"Take off the blinder," he ordered.
It was Werther who interposed this time with: "Look here, lad, I know
this hoss. The minute the blinder's off he'll up on his hind legs and
bash you into the floor with his forefeet."
"Let him go," growled one of the cowboys. "He's goin' to hell making a
gallery play."
But taking the matter into his own hands Woodbury snatched the coat from
the head of the stallion, which snorted and reared up, mouth agape ears
flattened back. There was a shout from the man, not a cry of dismay, but
a ringing battle yell like some ancient berserker seeing the first flash
of swords in the melee. He leaped forward, jerking down on the bridle
reins with all the force of his weight and his spring. The horse, caught
in mid-air, as it were, came floundering down on all fours again. Before
he could make another move, Woodbury caught the high horn of the saddle
and vaulted up to his seat. It was gallantly done and in response came a
great rustling from the multitude; there was not a spoken word, but
every man was on his feet.
Perhaps what followed took their breaths and kept them speechless.
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