Finally the horse stood still, and Steve thought him surely beaten now. What more was left for him to do? His body could take no more, his spirit had to be broken after all this. But again he was mistaken. For suddenly the horse went down and rolled quickly over on his back. But Tom had moved still faster. As the horse’s legs buckled, he slipped off, avoiding the body that had tried to pin him to the ground. And now he stood at the horse’s head as the animal lay on the ground. If the horse had wanted to stay there he couldn’t have, for Tom whipped him to his feet; then he sprang upon his back again, cutting the bleeding flesh with the hard, blunt end of the whip.

In spite of the beating he was taking, the horse kept throwing his large head back, attempting to knock Tom off. Again Tom signaled to the men sitting on the corral fence, and one of them moved across the ring carrying a bottle.

With a sudden movement Pitch turned on the ignition and started the car’s motor. “I’ve seen this once before,” he said quickly, “and you’ll be better off if you don’t.”

But Pitch was too late. As Tom held the bottle in his hand, Steve saw the horse throw his head back again. Tom raised the bottle, then brought it down heavily upon the horse’s head. The bottle broke, the contents streaming down over the head and face of the horse. He stood there, dazed, his body trembling, swaying.

As Pitch put the car into gear, Steve saw the broken horse walking slowly about the corral under Tom’s guidance. Steve closed his eyes and felt sick to his stomach.

That evening at dinner Steve spoke little, and most of the time his eyes were upon Tom, sitting at the head of the table. There were moments when Steve thought he had a good idea of how the horse must have felt that afternoon.

At last, conscious of having been staring, Steve shifted his gaze to the chair in which Tom sat. It was a large mahogany chair, heavier and stronger than Steve’s or Pitch’s. It had to be. Tom’s giant frame was slumped in it like a bulging sack of grain. Now he was leaning heavily over the table as he talked, his giant hands dwarfing the plate of food set before him. His long fingers, blunt and square at the tips, curled even now although he held nothing in them. No knife or fork, no bull whip or bottle.