It seemed he wished to beat his head against his rider's face and kill him.

He rushed away with a rearing, jerking motion, in a series of jarring bounds, snapping his rider like the lash of a whip, then stopped suddenly, poised on his fore feet, with devilish intent to discharge Mose over his head.

With the spurs set deep into the quivering painted hide of his mount Mose began plying the quirt like a flail.

The boys cheered and yelled with delight.

It was one of their chief recreations, this battle with a pitching broncho.
Suddenly the desperate beast paused and, rearing recklessly high in the air, fell backward hoping to crush his rider under his saddle.