The racer
was now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But,
Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star.
Another clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was
really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.
"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters,
realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed
at full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm
drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before
I believe it."
Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the
little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the
daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to
bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had
them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing
pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise general in
retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of
pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt,
Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more
wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and the
saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the
last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of
self-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve
and the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316