The Captain floundered to get his feet under him, and the loop in the rope dissolved. Again the wrist twitch, again the shooting loop and—
"Scotched!" screamed Young VB. "Scotched! You're my property!"
Scotched! The rope had found its hold about the off hind ankle of the soiled stallion, and there it clung in a tight, relentless grasp. The rope from neck to limb was so short that it kept the foot clear of the ground, crippling the Captain, and as the great horse floundered to his feet VB had him powerless. The stallion stood dazed, looking down at the thing which would not let him kick, which would not let him step.
Then he sprang forward, and when the rope came tight he was upended, a shoulder plowing the shale.
"It's no use!" the man cried, his voice crackling in excitement. "I've got you right—right—right!"
But the Captain would not quit. He tried even then to rise to his hind legs and make assault, but the effort only sent him falling backward, squealing—and left him on his side, moaning for his gone liberty.
For he knew. He knew that his freedom was gone, even as he made his last floundering, piteous endeavors. He got up and tried to run, but every series of awkward moves only sent his black body down into the dust and dirt, and at last he rested there, head up, defiance still in his eyes, but legs cramped under him.
And then VB wanted to cry. He went through all the sensations—the abrupt drop of spirits, the swelling in the throat, the tickling in the nostrils.
"Oh, Captain!" he moaned. "Captain, don't you see I wouldn't harm you? Only you had to be mine! I had to get bigger than you were, Captain—for my own salvation. It was the only way, boy; it was the only way!"
And he sat there for a long time, his eyes without the light of triumph, on his captive.