If the
stallion were tired, he gave no sign of it. The sweep of his stride brushed
him past rocks and shrubs, and he literally flowed uphill and down, far
different from the horses which scampered in his rear, for they pounded the
earth with their efforts, grunting under the weight of fifty pound saddles
and heavy riders. Another handicap checked them, for while Satan ran on
alone, freely, the bunched pursuers kept a continual friction back and
forth. The leaders reined in to keep back with the mass of the posse, and
those in the rear by dint of hard spurring would rush up to the front in
turn until some spirited nag challenged for the lead, so that there was a
steady interplay among the fifteen. Their gait at the best could not be
more than the pace, of their slowest member, but even that pace was
diminished by the difficulties of group riding. Yet Mark Retherton refused
to allow his men to scatter and stretch out. He kept them in hand steadily,
a bunched unit ready to strike together, for he had seen the dead body of
Pete Glass and he kept in mind a picture of what might happen if this
fellow should whirl and pick off the posse man by man.
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