Even then he
barely escaped. Diablo had launched himself in pursuit, and his teeth
snapped a fraction of an inch from the shoulder of the fugitive as the
rope came taut and jerked him aside, and the full weight of Dunbar was
thrown back on the reins.
That mighty wrench of back and shoulder and arm would have broken the
jaw of an ordinary horse; it hardly disturbed Diablo. His head was
first tucked back until his chin was against his breast, but a moment
later he was head down, bucking as never horse bucked before. One
second earlier Hal Dunbar had seemed almost as powerful as the animal
he rode; now he suddenly became small.
For one thing Diablo wasted no time running against the rope. He
followed the line of least resistance and bolted around the wide
circle with tremendous leaps, gathering impetus as he ran--then
stopping in mid-career by the terrific process of hurling himself in
the air and coming down on four stiff legs and with his back humped so
that the rider sat at the uneasy apex of a pyramid.
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