So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters
lived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of
wildness to the dregs.
When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in
the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a
downward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw
only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail.
He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouth
still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were
snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race with
death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing,
colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple
breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy,
steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweet
odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.
Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space
separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The
blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card,
admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable
seat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Venters
that Card had changed his position, or the position of the
horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had
been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail.
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