t that morning, and there was only
enough sweat to make his slender neck and greyhound flanks flash in the
sun. Back he winged toward Rickett, running as freely as the wild leader
of a herd, sometimes turning his fine head to one side to look back at
the master or gaze over the hills, sometimes slackening to a trot up
a sharper ascent or lengthening into a fuller gallop on an easy
down-slope. There seemed no purpose in the reins which were kept just
taut enough to give the rider the feel of his mount, and the left hand
which held them was never still for a moment, but played back and forth
slightly with the motion of the head. Except in times of crisis those
reins were not for the transmission of orders, it seemed, but they
served as the wires through which the mind of the man and the mind of
the horse kept in telegraphic touch.

In the meantime Black Bart loafed behind, lingering on the crest of
each rise to look back, and then racing to catch up, but halfway back
to Rickett he came up beside the master, whining, and leaping as high as
Barry's knee.

"You seen something?" queried Barry. "Are they comin' on the trail
again?"

He swayed a bit to one side and diverted Satan out of his course so as
to climb one of the more commanding swells. From this point he glanced
back and saw a dust cloud, much like that which a small whirlwind picks
up, rolling down the nearest slope of the Morgan Hills. At that distance
the posse looked hardly larger than one unit, and certainly they could
not see the single horseman they followed; however, they could follow
the trail easily across this ground. Satan had turned to look back.

"Shall we go back and play around 'em, boy?" asked Barry.

Black Bart had run on ahead, and now he turned with a short howl.

"The partner says 'no,'" continued the master. "Of all the dogs I
ever see, Bart plays the most careful game, but out on the trail,
Satan"--here he sent the stallion into the sweeping lope--"Bart knows
more'n you an' me put together, so we'll do what he says."

For answer, Satan lengthened a little into his stride. As for the
wolf-dog, he went off like a black bolt into the eye of the wind,
streaking it west to hunt out the easiest course. A wolf--and surely
there was more of wolf than of dog in Black Bart--has a finer sense for
the lay of ground than anything on four feet. He knows how to come down
the wind on his quarry keeping to the depressions and ravines so that
not a taint