Standing Bear talked some more.

“He says that she’s been trained to hunt buffalo, and you should steer her with you knees. Nod and smile.”

Francis nodded and smiled at the chief. It wasn’t what he’d normally call a smiling morning. The sun wasn’t warm yet, he hadn’t gone to sleep until well past midnight, and he wouldn’t have made it from his borrowed buffalo-robe bed to the corral if Mr. Grimes hadn’t half dragged him. It seemed like all he had done since getting lost from the wagon train was get stiffer and stiffer.

Standing Bear acknowledged Francis’s smile. He said something in Sioux.

“The pony is now yours,” Mr. Grimes translated. “You can take her to your lodge—I guess he means where you slept last night, up by old Footloose.”

The mare had a rope halter. Francis opened the corral gate and tried to grab the halter. She backed away, mixing in with some other ponies. He looked questioningly at Mr. Grimes. “How do I catch her?”

“You could run her down,” the mountain man answered.

Francis gave him a nasty look. He could barely walk. At that moment, Mr. Grimes stepped into the corral with a horsehide rope. He flipped it out once, twice, and on the third try the noose fell over the mare’s head. She stopped then at the feel of the rope on her neck and Francis hobbled up to her.

“Come on, Mr. Tucket,” said the mountain man. “Climb on. Let’s see how she takes to your weight.”

“But, Mr. Grimes …” Francis complained. “I’m like a board. Give me a day or two to loosen up—”

“The best way to loosen up is to move a bit. Now climb on, before Standing Bear gets the thought you don’t like his pony.”

All the time he had been talking, Mr. Grimes was fashioning from a second piece of rope a war bridle—a slipknot—around the mare’s lower jaw.

In two tries, Francis managed to get his stomach over the back of the mare. He swiveled slowly until his legs hung down either side, then sat up, straight and stiff.

“Please, little pony,” he said quietly, “remember my condition.”

The strange part was that the pony did seem to understand. She didn’t move quickly, or buck, or even tremble. And when Mr. Grimes handed him the end of the war-bridle rope, she walked toward the gate as meekly as a kitten.

It was Standing Bear who caused the trouble. Just as Francis and the pony came through the gate, the Sioux chief picked up a switch, moved behind the mare, and brought the switch down across the white splotch on her rump.

“Eeeeyah!” he yelled.