As she felt the wind sing by her cheeks, sting the tears beneath her lids, she shut her lips tighter and hugged the pommel closer.
The green carpet went by beneath her like a 288 blur. The thunder of El Rey’s beating hoofs was like the sound of the cataracts when the cañons shot their freshets from the Rockface.
The note of his speed was rising––rising––rising. The blood began to pound in her temples with pride and exultation.
She saw the distance narrowing just the smallest bit between her and Courtrey. Just the smallest trifle, indeed, but narrowing.
“He ain’t a-puttin’ Bolt down to his best,” she told herself tensely, “I know what he can do.” And she remembered that ride from the mouth of Black Coulee to the pine-guarded glade––and Kenset. At that thought she pressed her lips tighter.
No thought of Kenset must come to her now––to weaken her with memory of those pressing, vital hands of his above his pounding heart.
No––she was herself again––Tharon Last, Jim Last’s girl, the gun woman of Lost Valley––and yonder went her father’s killer.
She leaned down and called again in El Rey’s ear.
No slightest spurt of speed rewarded her––nothing but the rising note. Then she saw that the distance was widening––just a tiny bit.
Truly it was widening. Courtrey, looking back, had caught the sun on her golden hair, on her face 289 as white as milk. He saw that her hands were at her hips––loosely set back at her hips––and what thought he might have had of mercy at her hands––what wild vision he might have seen of speech with her––of parley––of persuasion––was dead.