etic mount. A dainty woman loves a neat-stepping saddle-horse;
a philosopher likes a nodding, stumble-footed nag which will jog all
day long and care not a whit whether it goes up dale or down.

To know the six wild riders who galloped over the white reaches of the
mountain-desert this night, certainly their horses should be studied
first and the men secondly, for the one explained the other.

They came in a racing triangle. Even the storm at its height could not
daunt such furious riders. At the point of the triangle thundered a
mighty black stallion, his muzzle and his broad chest flecked with
white foam, for he stretched his head out and champed at the bit with
ears laid flat back, as though even that furious pace gave him no
opportunity to use fully his strength.

He was no cleanly cut beauty, but an ugly headed monster with a
savagely hooked Roman nose and small, keen eyes, always red at the
corners. A medieval baron in full panoply of plate armor would have
chosen such a charger among ten thousand steeds, yet the black stallion
needed all his strength to uphold the unarmored giant who bestrode him,
a savage figure.

When the broad brim of his hat flapped up against the wind the
moonshine caught at shaggy brows, a cruelly arched nose, thin, straight
lips, and a forward-thrusting jaw. It seemed as if nature had hewn him
roughly and designed him for a primitive age where he could fight his
way with hands and teeth.

This was Jim Boone. To his right and a little behind him galloped a
riderless horse, a beautiful young animal continually tossing its head
and looking as if for guidance at the big stallion.

To the left strode a handsome bay with pricking ears. A mound
interfered with his course, and he cleared it in magnificent style that
would have brought a cheer from the lips of any English lover of the
chase.

Straight in the saddle sat Dick Wilbur, and he raised his face a little
to the wind, smiling faintly as if he rejoiced in its fine strength, as
handsome as the horse he rode, as cleanly cut, as finely bred. The
moon shone a little brighter on him than on any others of the six stark
riders.

Bud Mansie behind, for instance, kept his head slightly to one side and
cursed beneath his breath at the storm and set his teeth at the wind.
His horse, delicately formed, with long, slender legs, could not have
endured that charge against the storm save that it constantly edged
behind the leaders and let