Then, at the sharp crack of the rifles, leaden messengers whizzed high in
the air over horse and riders, and skipped along the red shale in front
of the running dog.
"Oh--Silvermane!" cried Hare. It was just a call, as if the horse were
human, and knew what that pace meant to his master. The stern business
of the race had ceased to rest on Hare. Silvermane was out to the front!
He was like a level-rushing thunderbolt. Hare felt the instantaneous
pause between his long low leaps, the gather of mighty muscles, the
strain, the tension, then the quivering expulsion of force. It was a
perilous ride down that red slope, not so much from the hissing bullets
as from the washes and gullies which Silvermane sailed over in
magnificent leaps. Hare thrilled with savage delight in the wonderful
prowess of his desert king, in the primal instinct of joy at escaping
with the woman he loved.
"Outrun!" he cried, with blazing eyes. Mescal's white face was pressed
close to his shoulder. "Silver has beaten them. They'll hang on till we
reach the sand-strip, hoping the slow-down will let them come up in time.
But they'll be far too late.
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