As he fought he watched
results. It was as though invisible fists were crashing against the
head and body of the unfortunate rider. From nose and ears and gaping
mouth the blood trickled; his eyes were blurs of red; his head rolled
hideously on his shoulders. Ten times he was saved by a hair's-breadth
from a fall; ten times he righted himself again and a strange and
bubbling voice jerked out defiance to the horse.
"Buck--damn you!--go it, you devil--I'll--beat--you still! I'll break
you--I'll--make you come--when I whistle--I'll make you--a--lady's
hoss!"'
Consuming terror was in the stallion and the fear that, incredible as
it seemed, he was being beaten by a man who did not use man's favorite
weapon--pain. No, not once had the cruel spurs clung in his flanks, or
the quirt whirred and fallen; not once, above all, had his mouth been
torn and his jaw nearly broken by the wrenching of a curb. It came
vaguely into the brutes' mind that there was something to be more
dreaded than either bit, spur, or whip, and that was the controlling
mind which spoke behind the voice of Perris, which was telegraphed
again and again down the taut reins. That fear as much as the labor
drained his vigor.
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