the
look of Jose as he passed? He has been playing with them for the sport
of the people. Look you! I have gold on that third throw. The next
time--it is as Jose chooses--"

The bark of the pistol cut short the boastings of that vaquero. This was
the third pass, and much Spanish gold would be lost upon that throw if
Jose missed.

"Three to one, m' son," bawled Bill Wilson remindingly, as Jack loped
past with his little loop hanging beside him, ready but scarcely seeming
so. Jose was coming swiftly, the big horse lunging against the Spanish
bit, his knees flung high with every jump he made, like a deer leaping
through brush. And there was the great, rawhide loop singing its
battle-song over his head, with the soft _who-oo-oo_ before he released
it for the flight.

He aimed true--but Surry had also a nice eye for distance. He did not
swerve; he simply stiffened every muscle and stopped short. Even as he
did so the black horse plunged past; and Jack, lifting his hand, whirled
his loop swiftly once to open it, and gave it a backward fling.

Straight past his shoulder it shot, whimpering, following, reaching--the
force of the fling carrying it far, far ... Jose heard it whining behind
him, glanced quickly, thought to beat it to the end of its leash. He
leaned far over--farther, so that his cheek touched the flying black
mane of his horse. He dug deep with his spurs--but he dug too late.

The little loop narrowed--it had reached as far as sixty feet of rawhide
could reach and have any loop at all. It sank, and caught the outflung
head of the black horse; slid back swiftly and caught Jose as the horse
lunged and swung short around; tightened and pressed Jose's cheek hard
against the black mane as the rawhide drew tight across the back of his
neck.

The black horse plunged and tried to back away; the white one stiffened
against the pull of the rope. Between the two of them, they came near
finishing Jose once for all. And from the side where stood the white men
came the vicious sound of a pistol shot.

"Slack, Surry!" Jack, on the ground, glimpsed the purpling face of his
foe. "Slack, you devil!"

Near sixty feet he had to run--and Jose was strangling before his eyes;
strangling, because Surry's instant obedience was offset by Jose's
horse, who, facing the other at the first jerk of the riata, backed
involuntarily with the pull of the pinioned reins. The Spanish bit was
cutting his mouth cruelly, and Jose's frenzied cl