Vincent Creek; for Barry
quite accurately guessed that there would be a pause in the pursuit after
that hair-breadth escape, and at the creek he stopped to let Satan get his
wind. He would not trust the stallion to drink, but gave him a bare mouthful
from his hat and loosened the cinches for an instant.
Not that this was absolutely necessary, for Satan was neither blown nor
leg-weary. He stood dripping with sweat, indeed, but poised lightly, his
head high, his ears pricked, his nostrils distended to transparency as he
drew in great breaths. Even that interval Barry used, for he set to work
vigorously massaging the muscles of shoulders and hips and whipping off the
sweat from neck and flank. It was several moments, and already Satan's
breath came easily, when Black Bart shot down from his watch-post and
warned them on with a snarl, but still, before he tightened the cinches
again and climbed to the saddle Barry took the fine head of the stallion
between his hands.
"Between you and me, Satan," he murmured, "our day's work is jest
beginnin'. Are you feelin' fit?"
Satan nuzzled the shoulder of the master and snorted his answer; Black Bart
had given the warning, and the stallion was eager to be off.
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