His fierce assault began to produce results.
He saw Red Perris sway drunkenly at every shock; his head seemed to
swing on a pivot from side to side under that fearful jolting--his
mouth was ajar, his eyes staring, a fearful mask of a face; yet he
clung in place. When he was stunned, instinct still kept his feet in
the stirrups and taught him to give lightly to every jar. He fought
hard but in time even Red Perris must collapse.
But could the attack be sustained indefinitely? Grim as were results
of sun-fishing on the rider, they were hardly less vitiating for the
horse. The forelegs of Alcatraz began to grow numb below the shoulder;
his knees bowed and refused to give the shock its primal snap; to the
very withers he was an increasing ache. He must vary the attack. As
soon as that idea came, he reared and flung himself back to the earth.
He heard a sharp exclamation from the rider--he felt the tug as the
right foot of Perris hung in the stirrup, then the stunning impact on
the ground. To make sure of his prey he whirled himself to the left,
but even so his striking feet did not reach the Great Enemy. Perris
had freed himself in the last fraction of a second and pitching
headlong from the saddle he rolled over and over in the dirt, safe.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224