There were other branches ahead. On galloped Alcatraz, heading
cunningly beneath the boughs until he was stopped by a shock that
dropped him staggering to his knees. The pommel had struck a
branch--and Red Perris was still in place.
Once more the chestnut started, reeling heavily in his lope. This
time, to avoid the coming peril, the rider slipped far to one side and
Alcatraz veered swiftly towards a neighboring tree trunk. Too late Red
Perris saw the danger and strove to drag himself back into the saddle,
but his numbed muscles refused to act and Alcatraz felt the burden
torn from his back, felt a dangling foot tug at the left stirrup--then
he was free.
So utter was his exhaustion that in checking himself he nearly fell,
but he turned to look at the mischief he had worked.
The man lay on his back with his arms flung out cross-wise. From a
gash in his forehead the blood streamed across his face. His legs were
twisted oddly together. His eyes were closed. From head to foot the
stallion sniffed that limp body, then raised a forehoof to strike;
with one blow he could smash the face to a smear of red as he had
smashed Manuel Cordova the great day long before.
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