The next bout found them still on even terms. Now came the last, with everyone fraught up to a tense pitch of excitement. It had ceased to be a game of tilting the ring. It was a contest for the supremacy of Mexico at one of her favorite games.
“Now, Jack, old chap, no misses,” cried Ralph from the crowd.
“Go in and win, old boy. You can do it!” came from Walt.
Jack said nothing, but in his heart was a determination to get that ring at any cost but that of fair play. The tall Mexican now regarded the Border Boy with open looks of enmity. He made no attempt to conceal his hatred of the young American boy who had made the best horsemen in Sonora look to their laurels.
But Jack paid no attention to the fellow, concentrating all his attention on his lance, to see that it was in fit condition for the crucial test.
The tall Mexican was the first of the trio to dash off.
Yells, almost prayers, of encouragement implored him to transfix the ring. But just as he couched his lance his horse stumbled, and before he could regain his stride the prize was gone so far as that contestant was concerned. Next came his compatriot. But ill fortune followed him, too. In some unknown manner his aim, which had proved unerring, now failed him at the test, and he struck the ring with a jangling clink but failed to dislodge it.
Bang! Around came the sand bag, knocking him almost off his horse, which he had imprudently reined up, in his chagrin.
Now came Jack’s turn. That lad would not have been human if he had not felt a slight trace of nervousness as he settled himself in his saddle and prepared for the word. Amid a breathless silence it came.