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Updated: June 15, 2025
Down the roped lane thundered José, whirling his riata over his head till the loop had taken full twenty of the sixty feet of rawhide. Galloping to meet him, Jack gave his rope a forward, downward fling and formed a little loop a loop not one-third the size of José's and held it dangling beside Surry's shoulder.
As they neared he saw José's teeth show in the smile of hate. He waited, his little loop ready for the fling should his chance come. José was over-eager. The great, rawhide hoop whistled and shot down aslant like the swoop of a nighthawk. Surry's eye was upon it unwinkingly.
Near sixty feet he had to run and José was strangling before his eyes; strangling, because Surry's instant obedience was offset by José's horse, who, facing the other at the first jerk of the riata, backed involuntarily with the pull of the pinioned reins. The Spanish bit was cutting his mouth cruelly, and José's frenzied clawing could not ease the cruel strain upon either of them.
Which was Dade's method of wiping off the scowl. "Say, Dade," Jack began irrelevantly, "I'm going to use Surry. You don't mind, do you? He's the best horse I ever threw a rope off from, without any exceptions. I've been training him up a little, and I tell you what, Surry's going to have a lot to do with that duel." Dade sat up in bed as if he had been pulled up.
Even so, the end might have caught him, but for the lengthening lunge which Surry made in mid-air. The loop flecked Surry's crinkled tail and he fled on to the far end and stopped in two short, stiff-legged jumps. As Jack coiled his riata and slid off he heard the caballeros yelling praise of José. But he did not mind that in the least.
"Say, you're stealing my thunder," drawled Dade, grinning. "That's my privilege, to sing Surry's praises. Haven't I told you, right along, that he's a wonder?" "Well, you told the truth for once in your life, anyway. Get up, you lazy devil, and come out and take a look at him. I'm going to have Diego give him a bath, soon as the sun gets hot enough.
To do his bidding, Dade flicked the reins upon Surry's neck and rode ahead, the others closely following. Thirty feet from the wagon a great dog of the color called brindle disputed his advance with bristling hair and throaty grumble. "Lay down, Tige! Wait till you're asked to take a holt," advised the man on the wagon, regarding the group with an air of perfect neutrality.
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