and death as well as companionship. And he leaned to hear her breathing after he had run her; he noted how easily she answered the play of his wrist, how little her head moved in and out, so that he seldom had to sift the reins through his fingers to keep in touch with the bit. It was a plain bar bit, but she came about on it as though it had been armed with a murderous Spanish curb. He could start her from a stand into a full gallop with a touch of his knees, and he could bring her to a sliding halt with the least pressure on the reins. He could tell, indeed, that she was one of those rare possessions, a horse with a wise mouth.
And yet he had small occasion to keep up on the bit as he rode her. She was no colt which hardly knew its own paces. She was a stanch five-year-old, and she had roamed the mountains about Pop's place at will. She
