The latter turned in his saddle and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and bury themselves out of sight in the sand.
The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand.

Foam flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides and on the hairy chaps of its rider.

Sweat rolled and streamed from its heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali.
Close to the rider's knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the broncho's ears was torn and limp.

The broncho was doing its best--it could run at that pace until it dropped dead.

Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds.