spoke to his horse, no yell of encouragement, but a sound hardly
louder than a whisper. There was no longer a horse and rider--the two
had become one creature--a centaur--the body of a horse and the mind
of a man.

For a time the roan increased his advantage, but quickly Satan began
to hold him even, and then gain. First inch by inch; then at every
stride the distance between them diminished. No easy task. The great
roan had muscle, heart, and that empty saddle; as well, perhaps, as a
thought of the free ranges which lay before him and liberty from the
accursed thraldom of the bit and reins and galling spurs. What he
lacked was that small whispering voice--that hand touching lightly now
and then on his neck--that thrill of generous sympathy which passes
between horse and rider. He lost ground steadily and more and more
rapidly. Now the outstretched black head was at his tail, now at his
flank, now at his girth, now at his shoulder, now they raced nose and
nose. Whistling Dan shifted in the saddle. His left foot took the
opposite stirrup. His right leg swung free.

The big roan swerved--the black in response to a word from his rider
followed the motion--and then the miracle happened. A shadow plunged
through the air; a weight thudded on the saddle of the roan; an iron
hand jerked back the reins.

Red Pete hated men and feared them, but this new weight on his back
was different. It was not the pressure on the reins which urged him to
slow up; he had the bit in his teeth and no human hand could pull down
his head; but into the blind love, blind terror, blind rage which
makes up the consciousness of a horse entered a force which he had
never known before. He realized suddenly that it was folly to attempt