"All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral.
"He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too—I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar—the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now—keep off that hawse!"
"All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride. The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle.
"You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump—it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt—it's heavier—and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!"
"All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral.
A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside—the horse that killed Dunbar—and he lay grunting in the dirt.
"Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope—we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"
They gave him the ropes as he called for them, and he rigged them with masterful hands—first the rough-twisted hackamore, to go over his head and cut off his breath; then the two-inch well-rope, to hang from his neck and serve later to noose his hind foot. Then all hands tailed on to the throw-rope; they swayed back as he rose to his feet; and when Dunbar went to the end of it, the heave they gave threw him flat. He leaped up and flew back on his haunches, and the rope halter cut off his breath. His sides heaved as he struggled against it; his eyes bulged big and he shook his head; then, with a final paroxysm, he sank to his knees and they slackened away on the rope. A single mighty breath, and he was up on his feet and fighting; and they choked him down again. Then Hardy Atkins stepped in behind and picked up the end of the shoulder rope, where it dragged between his legs, and drew the loop up to his hocks. A jerk—a kick at the burn—and Dunbar was put on three legs. He fought, because that was his nature, but it was in vain; they trussed his foot up high, tied the rope's end to the neck loop, and clapped a broad blind over his eyes. So Dunbar was conquered, and while he squealed and cow-kicked, they lashed Bowles' saddle on his bowed-up back and slipped the bit between his teeth.
There he stood at last, old Dunbar the man-killer, sweating and trembling and cringing his head to the blind, and Bowles jumped down off the fence.
"All right," he said, "you can let down his foot. I'll pull up the blinder myself."