Jack, standing in the center quietly, smiled at them, and gave the flip downward and forward that formed the little loop to which he seemed so partial.  He tossed that loop upward, straight over his head; a careless little toss, it looked to those who watched.  His hand began to rotate upon his supple wrist joint—­and like a live corkscrew the rawhide loop went up, and up, and up, and grew larger while it climbed.

Solano snorted; and the noise was like a gun in the dead silence while those thousands watched this miracle of a rawhide riata that apparently climbed of its own accord into the air.

The loop, a good ten feet in diameter, swirled horizontally over his head.  The coil in his hand was paid out until there was barely enough to give him power over the rest.  His hand gave a quick motion sidewise, and the loop dropped true, and settled over the head of Solano.

Jack flung a foot backward and braced himself for the pull, the riata drawn across one thigh in the “hip-hold” which cowboys use to-day when they rope from the ground.  Solano gave one frightened lunge and brought up trembling with surprise.

That he knew nothing of the feel of a rope worked now to Jack’s advantage, for sheer astonishment held the horse quiet.  A flip, and the riata curled in a half-hitch over Solano’s nose; and Jack was edging slowly towards him, his hands moving along the taut riata like a sailor climbing a rope.

Solano backed, shook his head futilely, snorted, and rolled his eyes—­mere frills of resentment that formed no real opposition to Jack’s purpose.  Five minutes of maneuvering to get close, and Jack had twisted his fingers in the taffy-colored mane; he went up, and landed fairly in the middle of Solano’s rounded back and began swiftly coiling the trailing riata.

“Get outa the way, there!” he yelled, and raked the big spurs backward when Solano’s forefeet struck the ground after going high in air.  Like a bullet they went out of that corral and across the open space where the duel had been fought, with Dade and Valencia spurring desperately after.

It took a long ten minutes to bring Solano back, chafing, but owning Jack’s mastery—­for the time being, at least.  He returned to a sullen audience, save where the Americans cheered him from their side of the corral.

“He is a devil—­that blue-eyed one!” the natives were saying grudgingly to one another; but they were stubborn and would not cheer.  “Saw you ever a riata thrown as he threw it?  Not Jose Pacheco himself ever did so impossible a thing; truly the devil is in that gringo.”  So they muttered amongst themselves when he came back to the corral and slipped, laughing, from Solano’s sweat-roughened back.

“You can have your Surry!” he cried boastfully to Dade, who was the first to reach him.  “Give me a month to school him, and this yellow horse will be mighty near as good as your white one.  I’d rather have him than forty gold medals!”