He leaned down and struck the Ironwood with his open hand.
Bolt, the beautiful, leaped in answer. A little more––slowly––the distance between pursuer and pursued widened. Then––Tharon blinked the mist from her eyes to make sure––the gain was lost. Slowly, steadily, El Rey closed up the extra width. Then for a time there was no change. The open plain resounded to the roar of hoofs, the wind sang by like taut strings struck. The earth was still that racing green blur beneath.
And still the electric note of rising speed hummed softly higher.
If Jim Last rode his silver stallion to the goal of vengeance he must surely have been satisfied. The great shoulders worked like pistons, the whole massive body was level as the flowing floor beneath, the steel-thewed limbs reached and doubled––reached and doubled––with wonderful power and precision.
And then at last Tharon knew––knew that El Rey was gaining, slowly, steadily, surely. The splendid bay horse was running magnificently, but 290 El Rey ran like a super-horse. His silver head was straight as a level, his ears laid back, his nostrils wide and flaring, red as blood, his big eyes glowed with the wildness of savage flight.
The great king was mad with speed!
Jim Last’s girl was mad also––mad with the lust of conquest, of revenge.
She rose a little from the stallion’s whipping mane, and her blue eyes burned on the man ahead.
“I said I’d get you, Buck Courtrey!” she muttered, “that some day I’d run th’ Ironwoods off their feet––th’ heart out of their master!
“Run, damn you––for it’s your last ride!”