"Jerry Card!" cried Venters.
It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white hot wrath
inflamed Venters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze.
"It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's riding
Black Star and leading Night!"
The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst into
flame. He spurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride
Venters slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it
was once again full. Card and his companion were now half a mile
or more in advance, riding easily down the slope. Venters marked
the smooth gait, and understood it when Wrangle galloped out of
the sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had once
tracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. This hard-packed trail, from
years of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters saw
Jerry Card look back over his shoulder, the other rider did
likewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the
point where the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop.
"Wrangle, the race's on," said Venters, grimly. "We'll canter
with them and gallop with them and run with them. We'll let them
set the pace."
Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless
horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling
Jane Withersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neck
and neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to
him, Venters wished that Jane were there to see the race to
recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the
giant sorrel.
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