Bells ran a few hundred
yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.
Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine
of his rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not
drop a single cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment
of a marksman he once more measured the distance between him and
Jerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing him into rifle range.
Venters was hard put to it now not to shoot, but thought it
better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of a
running fusillade, had huddled himself into a little twisted ball
on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would make
sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat
in the saddle.
In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment
was the beginning of the real race.
Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then
backward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair
trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity.
But Wrangle's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute
thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he had
never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possible
for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a
passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be
astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his
magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to
ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.
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