And all the time the man pivoted with him, bull whip raised and ready.

Would Tom never stop? Steve asked himself. How long did this go on? The horse was beaten now! What more did Tom expect? What satisfaction was he getting out of this driving, driving, driving?

And still the beat of hoofs went on, echoing more often now to the sharp, staccato cracks of the bull whip.

Steve felt he could take no more of it. He turned and found Pitch watching him. Pitch nodded and his hand went to the key in the car’s ignition switch. But before he had reached it there came a sudden end to the sound of hoofs and whip. Deadening silence settled about the corral. Together, Steve and Pitch looked back at the scene they had just turned away from.

Tom was approaching the horse, the lead rope sliding through his fingers. The horse stood there trembling, his eyes alive with hate. Tom grabbed the bridle, then signaled to one of the men sitting on the fence. The man jumped down and, picking up a blanket, walked over and put it upon the back of the horse. Then Tom and the horse were alone in the corral again.

Steve saw Tom move to one side of the horse, carrying the reins. The horse sidestepped uneasily, his eyes following the bull whip Tom held coiled in his hand. Then, faster than Steve thought it possible for a man of Tom’s weight to move, he was on the horse’s back. Steve believed the horse was too tired to put up a fight, but he’d never seen a wild horse broken before.

The horse bucked, coming down with rigid forelegs. Up and down, twisting and turning, he flung himself about the corral. And Tom, his long legs wrapped securely about the horse’s girth, stayed with him, flaying the heavy handle of the bull whip hard against the heaving body.

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.