h shot the
rustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off his horse. He
rolled over and over, hunched himself to a half-erect position, fell,
and then dragged himself into the sage. As Venters went thundering by he
peered keenly into the sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran a
few hundred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.

Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine of his
rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not drop a single
cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment of a marksman he
once more measured the distance between him and Jerry Card. Wrangle had
gained, bringing him into rifle range. Venters was hard put to it now
not to shoot, but thought it better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in
anticipation of a running fusillade, had huddled himself into a little
twisted ball on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would
make sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat in
the saddle.

In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment was the
beginning of the real race.

Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then backward
to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled and
vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity. But Wrangle's flesh
was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt in
him a love for the horse he had never given to any other. It would not
have been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hate
or revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to
be astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his magnificent
stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride him in that race
and not glory in the ride.

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