Again that thrill of terror of the unknown passed through
the stallion; could this apparently weaponless enemy cling to him
in spite of his best efforts? He would see, and that very shortly.
Without going through the intermediate stages by which the usual
educated bronco rises to a climax of his efforts, Alcatraz began at
once that most dreaded of all forms of bucking--sun-fishing. The
wooded hills were close now and the ground beneath him was firm
underfoot assuring him full use of all his agility and strength. His
motion was like that of a breaking comber. First he hurled himself
into the air, then pitched sharply down and landed on one stiffened
foreleg--the jar being followed by the deadly whiplash snap to the
side as he slumped over. Then again driven into the air by the impulse
of those powerful hind legs, he landed on the alternate foreleg and
snapped his rider in the opposite direction--a blow on the base of the
brain and another immediately following on the side.
Underfed mustangs have killed men by this maneuver, repeated without
end. Alcatraz was no starveling mongrel, but to the fierceness of a
wild horse and the tireless durability of a mustang he united the
subtlety which he had gained in his long battle with the Mexican and
above all this, his was the pride of one who had already conquered
man.
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