Doggedly, bitterly, he struck his spurs into his horse: they cleared the edge of the road at a bound, they were after the steer, up with him, beyond him, turning him: he was loping back to his fellows. Dean’s head felt light and strange; it had ceased to belong to his body. “’Atta _boy_!” sang out Ojeda. Estrada was smiling: Ginger was smiling, too. It was the first time she had smiled at him, in that fashion, all day. He was going to fall off of Snort presently, any moment now, simply because he couldn’t sit him any longer, but, meanwhile, he’d turned the steer. He was making a hand. By some convulsive and involuntary motion of his aching leg muscles he dug the spurs into Snort once more. Instantly the horse, snorting, trumpeting, had bolted with him. He didn’t care, especially; let him take him fast and far, away from the dissembled scorn of Ginger’s world, away from ’Rome Ojeda’s cool appraisal, away from Ginger. He would hold on a little longer; then he would let go. He would hold on; he couldn’t stop Snort--there was nothing left in his arms to stop him with--but he would hold on. Hold on ... hold on.... He thought, presently, that he must be saying it aloud, but it was Ojeda’s voice. “Hold on! Hold on! I’m a-comin’! Hold on!” There was, on the surface, hearty reassurance in it; underneath, he knew, there was sneering scorn. He came up with him, nearer, nearer, exactly like a rescuer in a wild west film, came abreast of him, reached out, caught hold of Snort, pulled him to a standstill, turned back his head so that he could not buck. “He sure was goin’ wicked,” he said, gently. “He sure was goin’ wicked.” If Ginger had seen it, she gave no sign. Estrada came back to ride beside him. “Ur-r-ra!” he said soothingly to the wild young steers. “Ur-rrr-ra! _Ur-rr-ra!_”