Again and again Gregg spurred the bay cruelly.

She winced from the pain and snorted, but, apparently having not the
slightest knowledge of bucking, she could only shake her head and send
a ringing whinny of appeal up the slope of the mountain, toward the
approaching rider.

In spite of the approaching danger, in spite of this delay which was
ruining his chances of getting to Stillwater before the train, Bill
Gregg watched in marvel and delight the horsemanship of the stranger.
Ronicky Doone, if this were he, was certainly the prince of all wild
riders.

Even as the mare stopped in answer to the signal of her owner, Ronicky
Doone sent his mount over the edge of a veritable cliff, flung him
back on his haunches and slid down the gravelly slope, careening
from side to side. With a rush of pebbles about him and a dust cloud
whirling after, Ronicky Doone broke out into the road ahead of the
mare, and she whinnied softly again to greet him.

Bill Gregg found himself looking not into the savage face of such
a gunfighter as he had been led to expect, but a handsome fellow,
several years younger than he, a high-headed, straight-eyed, buoyant
type. In his seat in the saddle, in the poise of his head and the play
of his hand on the reins Bill Gregg recognized a boundless nervous
force. There was nothing ponderous about Ronicky Doone. Indeed he was
not more than middle size, but, as he reined his horse in the middle
of the road and looked with flashing eyes at Bill Gregg, he appeared
very large indeed.