“That will suffice for the present,” he said; then casting an eye toward the inner room, went out with his lariat.
The mustang still browsed, tail toward him. It was an excellent opportunity for a capture, and he would profit by it. So, making a running-noose at one end, he coiled his lariat, and taking the coil in his hand, began to swing it over his head. At the same time he allowed the noose full play, by this means increasing its size until it became several feet in diameter. Such is the apparently simple manner of throwing the lasso.
The noose became larger and wider, the amount of rope in his hand became less; in another moment the noose would be over the animal’s head.
It did not leave his hand. Just before he had got ready to let it fly, a voice close by said:
“Aim well, Pedro Felipe.”
He started, dropped his rope, and stared round. He was alone—no one had spoken. Was it imagination?—the mustang still browsed—she had not heard it. It was a false alarm.
Again he picked up his rope. Again the voice spoke, this time harshly.
“Take care, Pedro!”
Dropping his rope, he flew to the summit and looked over the plain. No one was in sight—no apparition, no Indian, no human being.
Then with a pale face he darted toward the entrance, with the ejaculated words: