"What could I do? He had told the people he would ride it, and that settled it with him."
Lucifer was exercising all the tricks known to wild and terrified bronchos when they first feel saddle and bridle, and which seem to be inbred in them. He bucked, but there was never a horse that could buck Ted off. He reared, he kicked, rolled, and fell backward. But every time he stopped for a moment to note the result, there the unshakable enemy was on his back again. Clearly he was puzzled.
Then a new paroxysm of rage would shake him, and he would go through the same performances again, but with no better success.
Suddenly Ted brought his quirt down on the brute's flanks, and it leaped high into the air in an agony of fear and pain. It had felt that stinging thing before, and hated it.
Then it started to run away from this terrible thing that bestrode its back.
"By Heaven! it's running away," muttered Bud. "It'll be an act o' Providence if Ted isn't killed."
Down the arena they dashed, Ted sitting in the saddle as if he and it and the stallion were all of a piece.
When the brute came to the arena's end, and saw before him the shouting multitude, it suddenly swerved to come back, and Ted realized that something had happened to the saddle. It was slipping, and yet he was sure he had cinched it tight. Back they came tearing again, and passed Stella and Bud like a rocket.
"Great guns!" cried Bud, "his saddle's loose. He's a goner now, shore."
Every one saw Ted's danger, for Ted was leaning well over, and the saddle was on the horse's side. A hollow groan went up.