When Solano brought up with a flourish on the far side of the corral, Jack turned to Dade and Valencia standing guard at the main gate, their horses barring the opening.
"See that it's kept clear out in front," he told them.

"I'll come out a-flying when I do come, most likely." Whereat those who heard him laughed derisively.

"Never to the gate will you ride him, gringo--even so you touch his back! Not twice will the devil give you luck," they yelled, while they scrambled for the choicest positions.
Jack, standing in the center quietly, smiled at them, and gave the flip downward and forward that formed the little loop to which he seemed so partial.

He tossed that loop upward, straight over his head; a careless little toss, it looked to those who watched.

His hand began to rotate upon his supple wrist joint--and like a live corkscrew the rawhide loop went up, and up, and up, and grew larger while it climbed.
Solano snorted; and the noise was like a gun in the dead silence while those thousands watched this miracle of a rawhide riata that apparently climbed of its own accord into the air.
The loop, a good ten feet in diameter, swirled horizontally over his head.