Otherwise, nothing human could have retained a seat in the saddle for
an instant. Diablo, squealing, snorting, and grunting with effort, was
dashing back and forth, flinging himself aloft, coming down on one
stiff leg, doubling back with jackrabbit agility.
There was no longer applause from the onlookers. Old Bridewell himself
in all of his years had never seen riding such as this, and it seemed
that Diablo at last had met his master. Never had he fought as he
fought now; never had he been stayed with as he was now. With foam and
sweat the great black was reeking, but never once were the efforts
relaxed. It was too terrible a sight to be applauded.
Then, at the end of a run, instead of hurling himself into the air as
he had usually done before, Diablo flung himself down and rolled. It
caught Dunbar by surprise, but the yell of horror from the bystanders
stimulated him to sharp action, and he was out of the saddle in the
last hair's breadth of time.
Diablo had been carried on over to his feet by the impetus of the
fall, and he was already rising when Dunbar leaped for the saddle.
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