As Jack coiled his riata and slid off he heard the caballeros yelling praise of Jose.  But he did not mind that in the least.  In that one throw he had learned Jose’s method; the big loop, the overhead swirl—­direct, bullet-swift, deadly in its aim.  He knew now what Dade had wanted to tell him—­what it was vital that he should know.  And—­he hugged the thought—­Jose did not know his method; not yet.

A shot, and he was off again with his little loop.  Jose, like a great, black bird, flew towards him with the big loop.  As they neared he saw Jose’s teeth show in the smile of hate.  He waited, his little loop ready for the fling should his chance come.

Jose was over-eager.  The great, rawhide hoop whistled and shot down aslant like the swoop of a nighthawk.  Surry’s eye was upon it unwinkingly.  He saw where the next leap would bring him within its terrible grip, and he made that leap to one side instead, so that the rawhide thudded into the dust alongside his nose.  He swerved again lest Jose in jerking it up should catch his feet, and went on with an exultant toss of his white head.  It was the game he knew—­the game Diego had played with him many times, to the discomfiture of the peon.

“He is a devil—­that white caballo!” cried a chagrined voice from among the vaqueros crowding the ropes so that they bulged inward.

“Hah! devil or no, they will go down, those two white ones!  Saw you the look of Jose as he passed?  He has been playing with them for the sport of the people.  Look you!  I have gold on that third throw.  The next time—­it is as Jose chooses—­”

The bark of the pistol cut short the boastings of that vaquero.  This was the third pass, and much Spanish gold would be lost upon that throw if Jose missed.

“Three to one, m’ son,” bawled Bill Wilson remindingly, as Jack loped past with his little loop hanging beside him, ready but scarcely seeming so.  Jose was coming swiftly, the big horse lunging against the Spanish bit, his knees flung high with every jump he made, like a deer leaping through brush.  And there was the great, rawhide loop singing its battle-song over his head, with the soft who-oo-oo before he released it for the flight.

He aimed true—­but Surry had also a nice eye for distance.  He did not swerve; he simply stiffened every muscle and stopped short.  Even as he did so the black horse plunged past; and Jack, lifting his hand, whirled his loop swiftly once to open it, and gave it a backward fling.

Straight past his shoulder it shot, whimpering, following, reaching—­the force of the fling carrying it far, far ...  Jose heard it whining behind him, glanced quickly, thought to beat it to the end of its leash.  He leaned far over—­farther, so that his cheek touched the flying black mane of his horse.  He dug deep with his spurs—­but he dug too late.

The little loop narrowed—­it had reached as far as sixty feet of rawhide could reach and have any loop at all.  It sank, and caught the outflung head of the black horse; slid back swiftly and caught Jose as the horse lunged and swung short around; tightened and pressed Jose’s cheek hard against the black mane as the rawhide drew tight across the back of his neck.