He swerved again lest
Jose in jerking it up should catch his feet, and went on with an
exultant toss of his white head. It was the game he knew--the game Diego
had played with him many times, to the discomfiture of the peon.
"He is a devil--that white caballo!" cried a chagrined voice from among
the vaqueros crowding the ropes so that they bulged inward.
"Hah! devil or no, they will go down, those two white ones! Saw you the
look of Jose as he passed? He has been playing with them for the sport
of the people. Look you! I have gold on that third throw. The next
time--it is as Jose chooses--"
The bark of the pistol cut short the boastings of that vaquero. This was
the third pass, and much Spanish gold would be lost upon that throw if
Jose missed.
"Three to one, m' son," bawled Bill Wilson remindingly, as Jack loped
past with his little loop hanging beside him, ready but scarcely seeming
so. Jose was coming swiftly, the big horse lunging against the Spanish
bit, his knees flung high with every jump he made, like a deer leaping
through brush. And there was the great, rawhide loop singing its
battle-song over his head, with the soft _who-oo-oo_ before he released
it for the flight.
He aimed true--but Surry had also a nice eye for distance. He did not
swerve; he simply stiffened every muscle and stopped short. Even as he
did so the black horse plunged past; and Jack, lifting his hand, whirled
his loop swiftly once to open it, and gave it a backward fling.
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