Betty's scream was sharp and shrill. But no one heard it--at least
Kelton seemed not to hear, for he was watching Calumet, his eyes wide,
his face white; nor did Calumet seem to hear, for he was sitting on the
ground, trying to work his foot out of the stirrup. Twice, as he
worked with the foot, Betty saw the black strike at him with its hoofs,
and once a hoof missed his head by the narrowest of margins.
But the foot was free at last, and Calumet rose. He still held the
reins in his hands, and now, as he got to his feet, he jerked out the
quirt that he wore at his waist and lashed the black, vigorously,
savagely.
The beast rose, snorting with rage and pain, still unsubdued. His hind
legs had not yet straightened when Calumet was again in the saddle.
The black screamed, with a voice almost human in its shrillness, and
leaped despairingly forward, shaking its head from side to side as
Calumet drove the spurs deep into its sides. It ran another hundred
yards, half-heartedly, the spring gone out of its stride; then wheeled
and came back, bucking doggedly, clumsily, to a point within fifty feet
of where Betty sat on Blackleg. Then, as it bucked again, it came down
with its forelegs unjointed, and rolled over on its side, with
Calumet's right leg beneath it.
The black was tired and lay with its neck outstretched on the ground,
breathing heavily, its sides heaving.
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