“Stiff going?” said Longacre, watching the black mare drawing up on the M. F. H.
“Ground gets better; fences, ditches, worse; the neck-breaking course of the country.” Thair, craning forward, laughed at Julia. “The filly’s got the bit in her teeth. Cruel going—got to see it through somehow!”
He took the other side of a mire and edged away to the left, seeking the narrowest place in the nearing ditch. It looked easy, a tiny gully swollen full by the rains. But Longacre knew how the banks, under-eaten by water, would not give firm footing to a dog. Julia rode at it as if it were a crack in a rock. Holden, who was having his first experience cross-country, slacked a little; but Longacre crowded forward, reckless of the boggy ground.
“Take it long—long!” he entreated. Her eyes flashed at him.
“Are you afraid?” she cried.
The horses rose together. His went over like a swallow. The black mare jumped short. One hind foot went down, but hands and voice and Kentucky blood lifted her out with hardly a struggle.
Holden’s bay had refused the leap. Another had floundered badly. Thair’s pink coat was sailing along the lower field toward a break in the brush fence.
“Shall we lead him?” said Julia, pointing on with her whip.
“For God’s sake, go carefully!” he entreated.
It seemed to delight her to torment him. She pressed forward, looking back with a challenge. Her lips, parted in the ardor of excitement, showed a cruel white of teeth. The ground was precarious, but she rode headlong. It was courting destruction.