José took the hint. He dug cruel spurs into his horse. The mustang leaped forward. The black gave a tearing bound and quickened his pace, but still waited the will of his pursuer.
They were just upon us, chased and chaser, thundering down the slope, when the vaquero, checking his wrist at the turn, flung his lasso straight as an arrow for the black’s head.
I could hear the hide rope sing through the summer air, for a moment breezeless.
Will he be taken! Will horse or man be victor!
The loop of the lasso opened like a hoop. It hung poised for one instant a few feet before the horse’s head, vibrating in the air, keeping its circle perfect, waiting for the vaquero’s pull to tighten about that proud neck and those swelling shoulders.
Hurrah!
Through it went the black.
With one brave bound he dashed through the open loop. He touched only to spurn its vain assault with his hindmost hoof.
“Hurrah!” I cried.
“Hurrah! ’tis,” shouted Gerrian.