When his feet
were securely thrust into his stirrups he leaned forward and with a
swift jerk snapped the handkerchief from the horse's eyes. For a
moment the animal's sides between his knees trembled and throbbed like
an overtaxed engine. Then there was the sudden jerk which told of a
mighty bunching of muscles, a gathering of force. And as Conniston
shot his spurs home, with the reins gripped tight in his left hand so
that the horse could not get his head down, the forelegs were lifted
high in air as the animal reared. A quick blow of the quirt and the
forelegs sought earth again, and Conniston began to realize what it
was to ride a bucking bronco.
A series of short jumps, every one threatening to unseat him, every
one jerking him so that his body was whipped this way and that, so
that he had much ado to keep his feet from flying out of the stirrups,
and could hardly hold his right hand back from going to the horn, from
"pulling leather." The bucks came so close together that it seemed to
him that he did not rest a second in the saddle; that each time the
big brute struck the ground with his four feet bunched together, to
pause for a breathless moment, gathering every ounce of strength to
wrench, leaping sideways, he must surely be thrown. But in spite of
all he did not pull leather, he did not cease to ply spur and quirt,
and he was not thrown.
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