He missed his aim, but the
horse, with his nose still throbbing from the blow from the steel,
swerved widely, and Roger's quick eyes saw that which gave him hope.
"Come on, you cur!" he shouted. "Try it again."
A volley of sneers, defiance, threats, rolled from his lips as he
backed slowly over to where he had been at work. All the facility of
his invention and all his vocabulary were called upon to drive the
rider frantic with rage and to forbid his powers of observation the
opportunity to function. The rider saw no danger, failed to notice the
little mound of dirt near which Roger was standing, considered nothing
but the act of driving full speed at the man who taunted him. Twice he
rode at his agile enemy, twice Roger struck at the horse to make him
swerve; and at the third charge the animal's foreleg went into the
posthole round which Roger had maneuvered, and the rider shot like a
sprawling puppet from the saddle onto the ground. He was up in an
instant, bewildered but unharmed, and as his eyes ranged from the
struggling horse to Roger, the latter said grimly: "Now we'll talk
business."
A curse hissed from the other's stiff, open lips, and insane with rage,
head down, he threw himself forward. Roger met the rush with a
straight left, which cut through an eyebrow like a knife, and went home
with a crack on a high cheek bone; but no blow could stop the rush of
rage and in another moment the man was on him, grappling for a hold.
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