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.