Like a swallow for swiftness and for grace, the black stallion sped away, flattening his body to the trail as he gathered speed. The bronchos had a hundred yards of a start, but they had not run another hundred until the agonized group of watchers could see that the stallion was gaining rapidly upon them.
“He'll get 'em,” cried Hell, “he'll get 'em, by gum!”
“But can he turn them from the bank?” groaned Mandy.
“If anything in horse-flesh or man-flesh can do it,” said Hell, “it'll be done.”
But a tail-race is a long race and a hundred yards' start is a serious handicap in a quarter of a mile. Down the sloping trail the bronchos were running savagely, their noses close to earth, their feet on the hard ground like the roar of a kettledrum, their harness and trappings fluttering over their backs, the wagon pitching like a ship in a gale, the girl clinging to its high seat as a sailor to a swaying mast. Behind, and swiftly drawing level with the flying bronchos, sped the black horse, still with that smooth grace of a skimming swallow and with such ease of motion as made it seem as if he could readily have increased his speed had he so chosen.
“My God! why doesn't he send the brute along?” cried Dr. Martin, his stark face and staring eyes proclaiming his agony.
“He is up! He is up!” cried Cameron.
The agonized watchers saw the rider lean far over the bronchos and seize one line, then gradually begin to turn the flying ponies away from the cut bank and steer them in a wide circle across the prairie.
“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, thank God!” cried the doctor brokenly, wiping the sweat from his face.
“Let us go to head them off,” said Cameron, setting off at a run, leaving the doctor and his wife to follow.