He felt the slight jar and heard the click as the ring slipped over the tilting peg.
"Two," announced the scorer.
He missed the next one. Then the others took their turn. Only one of these succeeded in scoring. He was one of the Mexicans who made such a brave show of color in raiment and saddle cloth.
"That gives the señor and the boy three apiece. Each has one turn left. The others will fall out. If neither scores in his turn, both will be ruled out and the others will compete for the prize," announced the scorer.
The Mexican smiled a supercilious smile, as much as to say, "The idea of a long-legged, freckle-faced boy defeating me!" The Mexican was an expert at the game of tilting as it was practised on the desert.
The man took the first turn. He sat quietly on his pony a moment before starting, placing the lance at just the proper angle—then galloped at the mark. He, too, rose in his stirrups. The spectators were silent.
The ring just missed being impaled on the tilting peg, slipping along the pole half way then bounding up into the air.
The spectators groaned. The Mexican had lost.
Now it was Tad's turn.
He rode as if it were an everyday occurrence with him to tilt, only he went at it with a rash that fairly took their breath away.