"Next horse!" cried the Mayor, and a horse shot out, leaving the ground
before the rider was in the saddle. Straight across the flat he bucked
with the cowboy whipping higher and higher in the saddle as he tried in
vain to catch his right stirrup.

"He's a goner!"

"He's clawin' leather!"

To save himself a fall the rider had grabbed the horn of the saddle,
and for him the contest was over.

"Come on, Bat, we'll throw the shell on this old buzzard-head. I'm
number seven an' there's three down!" called the Texan.

The two swung from the saddles and the roman-nosed outlaw pricked his
ears and set against the rope with fore legs braced. The cowboy who
had him in tow took an extra dally around the saddle horn as the Texan,
hackamore in hand, felt his way inch by inch along the taut lead-rope.
As the man's hand touched his nose the outlaw shuddered and braced back
until only the whites of his eyes showed. Up came the hand and the
rawhide hackamore slipped slowly into place.

"He's a-goin' to ride with a hackamore!" cried someone as the Texan
busied himself with the knots. Suddenly the lead-rope slackened and
with a snort of fury the outlaw reared and lashed out with both
forefeet. The Texan stepped swiftly aside and as the horse's feet
struck the ground the loaded end of a rawhide quirt smashed against his
jaw.