But the cut of the quirt transformed Diablo.
If he had fought hard before, he now fell into a truly
demoniacal frenzy. The long flashing legs were
springs indeed, and the moment his hoofs struck the
earth he was flung up again to a greater height.
He was sunfishing now in that most deadly manner when
the horse lands on one forehoof, the rider receiving
a double jar from the down-shock and then the whiplash
snap to the side. Hal Dunbar was no longer using
his quirt. It dangled idly at his side.
The joy had gone from his face. In its place,
as shock after shock benumbed his brain, there was
an expression of fierce despair. Neither was
he riding straight up, but he was pulling leather.
Otherwise, nothing human could have retained a seat
in the saddle for an instant. Diablo, squealing,
snorting, and grunting with effort, was dashing back
and forth, flinging himself aloft, coming down on one
stiff leg, doubling back with jackrabbit agility.
There was no longer applause from the onlookers.
Old Bridewell himself in all of his years had never
seen riding such as this, and it seemed that Diablo
at last had met his master. Never had he fought
as he fought now; never had he been stayed with as
he was now. With foam and sweat the great black
was reeking, but never once were the efforts relaxed.
It was too terrible a sight to be applauded.
Then, at the end of a run, instead of hurling himself
into the air as he had usually done before, Diablo
flung himself down and rolled. It caught Dunbar
by surprise, but the yell of horror from the bystanders
stimulated him to sharp action, and he was out of the
saddle in the last hair’s breadth of time.
Diablo had been carried on over to his feet by the
impetus of the fall, and he was already rising when
Dunbar leaped for the saddle. Fair and true he
struck the saddle and with marvelous skill his left
foot caught the stirrup and clung to it—but
the right foot missed its aim, and, before Dunbar
could lodge his foot squarely, the stirrup was dancing
crazily as Diablo began a wild combination of cross-bucking
and sunfishing. The hat snapped from the head
of Dunbar and his long black hair tossed; with both
hands he was clinging. All joy of battle was
gone from him. In its place was staring fear,
for his right foot was still out of the stirrup.
“Choke him down! Choke him—”
he shrieked.
Before he could be obeyed by his confused henchmen,
Diablo shot into the air and at the very crest of
his rise, bucked. Dunbar lurched to one side.
There was a groan from the bystanders; and the next
instant the stallion, landing on the one stiffened
foreleg, had snapped his rider from the saddle and
hurled him to the ground.
He lay in a shapeless heap, and the stallion whirled
to finish his enemy.
