That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his
horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of
years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and
wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in
quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun
flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and
closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.
Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the
stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star.
He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was
there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right
foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to
catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that
rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters.
For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed
back to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the
blacks could avail little more against the sorrel.
Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land.
Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then it
disappeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods,
Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of
Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the
opposite wall.
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