"
"What could I do? He had told the people he would ride it, and that
settled it with him."
Lucifer was exercising all the tricks known to wild and terrified
bronchos when they first feel saddle and bridle, and which seem to be
inbred in them. He bucked, but there was never a horse that could buck
Ted off. He reared, he kicked, rolled, and fell backward. But every time
he stopped for a moment to note the result, there the unshakable enemy
was on his back again. Clearly he was puzzled.
Then a new paroxysm of rage would shake him, and he would go through the
same performances again, but with no better success.
Suddenly Ted brought his quirt down on the brute's flanks, and it leaped
high into the air in an agony of fear and pain. It had felt that
stinging thing before, and hated it.
Then it started to run away from this terrible thing that bestrode its
back.
"By Heaven! it's running away," muttered Bud. "It'll be an act o'
Providence if Ted isn't killed."
Down the arena they dashed, Ted sitting in the saddle as if he and it
and the stallion were all of a piece.
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