It did end, however, rather unexpectedly—­that particular phase of the conflict.  The horse grew weary of the effort, made in vain, to dislodge the stubborn torment on his back.  He changed the program with the deadliest of all a broncho’s tricks.

Pausing for the briefest part of a second, while Van must certainly have been reeling with hideous motion and jolt, the chestnut quickly reared on high, to drop himself clean over backwards.  It was thus that once he had crushed the life from a rider.

“Oh!” screamed Both, and she sank beside the tree.

The men all yelled.  They were furious and afraid.

With hoofs wildly flaying the air, while he loomed tall and unreal in such an attitude, the broncho hung for a moment in mid-poise, then dropped over sheer—­as if to be shattered into fragments.

But a mass of the bronze-like group was detached, and fell to one side, on its thigh.  It was Van.  He had seen what was coming in time.

Instantly up, as the brute rolled quickly to arise, he leaped in the saddle, the horn of which had snapped, and he and the chestnut came erect together, as if miraculously the equestrian group had been restored.

“Yi!  Yi!” he yelled, like the madman he was—­mad with the heat of the fight—­and he dug in his spurs with vicious might.

Back to it wildly, with fury increased, the broncho leaped responsively.

Here, there, all the field over, the demon thrashed, catapulting incredibly.  He tried new tricks, invented new volcanics of motion, developed new whirlwinds of violence.

Once more, then, as he had on the first occasion, the beast reared up and fell backward to the earth.  Once more Van dropped away from his bulk and caught him before he could rise.  This time, however, he did not immediately mount—­and the men went running to his side.

“Fer God’s sake, boy, let me kill the brute!” cried Gettysburg taking up a club.

“I’ll shoot him!  I’ll shoot him!  I’ll shoot him!” said Napoleon wildly, but without any weapon in his hands.

Beth beheld and heard it all.  She was once more standing rigidly by her tree, unable to move or speak.  She wished to run to Van as the men had run, but not to slay the broncho—­only to beg the horseman not to mount again.

She saw him push the men away and stand like the broncho’s guard.  His face was streaked with blood—­his blood—­jolted alike from his mouth and nose by the shocks to which he had been subjected.

“Let the horse alone!” he commanded roughly.  “Good stuff in this broncho—­somewhere.  Get me a bottle of water, right away—­a big one—­get it full.”

His partners started at once to raise objections.  The Indian stood by stolidly looking on.

“You can’t go no further.  Van, you can’t——­” started Gettysburg.

“Sominagot!  Una ma, hong oy!  Una ca see fut!” said the Chinese-cook, swearing vehemently in the language likeliest to count, and he ran at once towards the kitchen.