“Pedro’s done for,” cried one.

And so he would have been but for the watchfulness and alertness of one man.

Dick had been ready the instant the outlaw had flung against the fence.  He had been prepared to see the boy weaken, and had anticipated it in his forward leap.  The furious animal had risen to drive home his hoofs, when an arm shot out, caught the bridle, and dragged him sideways.  This unexpected intervention dazed the animal; and while he still stood uncertain, Gordon swung to the saddle and dug his heels into the bleeding sides.

As to a signal the bronco rose, and the battle was on again.

But this time the victory was not in doubt to the onlookers after the first half-dozen jumps.  For this man rode like a master.  He held a close but easy seat, and a firm rein, along which ran the message of an iron will to the sensitive foaming mouth which held the bit tight-clamped.

This brown, lithe man was all bone and sinew and muscle.  He rode like a Centaur, as if he were a part of the horse, as easily and gracefully as a chip does the waves.  The outlaw was furious with hate, blind with a madness that surged through it; but all its weaving and fence-rowing could not shake the perfect poise of the rider, nor tinge with fear the glad fighting edge that throbbed like a trumpet-call in the blood.

Slowly the certainty of this sifted to the animal.  The pitches grew less volcanic, died presently into fitful mechanical rises and falls that foretold the finish.  Its spirit broken, with that terrible incubus of a human clothes-pin still clamped to the saddle, Teddy gave up, and for the first time hung his head in token of defeat.

Dick tossed the bridle to Yeager and swung off.

“There aren’t any of them so bad, if a fellow will stay with them,” he said.

“Where did you learn your riding, partner?” asked the puncher with the scarlet kerchief knotted around his neck.

“I used to ride for an outfit up in Wyoming,” returned Dick.

“Well, I’d like to ride for that outfit, if all the boys stick to the saddle like you,” returned the kerchiefed one.

Gordon did not explain that he had been returned winner in more than one bucking-bronco contest in the days when he rode the range.

He was already sauntering toward the house.

From a side porch Pedro, awaiting the arrival of a rig to take him back to the ranch, sat with his bruised leg on a chair and watched the approach of the stalwart figure that came as lightly as though it trod on eggs.  He had hobbled here and watched the other do easily what had been beyond him.

His heart was bitter with the sense of defeat, none the less because this man whom he had lately tried to kill had just saved his life.

“Como?” asked Dick, stopping in front of him to brush dust from his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief.

Pedro mumbled something.  Under his olive skin the color burned.  Tears of mortification were in his eyes.