A
feather bloom on a steady wind, such was the gait of Satan.
Down the hollow the posse thundered, and up the farther slope, and still
the black slipped away from them until Mark Retherton cursed deeply to
himself.
"Don't race your hosses, boys," he shouted. "Keep 'em in hand. That devil
is playing with us."
As a result, they checked their mounts to merely a fast gallup, and Barry,
looking back, laughed softly with understanding. Far different the
laborious pounding of the posse and the light stretch of Satan beneath him.
He leaned a little until he could catch the sound of the breathing, big,
steady draughts with comfortable intervals between. He could run like that
all day, it seemed, and Whistling Dan ran his fingers luxuriously down the
shining neck. Instantly the head tossed up, and a short whinney whipped
back to him like a question. Just before them the Morgan Hills jutted up,
like stiff mud chopped by the tread of giants. "Now, partner," murmured
Barry, "show 'em what you can do! Jest lengthen out a bit."
The steady breeze from the running sharpened into a gale, whisking about
his face; there was no longer the wave-like rock of that swinging gallup
but a smooth, swift succession of impulses.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290