It was futile, attended with punishment, for again the sharp spurs sank in, were jammed into his sides, held there--rolling, biting points of steel that hurt him terribly.
He halted for a moment, to gather his wits and his strength, for his former experiences with this strange type of creature who clung so tenaciously to his back had taught him that he must use all his craft, all his strength, to dislodge him.

To his relief, the spurs ceased to bite.

But he was not misled.

There was that moment near the corral fence when he had not moved, but still the spurs had sunk in anyway.
He would make certain this time that the creature with the spurs would not have another opportunity to use them.

And, gathering himself for a supreme effort, he lunged again, shunting himself off toward a stretch of plain back of the ranchhouse, bounding like a ball, his back arched, his head between his forelegs, coming down from each rise with his hoofs bunched so that they might have all landed in a dinner plate.
It was fruitless.