With a
patter of hoofs, stiff-legged, she jolted toward the plain. The men
dropped from the bars and ran toward the gate, all, except Williams, who
turned, blinking in the sun, his watch in his hand.
A few short jumps, a fish-like swirl sideways, and still Collie held his
seat. He eased the hackamore a little. He was breathing hard. The horse
took up the slack with a vicious plunge, head downward. The boy's face
grew white. He felt something warm trickling down his mouth and chin. He
threw back his head and gripped with his knees.
"They're off!" halloed a puncher.
"Only one of 'em--so far," said Williams. "One minute and thirty
seconds."
Then, like a bolt of copper light, the pony shot forward at a run.
On the ranch-house veranda sat Walter Stone conversing with his host,
where several girls, bright-faced and gowned in cool white, were talking
and laughing.
The pony headed straight for the veranda. The laughing group jumped to
their feet. Collie, using both hands, swung the hackamore across the
outlaw's neck and tugged.
She stopped with a jolt that all but unseated him. Walter Stone rose.
"It's one of my boys," he said. And he noticed that a little stream of
red was trickling from Collie's mouth and nostrils.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238