The scout was already freeing the saddle ropes. The two horses stood, reins down, snorting at the terror before them, whose menace they now could sense.
"Take the horse!" called Banion. "I'll get the man!"
He was coiling the thin, braided hide reata, soft as a glove and strong as steel, which always hung at the Spanish saddle.
He cast, and cast again--yet again, the loop at forty feet gone to nothing. The very silence of the victim nerved him to haste, and he stepped in knee deep, finding only mud, the trickle of black sands being farther out. The rope sped once more, and fell within reach--was caught. A sob or groan came, the first sound. Even then from the imprisoned animal beyond him came that terrifying sound, the scream of a horse in mortal terror. Jackson's rope fell short.
"Get the rope under your arms!" called Banion to the blackened, sodden figure before him. Slowly, feebly, his order was obeyed. With much effort the victim got the loop below one arm, across a shoulder, and then paused.
"Your rope, quick, Bill!"
[pg 169]
Jackson hurried and they joined the ends of the two ropes.
"Not my horse--he's wild. Dally on to your own saddle, Bill, and go slow or you'll tear his head off."