turned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Then
he walked slowly back to the steer.

The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. With
a quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating to
Patches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of the
steer.

The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outward
angles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, lowered
almost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs.

The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung at
her this time:

"Get away from here--quick!"

She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom of
experience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carrying
her some distance before she succeeded in halting him.

When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot where
the steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, and
Randerson. Patches and the steer were running--Patches slightly in
advance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing a
zig-zag course that kept the steer bothered.

As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directed
against the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead of
running from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to see
Randerson in that role; it was far from heroic--it flavored of panic; it
made her think of the panic that had gripped her a few minutes before,
when she had retreated from the steer.

She watched the queer race go on for a few minutes, and then she saw an
exhibition of roping that made her gasp. From a point fifteen or twenty
feet in advance of the steer, Randerson threw his rope. He had twisted in
the saddle, and he gave the lariat a quick flirt, the loop running out
perpendicularly, like a rolling hoop, and not more than a foot from the
ground, writhing, undulating, the circle constricting quickly, sinuously.
The girl saw the loop topple as it neared the steer--it was much like the
motion of a hoop falling. It met one of the steer's hoofs as it was flung
outward; it grew taut; the rope straightened and Patches swung off to the
right at an acute angle. He did not brace his legs, this time. This was a
different game. He merely halted, turning his head and watching, with a
well-I've-done-it-now expression of the eyes that would have brought a
smile to the girl's face at any other time.

A