Dick was a splendid rider, however--at least as far as "sticking on" goes.

He might not have come up to the precise pitch desiderated by a riding-master in regard to carriage, etc., but he rode that wild horse of the prairie with as much ease as he had formerly ridden his own good steed, whose bones had been picked by the wolves not long ago.
The pace was tremendous, for the youth's weight was nothing to that muscular frame, which bounded with cat-like agility from wave to wave of the undulating plain in ungovernable terror.

In a few minutes the clump of willows where Crusoe and his rifle lay were out of sight behind; but it mattered not, for Dick had looked up at the sky and noted the position of the sun at the moment of starting.

Away they went on the wings of the wind, mile after mile over the ocean-like waste--curving slightly aside now and then to avoid the bluffs that occasionally appeared on the scene for a few minutes and then swept out of sight behind them.

Then they came to a little rivulet.