Venters imagined that the trail went down into the
Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he
must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of
five miles.
Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch
of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a
ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular
convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost
unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, and
the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once
more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make
his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the
trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters
hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But
Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in
the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then,
while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star
leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain;
for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he
caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly
on the other black.
Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and
Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every
yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils,
wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire.
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