There he sat, testing the stirrups.  They were too short by inches but he refused to have them lengthened.  He poised his quirt and tugged his hat lower over his eyes.

“Turn him loose!” he shouted.  “Hei!”

And his shrill yell went down the street and the echoes sent it barking back from wall to wall; Barry stepped back from the head of the black.  But for an instant the horse did not stir.  He was trembling violently, but his blazing eyes were fixed upon the face of his owner.  Barry raised his hand.

And then it happened.  It was like the release of a coiled watch-spring; the black whirled as a top spins and Strann sagged far to the left; before he could recover the stallion was away in a flash, like a racer leaving the barrier and reaching full speed in almost a stride.  Not far—­hardly the breadth of the street—­before he pitched up in a long leap as if to clear a barrier, landed stiff-legged with a sickening jar, whirled again like a spinning top, and darted straight back.  And Jerry Strann pulled leather—­with might and main—­but the short stirrups were against him, and above all the suddenness of the start had taken him off guard for all his readiness.  When the stallion dropped stiff-legged Jerry was thrown forward and an unlucky left foot jarred loose from the stirrup; and when the horse whirled Strann was flung from the saddle.  It was a clean fall.  He twisted over in the air as he fell and landed in deep dust.  The black stallion had reached his master and now he turned, in that same catlike manner, and watched with pricking ears as Strann dragged himself up from the dust.

There was no shout of laughter—­no cheer for that fall, and without a smile they watched Strann returning.  Big O’Brien had seen from his open door and now he laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the men and whispered at his ear:  “There’s going to be trouble; bad trouble, Billy.  Go for Fatty Matthews—­he’s a deputy marshal now—­and get him here as quick as you can.  Run!”

The other spared time for a last glance at Strann and then hurried down the street.

Now, a man who can lose and smile is generally considered the most graceful of failures, but the smile of Jerry Strann as he walked slowly back worried his followers.

“We all hit dust sometime,” he philosophized.  “But one try don’t prove nothin’.  I ain’t near through with that hoss!”

Barry turned to Strann.  If there had been mockery in his eyes or a smile on his lips as he faced Jerry there would have been a gun play on the spot; but, instead, the brown eyes were as dumbly apologetic as ever.

“We didn’t talk about two tries,” he observed.

“We talk about it now,” said Strann.

There was one man in the crowd a little too old to be dangerous and therefore there was one man who was in a position to speak openly to Strann.  It was big O’Brien.

“Jerry, you named your game and made your play and lost.  I guess you ain’t going to turn up a hard loser.  Nobody plays twice for the same pot.”