Manuel, he decided, was right; the riata was perfect.
Diego, trailing two horsehair ropes and carrying a stout, smooth stick of oak that had evidently been used before for the work, came running after Jack as if he were going to put out a fire.

Behind him trotted a big, muscular peon who saw not half the reason for haste that blazoned itself across the soul of Diego.
Thus the three reached the orchard, where Jack selected two pear trees that happened to stand a few feet more than the riata length apart; and Diego, slipping a hair rope through the hondo of the riata, made fast the rope to a pear tree.

The other end he tied to the second hair rope, drew the riata taut and tied the rope securely to the second tree.

He picked up the oaken stick, examined it critically for the last time, although he knew well that it was polished smooth as glass from its work on other riatas, twisted the riata once around it and signed to the other peon.
Each grasping an end of the stick and throwing all their weight against it, they pushed it before them along the stretched riata.

As they strained toward the distant pear tree the rawhide smoked with the friction of the stick in the twist.