Now Amador was a horse of spirit, and, like his master, was called a “woman hater”; therefore, he resented the petticoat flapping against his side. Rearing, he pawed the air with his forefeet, tossed himself from side to side, and vigorously tried to shake off the obnoxious skirt.
“So? Wouldst thou? Vicious, like thy owner, si? Well, learn then! One day is as good as another to break thy will, and before thou wast born, imp, Anita was a horsewoman. Take that!”
With an audacity even Miguel would not have shown, the excited girl brought the hot and heavy jar down upon Amador’s shoulder, and, instantly, he stood stock-still, save for a peculiar shivering through all his frame which, in itself, would have warned Miguel of evil to come.
Not inexperienced Anita. Her heart swelled with pride and mischief, as she jeered:
“Ha, ungallant! Thus easily subdued by a woman—a woman, Amador—Wouldst not the skirt? Then, take this for thy incivility and—forward!”
Unwisely, she again lifted the jar and dealt the beast a second blow, and, already loosened by the violent shaking, the stopper fell out and the warm contents splashed over his neck.
This was the last indignity which Amador could endure. With a spring he was off. The jar fell to the ground, broken, and for her life Anita now clung to the bridle. But he thrust his nostrils forward and jerked the reins from her grasp. Then she gripped him about the throat, half-choking him; yet the fire of his wild ancestors stirred within him and he did not stop for this. His wicked eyes glanced backward and seemed to ask:
“Wouldst ride, Anita? Then ride thou shalt till thou art content!”
She never knew how long that startling onrush lasted. It seemed an endless progress in which, each moment, destruction menaced her; then, suddenly, she found herself in the middle of a mesquite bush, her clothing torn, her face scratched and bleeding, while the footfalls of the now free Amador swiftly died in the distance.
“Ha! But you shall suffer—suffer—villain!” she cried, as soon as she could recover her breath. Then she tried to turn about, but each movement meant agony. Everywhere the sharp thorns of the shrub pierced her. To remain was impossible—to extricate herself—Ugh!