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 ...