light came into the gray-green eyes and flashed from them fiendishly. As
suddenly as he had made his previous attacks he played his last trump.
Like a ball of lead he dropped in his tracks and tried to roll; but the
great saddle prevented, and when he sprang up again, there, as firmly
seated as before, was the hated man upon his back.

Then overpowering and unreasoning anger, the wrath of a frenzied lion in
a cage, of a baited bull in a ring, took possession of the buckskin. He
went through his tricks anew, not methodically as before, but furiously,
desperately. The sweat churned into foam beneath the saddle and between
his legs. He screamed like a demon, until the other broncos retreated in
terror, and Scotty's hair fairly lifted on his head. But one idea
possessed him--to kill this being on his back, this hated thing he could
not move or dislodge. A suggestion of means came to him, and straight as
a line he made for the high board fence. There was no misunderstanding
his purpose.

Then for the first time Ben Blair roused himself. The hand on the rein
tightened, as the lariat had tightened, until the small head with the
dainty ears curled back in a half-circle. Simultaneously the long rowels
of a spur bit deep into the foaming flank, the swish of a quirt sounded
keenly, a voice broke out in one word of command, "Whoa!" and repeated,
"Whoa!"

It was like thunder out of a clear sky, like an unseen blow in the dark.
Within three feet of the fence the bronco stopped and stood trembling in
every muscle, expecting he knew not what.

It was the man's time now--the beginning of the end.

"Get up!" repeated the same authoritative voice, and the hand on the bit
loosened. "Get up!" and rowel and quirt again did their work.

In terror this time the bronco plunged ahead, felt the guiding rein, and
started afresh around the circle of the corral fence. "Get up!" repeated
Ben, and like a streak of yellowish light they spun about the trail.
Round and round they went, the body of the man and horse alike tilted in
at an angle, the other ponies plunging to clear the way. Scotty counted
ten revolutions; then he awaited the end. It was not long in coming. Of
a sudden, as before, directly in front of where he sat, the bridle-reins
tightened, and he heard the one word, "Whoa!" and pony and rider stopped
like figures in clay. For a moment they stood motionless, save for their
labored breathing; then very deliberately Ben Blair dismounte