They found Rankin sitting upon the wagon seat, smoking impassively as usual; but the Englishman was upon the ground holding the two hounds by the collars. Behind the big compound lenses his eyes were twinkling excitedly, and he was smiling like a boy.
"Look out there!" he exclaimed with a jerk of his head, "over to the west. We all but missed him! Are you ready?"
They all looked and saw, perhaps thirty rods away, a grayish-white jack-rabbit, distinct by contrast with the brown earth. The hounds had also caught sight of the game and pulled lustily at their collars.
Instantly Florence was all excitement. "Of course we're ready! No, wait a second, until I see about my saddle." She dismounted precipitately. "Tighten the cinch a bit, won't you, Ben? I don't mind a tumble, but it might interfere at a critical moment." She put her foot in his extended hand, and sprang back into her seat. "Now, I'm ready. Come on, Ben! Let them go, papa! Be in at the finish if you can!" and, a second behind the hounds, she was away. Simultaneously, the great jack-rabbit, scenting danger, leaped forward, a ball of animate rubber, bounding farther and farther as he got under full motion, speeding away toward the blue distance.
The chase that followed was a thing to live in memory. From the nature of the land, gently rolling to the horizon without an obstruction the height of a man's hand, there was no possibility of escape for the quarry. The outcome was as mathematically certain as a problem in arithmetic; the only uncertain element was that of time. At first the jack seemed to be gaining, but gradually the greater endurance of the hounds began to count, and foot by foot the gap between pursuers and pursued lessened. In the beginning the rabbit ran in great leaps, as though glorying in the speed that it would seem no other animal could equal, but very soon his movements changed; his ears were flattened tight to his head, and, with every muscle strained to the utmost, he ran wildly for his life.
Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they might. In the all but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of the old buckboard could be heard a quarter of a mile. Alternately losing and gaining ground as they cut off angles and followed the diameter instead of the circumference of the great circles the rabbit described, the drivers were always within sight. Closer behind the hounds and following the same course, Florence rode her thoroughbred like mad, with Ben Blair at her side. The pace was terrific. The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and cut keenly at their faces. The tattoo of the horses' feet upon the hard earth was continuous. Beneath her riding-cap, the girl's hair was loosened and swept free in the wind. Her color was high, her eyes sparkled. Never before had the man at her side seen her so fair to gaze upon; but despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, there was a jarring note in her beauty. Deep in his nature, ingrained, elemental, was the love of fair play. Though he was in the chase and a part of it, his sympathies were far from being with the hounds. That the girl should favor the strong over the weak was something he could not understand—a blemish that even her beauty did not excuse.
A quarter-hour passed. The sun rose from the lap of the prairie and scattered the frost-crystals as though they had been mist. The chase was near its end. All moved more slowly. A dozen times since they had started, it seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that in another second all would be over; but each time the rabbit had escaped, had at the last instant shot into the air, while the hounds rushed harmlessly beneath, and, ere they recovered, had gained a goodly lead again in a new course. But now that time was past, and he was tired and weak. It was a straight-away race, with the hounds scarcely twenty feet behind. Back of the latter, perhaps ten rods, were the riders, still side by side as at first. Their horses were covered with foam and blowing steadily, but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly. Bringing up the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the buckboard. Thus they approached the finish.
Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit. Standing in his stirrups, Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched the scene. The twenty feet lessened to eighteen, to fifteen, and, turning his head, the man looked at his companion. Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye an expression of anticipation,—anticipation of the end, anticipation of a death,—the death of a weaker animal!
A determination which had been only latent became positive with Blair. He urged on his horse to the uttermost and sprang past his companion. His right hand went to his hip and lingered there. His voice rang out above the sound of the horses' feet and of their breathing.
"Hi, there, Racer, Pacer!" he shouted. "Come here!"