His knees buckled now. He could no longer sunfish. He could not even
buck straight with the bone-breaking energy. He was nearly done, with
a tell-tale wheeze in his lungs, with blood pressure making his eyes
start well-nigh from his head, and a bloody froth choking him. Red
Perris also was in the last stage of exhaustion--one true pitch would
have hurled him limp from his seat--yet, with his body numb from head
to toe, he managed to keep his place by using that last and greatest
strength of feeble man--power of will. Alcatraz, coming at last to a
beaten stop, looked about him for help.
There was nothing to aid, nothing save the murmur of the wind in the
trees just before him. Suddenly his ears pricked with new hope and he
shut out the weak voice which murmured huskily: "I've got you now.
I've got you, Alcatraz. I've all by myself--no whip,--no spur--no
leather pulling--I've rode straight up and----"
Alcatraz lunged out into a rickety gallop. Only new hope sustained him
as he headed straight for the trees.
Even the dazed brain of Perris understood. With all his force he
wrenched at the bit--it was hopelessly lodged in the teeth of the
stallion--and then he groaned in despair and a moment later swayed
forward to avoid a bough brushing close overhead.
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