They crossed the creek at a place where the stones came almost to the
surface, since nothing is more detrimental to the speed of a horse than a
plunge in cold water, and with the hoofbeats of the posse growing up behind
they cantered off again a little cast of north, straight for Caswell City.
There was little work for Black Bart in such country as this, for there was
rarely a rise of ground over which a man on horseback could not look, and
the surface was race-track fast. Once Satan knew the direction there was
nothing for it but to sit the saddle and let him work, and he fell into his
long-distance gait. It was a smart pace for any ordinary animal to follow
through half a day's journey, and Barry knew with perfect certainty that
there was not the slightest chance of even the fresh horses behind him
wearing down Satan before night; but to his astonishment the trailers rode
as if they had limitless horseflesh at their command. Perhaps they were
unaware of the running that was still in Satan, so Barry sent the stallion
on at a free gallop that shunted the sagebrush past him in a dizzy whirl.
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