Then overpowering and unreasoning anger, the wrath of a frenzied lion in a cage, of a baited bull in a ring, took possession of the buckskin.  He went through his tricks anew, not methodically as before, but furiously, desperately.  The sweat churned into foam beneath the saddle and between his legs.  He screamed like a demon, until the other broncos retreated in terror, and Scotty’s hair fairly lifted on his head.  But one idea possessed him—­to kill this being on his back, this hated thing he could not move or dislodge.  A suggestion of means came to him, and straight as a line he made for the high board fence.  There was no misunderstanding his purpose.

Then for the first time Ben Blair roused himself.  The hand on the rein tightened, as the lariat had tightened, until the small head with the dainty ears curled back in a half-circle.  Simultaneously the long rowels of a spur bit deep into the foaming flank, the swish of a quirt sounded keenly, a voice broke out in one word of command, “Whoa!” and repeated, “Whoa!”

It was like thunder out of a clear sky, like an unseen blow in the dark.  Within three feet of the fence the bronco stopped and stood trembling in every muscle, expecting he knew not what.

It was the man’s time now—­the beginning of the end.

“Get up!” repeated the same authoritative voice, and the hand on the bit loosened.  “Get up!” and rowel and quirt again did their work.

In terror this time the bronco plunged ahead, felt the guiding rein, and started afresh around the circle of the corral fence.  “Get up!” repeated Ben, and like a streak of yellowish light they spun about the trail.  Round and round they went, the body of the man and horse alike tilted in at an angle, the other ponies plunging to clear the way.  Scotty counted ten revolutions; then he awaited the end.  It was not long in coming.  Of a sudden, as before, directly in front of where he sat, the bridle-reins tightened, and he heard the one word, “Whoa!” and pony and rider stopped like figures in clay.  For a moment they stood motionless, save for their labored breathing; then very deliberately Ben Blair dismounted.  Not a movement did the buckskin make, either of offence or to escape; he merely waited.  Still deliberately, the man removed the saddle and bridle, while not a muscle of the bronco’s body stirred.  Scotty watched the scene in fascination.  Every trace of anger was out of the pony’s gray-green eyes now, every indication of terror as well.  Dozens of horses the Englishman had seen broken; but one like this—­never before.  It was as though in the last few minutes an understanding had come about between this fierce wild thing and its conqueror; as though, like every human being with whom he came in contact, the latter had dominated by the sheer strength of his will.  It was all but uncanny.

Slowly Blair laid the bridle beside the saddle, and stepping over to his late mount he patted the damp neck and gently stroked the silken muzzle.