Two men ran
forward and seized the rope which their comrade had thrown so skillfully.
Then the three pulled hard.
But the quarry was too magnificent. They had miscalculated the white
stallion's strength. Caught by the neck, he dragged, nevertheless, all
three over the prairie, and then, suddenly making a mighty lunge, tore the
rope from their grasp, leaving them thrown headlong to the earth. Away he
went, the long rope flying out behind him like a streamer.
Doubtless some failure of the noose to draw tightly around his neck had
saved the horse, and this was proved when the rope catching in a bush
slipped off over his head as he struggled again. Then the stallion, by
chance, or because his horse's mind inclined him to it, uttered a long,
shrill neigh of triumph, kicked his heels high in the air, and galloped
away, his flowing tail streaming out behind him, a banner of triumph.
"He's won again," said Henry in a tone of gladness. "I told you that horse
wasn't made ever to be ridden."
"But he has to struggle continually for life and freedom," said Paul.
"Just the same as we do," rejoined Henry. "See those fellows are picking
themselves up; but they've been slow about it."
"I don't blame them. I fancy they suffered some pretty severe bruises when
the horse jerked them down.
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