"I'll try him," he said.
"Oh, I don't think you'd better; it'll bung you all up," cautioned Reynolds.
Mose said in a low voice: "I'm good for him, and I need that money."
"Let him breathe awhile," called the crowd as the broncho was brought back, lariated as before. "Give him a show for his life."
Mose muttered to Reynolds: "He's due to bolt, and I'm going to quirt him a-plenty."
The spectators, tense with joy, filled the air with advice and warning. "Don't let him get started. Keep him away from the fence."
Mose wore a set and serious look as he approached the frenzied beast. There was danger in this trick—a broken leg or collar bone might make his foolhardiness costly. In his mind's eye he could foresee the broncho's action. He had escaped down the track once, and would do the same again after a few desperate bounds—nevertheless Mose dreaded the terrible concussion of those stiff-legged leapings.
Standing beside the animal's shoulder he slipped off the ropes and swung to the saddle. The beast went off as before, with three or four terrible buck jumps, but Mose plied the quirt with wild shouting, and suddenly, abandoning his pitching, the horse set off at a tearing pace around the track. For nearly half way he ran steadily—then began once more to hump his back and leap into the air.
"He's down!" yelled some one.