In the distance Roy caught a glimpse of a riderless pony, tail straight out in the wind.
“Here we go, Star!” Roy shouted. “Take him down! Atta baby!”
Star, quick to sense what was wanted of him, swung toward the runaway. He seemed to feel something of his rider’s anxiety, and his breath came more swiftly as he settled down to the task.
Now the other pony saw them, and hesitated, head held high, forefeet straight as poles. Then he bobbed toward the ground as though he were making a bow and was off like a shot.
It never entered Roy’s head to think what had become of Teddy. He was too intent on one thing—catching Nell’s pony and bringing it to her.
“All right, Star,” Roy muttered. “A little of the old fight now.”
He sat in the saddle as though he were part of the horse, a centaur come to life on the plains of the West. As his steed’s feet tapped the ground, to draw apart and then tap again, the boy’s body moved back and forth with a rhythm that was beautiful. Not once was the motion interrupted.
“There he goes—straight for the river!”
It was impossible to tell at that distance whether or not Roy was gaining on the runaway. At times he seemed closer, then a clump of trees would block the boy’s view, and when he again caught sight of the horse it would appear as though he had lost ground.
“Somethin’s got to happen pretty quick,” the boy said aloud. “He can’t go far to the left when he reaches the river on account of the rocks. He’ll have to take the right trail. That means a good long chase unless he gets winded soon—and I don’t think he will. Star, old boy, we’ve got to work!”