Several times Phil went
toward the bay, and every time his advance was met by one of those
vicious rushes. Then Phil mounted Curly's horse, and from his hand the
loop of another riata fell over the bay's head. Shortening his rope by
coiling it in his rein hand, he maneuvered the trained horse closer and
closer to his struggling captive, until, with Bob's co-operation on the
other side of the fighting animal, he could with safety fix the leather
blindfold over those wicked eyes.
When at last hackamore and saddle were in place, and the bay stood
trembling and sweating, Phil wiped the perspiration from his own
forehead and turned to the stranger.
"Your horse is ready, sir."
The man's face was perhaps a shade whiter than its usual color, but his
eyes were glowing, and there was a grim set look about his smiling lips
that made the hearts of those men go out to him. He seemed to realize so
that the joke was on himself, and with it all exhibited such reckless
indifference to consequences. Without an instant's hesitation he started
toward the horse.
"Great Snakes!" muttered Curly to Bob, "talk about nerve!"
The Dean started forward.
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