awoke to sound--to a dull roar of noise; a thin trickle of blood ran
from Woodbury's mouth and it seemed that the mob knew it and was yelling
for a death.

There followed a bewildering exhibition of such bucking that the
disgruntled cowboys forgot their shame and shouted with joy. Upon his
hind legs and then down on his forefeet with a sickening heartbreaking
jar the stallion rocked; now he bucked from side to side; now rose and
whirled about like a dancer; now toppled to the ground and twisted again
to his feet.

Still the rider clung. His head rocked with the ceaseless jars; the
red-stained lips writhed back and showed the locked teeth. Yet, as if he
scorned the struggles of the stallion, he brought into play the heavy
quirt which had been handed him as he mounted. Over neck and shoulders
and tender flanks he whirled the lash; it was not intelligence fighting
brute strength, but one animal conquering another and rejoicing in the
battle.

The horse responded, furiously he responded, but still the lash fell,
and the bucking grew more cunning, perhaps, but less violent. Yet to the
wildly cheering audience the fight seemed more dubious than ever. Then,
in the very centre of the arena, the stallion stopped in the midst of a
twisting course of bucking and stood with widely braced legs and fallen
head. Strength was left in him, but the cunning, savage mind knew
defeat.

Once more the quirt whirled in the air and fell with a resounding crack,
but the stallion merely switched his tail and started forward at a
clumsy stumbling trot. The thunder of the host was too hoarse for