Bayard cried aloud, the sorrel swung unbidden on the trail of the runaway and twenty yards behind stuck his fore feet stiffly out for the first leap down the rock-littered point. Unspeakable footing, that. Malpais lumps, ranging from the size of an egg to some that weighed tons, were everywhere. Between them sparse grass grew, but in no place was there bare ground the size of a horse's hoof, and for every four lengths they traveled forward, they dropped toward the valley by one!
Ears up now, the sorrel watched his footing anxiously, but the black pony, eyes rolling, put his whole vigor into the running, urged on to even greater efforts by the nearness of the pursuing animal. The fortune that goes with flying bronchos alone kept his feet beneath his body.
Bayard's mouth was open and each time the shock of being thrown forward and down racked his body, the breath was beaten from him. He looked ahead, watching the footing at the bottom, leaving that over which they then passed to his horse, for the most critical moment in a run such as they took is when the horses strike level ground. Then they are apt to go end over end, tripped by the impetus that their rush downhill gives them. He knew that he could not overtake and turn Ann's pony with safety before they reached the bottom. He feared that to come abreast of him might drive the frantic beast to that last effort which would result in an immediate fall. Every instant was precious; every leap filled with potential disaster.
The stallion left off pretense at clean running. He slipped and floundered and scrambled down the point; at times almost sitting on his haunches to keep the rush of his descent within safety and retain control of his balance. Slowly he drew closer to the other animal, crowding a bit to the left to be nearer, grunting with his straining, dividing his attention between preserving caution and making progress.
Ann's hair came down, tumbling about her shoulders, then down her back, and finally brushed the sweated coat of her runaway with its ends. The horrible sensation of falling, of pitching forward helplessly, swept through her vitals each time the animal under her leaped outward and down. It grew to an acute physical pain by its constant repetition. Her face was very white, but almost expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed the fear in her by their darkness, by their strained lids. Her mouth was fixed in determination to play the game to its end. She heard the other horse coming; Bayard's voice had called out to her. That was all she knew. This flight was horrible, tragic; with each move of her horse she feared that it must be the last, that she would be flung into those rocks, yet, somehow, she felt that it would end well. For Bayard was near her.
Not so with the man. As they slid down halfway to the valley, he cried aloud to his horse again, for he saw that along the base of the drop, right at the place toward which they were floundering, a recent storm had gouged a fresh wash. Deep and narrow and rock filled, and, if her horse, unable to stop, unable to turn with any degree of safety whatever went into that ...
Behind them, loosened rocks clattered along, the dust rose, their trail was marked by black blotches where the scant red soil had been turned up. The sorrel's nose reached the black's reeling rump; it stretched to his flank, to the saddle, to his shoulder.... And Ann turned her head quickly, appealingly.
"Careful ... Abe! Once more ... easy ..."
Bayard dropped his reins; he leaned to the left. He scratched with his spurs. His horse leaped powerfully twice, thrice, caution abandoned, risking everything now. The man swung down, his arm encircled Ann's waist, he brought the pressure of his right knee to bear against the saddle, and lifted her clear, a warm, limp weight against his body.
Staggering under the added burden, the stallion gathered himself for a try at the wash which he must either clear or in which he and those he carried were to fall in a tangle. Bayard, lifting the woman high, balanced in his saddle and gathered her closer.