It was killing work, that first trip from tree to tree, but Diego joyed in thus serving his blue-eyed god.
As for the other, Roberto, he strained stolidly along the line, using the strength that belonged to his master the patron just as matter-of-factly as he had used it since he was old enough to be called a man.
Jack, leaning against a convenient tree in the next row, smoked a cigarette and watched their slow, toilsome progress.

Killing work it was, but the next trip would be easier after that rendering of the stiff tissue.

When the stick touched the hondo, the two stopped and panted for a minute; then Diego grasped his end of the stick and signaled the return trip.

Again it took practically every ounce of strength they had in their muscular bodies, but they could move steadily now, instead of in straining, spasmodic jerks.

The rawhide sizzled where it curled around the stick.