But Jack had gained the second he needed--the second that divided
adventure from tragedy. The riata loop shot from his upflung hand and
sped whimperingly on its errand, even as Tejon tried to swing away,
tripped, and tumbled to his knees. The riata caught the lifted forefeet
of the bull just as he stiffened his neck for the lunge. Surry braced
himself automatically when Jack drew tight the loop, and the bull went
down with a thud and lay with his forefeet held high in air, so close to
his quarry that the tip of one horn struck Tejon upon the knee and
flicked a raw, red spot there.
Then Jack, in the revulsion from deadly fear to relief, was possessed by
one of those gusts of nervous rage that seized him sometimes; such a
brief fit of rage as made him kill lustfully three men in the space of
three heart-beats, almost, and feel regret because he could not keep on
killing.
He did not run to Teresita and comfort her for her fright, as a lover
ought to have done. Instead he gave her one look as he went by, and that
a look of indignation for her foolishness. He ran to the bull, drew his
knife from his sash and tried to stab it in the brain; but his hand
shook so that he missed and only gave it a glancing gash that let much
blood flow. He swore and struck again, snapping the dagger blade short
off against the horns. Whereupon he threw the dagger violently from him
and gave an angry kick at the animal, as if he would kill it that way.
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