"Nothing like variety," Dan
chuckled; and a few minutes later again we were leaning well back in our
saddles as the horses picked their way down the far side of the ridge,
old Roper letting himself down in his most approved style; dropping from
ledge to ledge as he went, stepping carefully along their length, he
would pause for a moment on their edges to judge distance, then,
gathering his feet together, he would sway out and drop a foot or more to
the next ledge. Riding Roper was never more than sitting in the saddle
and leaving all else to him. Wherever he went there was safety, both for
himself and his rider whether galloping between trees or beneath
over-hanging branches, whether dropping down ridges with the
surefootedness of a mountain pony, or picking his way across the
treacherous "springy country." No one knew better than he his own limits,
and none better understood "springy country." Carefully he would test
suspicious-looking turf with a cautious fore-paw, and when all roads
proved risky, in his own unmistakable language he would advise his rider
to dismount and walk over, having shown plainly that the dangerous bit
was not equal to the combined weight of horse and man.
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