Trailin! | Page 5

be sure, but was not quite dismounted.
Another pitch of the same nature would have freed the stallion from his
rider beyond doubt, but he elected to gallop full speed ahead the length
of the arena, and during that time, Woodbury, stunned though he was,
managed to drag himself back into the saddle. The end of the race was
a leap into the air that would have cleared a five-bar fence, and down
pitched the fighting horse on braced legs again. Woodbury's chin
snapped down against his breast as though he had been struck behind
the head with a heavy bar, but though his brain was stunned, the
fighting instinct remained strong in him and when the stallion reared
and toppled back the rider slipped from the saddle in the nick of time.
Fourteen hundred pounds of raging horseflesh crashed into the sawdust;
he rolled like a cat to his feet, but at the same instant a flying weight
leaped through the air and landed in the saddle. The audience awoke to
sound--to a dull roar of noise; a thin trickle of blood ran from
Woodbury's mouth and it seemed that the mob knew it and was yelling
for a death.
There followed a bewildering exhibition of such bucking that the
disgruntled cowboys forgot their shame and shouted with joy. Upon his
hind legs and then down on his forefeet with a sickening heartbreaking
jar the stallion rocked; now he bucked from side to side; now rose and
whirled about like a dancer; now toppled to the ground and twisted
again to his feet.
Still the rider clung. His head rocked with the ceaseless jars; the
red-stained lips writhed back and showed the locked teeth. Yet, as if he
scorned the struggles of the stallion, he brought into play the heavy
quirt which had been handed him as he mounted. Over neck and
shoulders and tender flanks he whirled the lash; it was not intelligence
fighting brute strength, but one animal conquering another and
rejoicing in the battle.
The horse responded, furiously he responded, but still the lash fell, and
the bucking grew more cunning, perhaps, but less violent. Yet to the

wildly cheering audience the fight seemed more dubious than ever.
Then, in the very centre of the arena, the stallion stopped in the midst
of a twisting course of bucking and stood with widely braced legs and
fallen head. Strength was left in him, but the cunning, savage mind
knew defeat.
Once more the quirt whirled in the air and fell with a resounding crack,
but the stallion merely switched his tail and started forward at a clumsy
stumbling trot. The thunder of the host was too hoarse for applause;
they saw a victory and a defeat but what they had wanted was blood,
and a death. They had had a promise and a taste; now they hungered for
the reality.
Woodbury slipped from the saddle and gave the reins to Werther.
Already a crowd was growing about them of the curious who had
sprung over the barriers and swarmed across the arena to see the
conqueror, for had he not vindicated unanswerably the strength of the
East as compared with that of the West? Boys shouted shrilly; men
shouldered each other to slap him on the back; but Werther merely held
forth the handful of greenbacks. The conqueror braced himself against
the saddle with a trembling hand and shook his head.
"Not for me," he said, "I ought to pay you--ten times that much for the
sport--compared to this polo is nothing."
"Ah," muttered those who overheard, "polo! That explains it!"
"Then take the horse," said Werther, "because no one else could ride
him."
"And now any one can ride him, so I don't want him," answered
Woodbury.
And Werther grinned. "You're right, boy. I'll give him to the iceman."
The big grey man, William Drew, loomed over the heads of the little
crowd, and they gave way before him as water divides under the prow
of a ship; it was as if he cast a shadow which they feared before him.

"Help me through this mob," said Woodbury to Werther, "and back to
my box. Devil take it, my overcoat won't cover that leg."
Then on him also fell, as it seemed, the approaching shadow of the grey
man and he looked up with something of a start into the keen eyes of
Drew.
"Son," said the big man, "you look sort of familiar to me. I'm asking
your pardon, but who was your mother?"
The eyes of young Woodbury narrowed and the two stood considering
each other gravely for a long moment.
"I never saw her," he said at last, and then turned with a frown to work
his way through the crowd and back to his