The animal had been gentle enough all day, but now a devil of unrest
seemed to have entered it. The sound of trampling hoofs thudded on the
hard, sun-baked earth as the bronco came down like a pile-driver,
camel-backed, with legs stiff and unjointed. Skyward it flung itself
again, whirled in the air, and jarred down at an angle. Wildly flapped
the arms of the cattleman. The quirt, wrong end to, danced up and down
clutched in his flying fist. Each moment it looked as if Mr. Dingwell
would take the dust.

The fat stomach of Fox shook with mirth. "Go it, you buckaroo," he
shouted. "You got him pulling leather. Sunfish, you pie-faced cayuse."

The horse in its lunges pounded closer. Fox backed away, momentarily
alarmed. "Here ---- you, hold your brute off. It'll be on top of me
in a minute," he screamed.

Apparently Dingwell had lost all control of the bucker. Somehow he
still stuck to the saddle, by luck rather than skill it appeared. His
arms, working like windmills, went up as Teddy shot into the air again.
The hump-backed weaver came down close to the other horse. At the same
instant Dingwell's loose arm grew rigid and the loaded end of the quirt
dropped on the head of Fox.

The body of Fox relaxed and the rifle slid from his nerveless fingers.
Teddy stopped bucking as if a spring had been touched. Dingwell was on
his own feet before the other knew what had happened. His long arm
plucked the little man from the saddle as if he had been a child.

Still jarred by the blow, Fox looked up with a ludicrous expression on
his fat face. His mind was not yet adjusted to what had taken place.