A few terrible seconds, and then Jack overtook them, eaught the horse
by the bridle, and stopped him; and the blood which the cruel bit had
brought when the spade cut deep, stained Jack's white clothes red where
it fell.
"Slack, Surry! Come on!" he cried, his voice harsh with the stress of
that moment. And when the rawhide hung loose between the two horses he
freed Jose of the deadly noose, and saw where it had burnt raw the skin
of his neck on the side where it touched. A snaky, six-strand riata can
be a rather terrible weapon, he decided, while he loosed it and flung it
from him.
Jose, for the first time getting breath enough to gasp, tried to
straighten himself in the saddle; lurched, and would have gone off on
his head if Jack had not put up a hand to steady him. So he led him, a
shaken, gasping, disarmed antagonist, across the little space that
separated them from where Don Andres and four other Spanish gentlemen
sat before the middle gate of the corral.
"Bravo!" cried a sweet, girl voice; and a rose, blood-red and heavy with
perfume, fell at Jack's feet. He gave it one cold glance and let it lie.
In another moment the black horse crushed it heedlessly beneath his
hoof, as Jack turned to the judges.
"Senors, I bring you Don Jose Pacheco."
So suddenly had the contest ended that those riders who helped to form
the riata fence stood still in their places, as if another round had yet
to be fought.
Pages:
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274