In the instant, while he towered, poised in the air, Mose shook his right foot free of the stirrup and swung to the left and alighted on his feet, while the fallen horse, stunned by his own fall, lay for an instant, groaning and coughing.

Under the sting of the quirt, he scrambled to his feet only to find his inexorable rider again on his back, with merciless spurs set deep in the quick of his quivering sides.

With a despairing squeal he set off in a low, swift, sidewise gallop, and for nearly an hour drummed along the trail, up hill and down, the foam mingling with the yellow dust on his heaving flanks.
When the broncho's hot anger had cooled, Mose gave him his head, and fell to thinking upon the future.

He had been more than eight years in the range and on the trail and all he owned in the world was a saddle, a gun, a rope, and a horse.

The sight of Cora, the caressing of little Pink, and Mary's letter had roused in him a longing for a wife and a shanty of his own.
The grass was getting sere, there was new-fallen snow on Lizard Head, and winter was coming.