He must be cool--cool and steady and sure--and he must act now--NOW! Helen saw the racing horse make a desperate leap as the spurs tore his heaving sides; she saw that swiftly whirling loop leave the rider's hand, as the man leaned forward in his saddle.

Curiously she watched the loop open with beautiful precision, as the coils were loosed and the long, thin line lengthened through the air.

It seemed to move so slowly--those wickedly lowered horns were so near! Then she saw the rider's right hand move with flashlike quickness to the saddle horn, as he threw his weight back, and the horse, with legs braced and hoofs plowing the ground, stopped in half his own length, and set his weight against the weight of the steer.

The flexible riata straightened as a rod of iron, the steer's head jerked sideways; his horns buried themselves in the ground; he fell, almost at her feet.

And then, as the cowboy leaped from his horse, Helen felt herself sinking into a soft, thick darkness that, try as she might, she could not escape.
Still master of himself, but with a kind of fierce coolness, Patches ran to the fallen steer and securely tied the animal down.