Yet
if they kept to the trail--and the last thing such men would do
would be to leave it--they were both doomed.
This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he
even shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then,
all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the
saddle, began to fling his right arm up and down. That flinging
Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry also became
active. And the three racers lengthened out into a run.
"Now, Wrangle!" cried Venters. "Run, you big devil! Run!"
Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loop
over the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth
trail. He was surer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait,
and his running gave the impression of something devilish. He
might now have been actuated by Venters's spirit; undoubtedly his
savage running fitted the mood of his rider. Venters bent forward
swinging with the horse, and gripped his rifle. His eye measured
the distance between him and Jerry Card.
In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the
blacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated
that the rustler would soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not
improbably he reasoned that the powerful sorrel could more easily
overtake Bells in the heavier going outside of the trail. Soon
only a few hundred yards lay between Bells and Wrangle.
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