“I had jest put my cabyo in the stable,” said Tenny, while he and all the rest continued to watch the rim of the gulch, “an’ was walkin’ fer the front o’ the hotel, when I fust seen the critter. Nacherly I let off er yell, an’ follered it up by tellin’ ther Chink ter git a rope fer me. Jest as soon’s I got my hands on the rope, I started for the front o’ the——”
“By George!” exclaimed Gentleman Jim. “The steer has taken the turn, and is sashaying right down on us!”
Tenny’s forecast had proved correct. The maverick, whirling from the rim to the down-grade, could be seen charging down the steep slope.
Without a word, Hank Tenny made a rush along the street toward the point where the trail entered it. There he went into hiding around the corner of the Alcazar.
“Keep away, you fellers!” he yelled. “Don’t show yerselves, kase if ye do ye’ll skeer the critter off. Jest hang around the background, an’ watch how I rope ’im.”
Clustered about the front of the Lucky Strike, Gentleman Jim, Spangler, Hoppy Smith, and the rest watched succeeding events with intense interest.
They saw the steer charge into the street, saw Tenny’s right arm shoot out, and the noose settle over the steer’s horns, and then they saw Tenny make a frantic effort and take a half-hitch with the end of the rope around a hitching-post.
A long breath escaped the onlookers. For an instant they experienced a feeling of relief; then, the next instant, the relief gave way to wildest anxiety.
The hitching-post, loosened by long use, had been torn from the ground the tremendous strain placed upon it by the steer. Tenny, hanging to the extreme end of the rope, had turned a somersault in the air and landed on his head. The steer, with its helpless burden, dashed on across the road and vanished behind the walls of the Spread Eagle honkatonk.
“The animile is chasin’ straight fer the precipice!” bawled Lonesome Pete, beginning to run. “It’ll go over the precipice an’ the man’ll be done fer!”