was only fooling,” I suggested. “I’ll try him again.”
Once more Rollo stood still and sad until I was securely up on him. Then he went into convulsions under me—convulsions that lasted until I piled on my neck and one shoulder in a clump of brush.
I stood up, rubbing my left shoulder, which had hit a rock. Smith was holding the buckskin. The faces of all five men were serious and solemn—too serious and solemn.
“Maybe he don’t like you,” Buck Small gave his opinion.
“Might be,” I admitted as I climbed into the saddle for the third time.
The lemon-tinted devil was getting warmed up by now, was beginning to take pride in his work. He let me stay aboard longer than before, so he could slam me off harder.