Now and then Bud would stop bucking long enough to slap Lovin Child in
the face with the soft side of the rabbit fur, and Lovin Child would
squint his eyes and wrinkle his nose and laugh until he seemed likely to
choke. Then Bud would cry, "Ride 'im, Boy! Ride 'im an' scratch 'im. Go
get 'im, cowboy--he's your meat!" and would bounce Lovin Child till he
squealed with glee.
Cash tried to ignore all that. Tried to keep his back to it. But he was
human, and Bud was changed so completely in the last three days that
Cash could scarcely credit his eyes and his ears. The old surly scowl
was gone from Bud's face, his eyes held again the twinkle. Cash listened
to the whoops, the baby laughter, the old, rodeo catch-phrases, and
grinned while he fried his bacon.
Presently Bud gave a whoop, forgetting the feud in his play. "Lookit,
Cash! He's ridin' straight up and whippin' as he rides! He's so-o-me
bronk-fighter, buh-lieve me!"
Cash turned and looked, grinned and turned away again--but only to strip
the rind off a fresh-fried slice of bacon the full width of the piece.
He came down the room on his own side the dead line, and tossed the rind
across to the bunk.
"Quirt him with that, Boy," he grunted, "and then you can eat it if you
want."