"Keep on! keep cool," cried Kellyan.

His lariat flew as the cattle-killing paw was lifted for an instant.
The lasso bound his wrist. "Sing! Sing!" went two, and caught him by
the neck. A bull with his great club-foot in a noose is surely caught,
but the Grizzly raised his supple, hand-like, tapering paw and gave
one jerk that freed it. Now the two on his neck were tight; he could
not slip them. The horses at the ends--they were dragging, choking
him; men were shouting, hovering, watching for a new chance, when
Monarch, firmly planting both paws, braced, bent those mighty
shoulders, and, spite of shortening breath, leaned back on those two
ropes as Samson did on pillars of the house of Baal, and straining
horses with their riders were dragged forward more and more, long
grooves being plowed behind; dragging them, he backed faster and
faster still. His eyes were starting, his tongue lolling out.

"Keep on! hold tight!" was the cry, till the ropers swung together,
the better to resist; and Monarch, big and strong with frenzied hate,
seeing now his turn, sprang forward like a shot. The horses leaped and
escaped--almost; the last was one small inch too slow. The awful paw
with jags of steel just grazed his flank. How slight it sounds! But
what it really means is better not writ down.

The riders had slipped their ropes in fear, and the Monarch, rumbling,
snorting, bounding, trailed them to the hills, there to bite them off
in peace, while the remnant of the gallant crew went, sadly muttering,
back.

Bitter words went round. Kellyan was cursed.