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And then there were other things to think about, things more intimate and real. No sooner did the Great Goer's nose point in the direction of his stable than he gave a great bound, as though a bee had stung him; then he lowered his head, laid back his ears, and gallopped home. I yanked and tugged at the bit. It was as a wisp of hay in his mouth.
Then there was a flapping noise below. We both heard it, we both knew what it was the cinch worked loose, that meant the saddle loose. In desperation I clutched the Great Goer's mane with both hands and, leaning forward, yelled wildly in his ears: "Whoa, whoa! The saddle's turning! Whoa! Do you wa-ant to ki-ill me?"
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