He sunk his head and redoubled his efforts, as
with quirt in one hand and hackamore in the other the cowboy lashed his
shoulders while his spurs raked the animal to a bloody foam. Slower
and slower the outlaw fought, pausing now and then to scream shrilly as
with bared teeth and blazing eyes he turned this way and that, sucking
the air in great blasts through his blood-dripping nostrils.
At last he was done. Conquered. For a moment he stood trembling in
every muscle, and as he sank slowly to his knees, the Texan stepped
smiling from the saddle.
"Sometime, Slim," he grinned as he reached for his tobacco and papers,
"if you-all can get holt of a horse that ain't plumb gentle, I'll show
you a real ride."
All about was the confusion attendant to the breaking-up of the crowd.
Men yelled at horses as they hitched them to the wagons. Pedestrians,
hurrying with their tickets toward the saloons, dodged from under the
feet of cowboys' horses, and the flat became a tangle of wagons with
shouting drivers.
Alice Marcum stood upon the edge of the lumber-pile with the wind
whipping her skirts about her silk stockings as the Texan, saddle over
his arm, glanced up and waved, a gauntleted hand. The girl returned
the greeting with a cold-eyed stare and once more found herself growing
furiously angry.
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