For the rest, it carried its head high,
with pricking ears, the sure sign of a horse running well within his
strength, yet Grey Molly, fresh and keen for racing, could hardly have
kept pace with the black as it slid over the hills. God in heaven, if such
a horse were his a thousand sheriffs on a thousand dusty roans could never
take him; five minutes would sweep him out of sight and reach.
Before the horseman ran a tall dog, wolfish in head and wolfish in the gait
which carried it like a cloud shadow over the ground, but it was over-large
for any wolf Vic had ever seen. It turned its head now, and leaped aside at
sight of the stranger, but the rider veered from his course and swept down
on Vic. He came to a halt close up without either a draw at the reins or a
spoken word, probably controlling his mount with pressure of the knees, and
Gregg found himself facing a delicately handsome fellow. He was neither
cowpuncher nor miner, Vic knew at a glance, for that face had never been
haggard with labor. A tenderfoot, probably, in spite of his dress, and Vic
felt that if his right arm were sound he could take that horse at the point
of his gun and leave the rider thanking God that his life had been spared;
but his left hand was useless on the butt of a revolver, and three minutes
away came the posse, racing.
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