He Failed, But
Dashed On, For Another Horse And Rider Were At His Heels, And Another And
Another; The String Seemed Endless.
Now and again one would touch the bird,
or would actually catch the head, but the body was too securely buried to
be pulled out easily.
Cheers would ascend as the riders showed approximate
success. Sometimes a horse would shy, and the white visitor looked for
nothing less than a broken neck for his rider. But, laughing and shouting,
the athletic and careless Indian would swing himself into the saddle, and
in a few rough jerks teach the unruly animal to recognize a master. Of
course, long before this, the rooster was dead, for at the first strong
clutch his neck was broken, so that there was no unnecessary torture. The
stream of riders flowed on, and at last one lucky fellow gave the right
kind of a pull, and out came the rooster, to be swung around his head with
a fierce yell of triumph.
Pursuit of the Victor. Now the real sport begins. With a shout that only
Indian lungs can produce, every rider darts after the possessor of the
rooster, and for an hour, more or less, it is a question of hard riding,
dodging, evading, whirling to and fro. Over the sand-hills they go, pursued
and pursuers, yelling and shouting like demons. The victor's horse seems to
know all about the sport. He watches and dodges and doubles, like a hunted
hare. Now a stalwart ruffian has caught the rooster carrier, and hangs on
like grim death, while he is beaten over head and breast and shoulders with
the rooster as a weapon.
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