Three ropes, three horses,
leaping away to bear on the great beast's neck. But swifter than
thought the supple paws went up. The ropes were slipped, and the
spurred cow-ponies, ready for the shock, went, shockless,
bounding--loose ropes trailing afar.
"Hi--Hal! Ho--Lan! Head him!" as the Grizzly, liking not the unequal
fight, made for the hills. But a deft Mexican in silver gear sent his
hide riata whistling, then haunched his horse as the certain coil sank
in the Grizzly's hock, and checked the Monarch with a heavy jar.
Uttering one great snort of rage, he turned; his huge jaws crossed the
rope, back nearly to his ears it went, and he ground it as a dog might
grind a twig, so the straining pony bounded free.
Round and round him now the riders swooped, waiting their chance. More
than once his neck was caught, but he slipped the noose as though it
were all play. Again he was caught by a foot and wrenched, almost
thrown, by the weight of two strong steeds, and now he foamed in rage.
Memories of olden days, or more likely the habit of olden days, came
on him--days when he learned to strike the yelping pack that dodged
his blows. He was far from the burnt thicket, but a single bush was
near, and setting his broad back to that, he waited for the circling
foe. Nearer and nearer they urged the frightened steeds, and Monarch
watched--waited, as of old, for the dogs, till they were almost
touching each other, then he sprang like an avalanche of rock.
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