Again the rope shot forward, dropped over the pony's head and
tightened. The roper's mustang braced its forefeet, and brought
the buckskin up short. Another rope swept over its head. It stood
trembling, unable to move without strangling itself.
A picturesque youth in flannel shirt and chaps came forward,
dragging blanket, saddle and bridle. At sight of him the horse
gave a spasmodic fling, then trembled again violently. A blind
was coaxed over its eyes and the bridle slipped on. Quickly and
warily, with deft fingers, the young man saddled and cinched. He
waved a hand jauntily to the ropers. The lariats were thrown off
as the puncher swung to the saddle. For an instant the buckskin
stood bewildered, motionless as a statue. There was a sudden leap
forward high in air, and Bob Austin, alias "Texas," swung his
sombrero with a joyous whoop.
"Fan him! Fan him!" screamed the spectators, and the rider's
quirt went up and down like a piston-rod.
Round and round went Two-Step in a vicious circle, "swapping
ends" with dizzying rapidity. Suddenly he went forward as from a
catapult, and came to sudden halt in about five seconds. But
Texas's knees still clung, viselike, to the sides of the pony.
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