Still Alcatraz gained. From the
stretching head, across the withers, the straight-driving croup, the
tail whipped out behind, was one even line. His ears were not flagging
back like the ears of a horse merely giving his utmost of speed; they
were dressed flat by a consuming fury, and the same uncanny rage gleamed
in his eyes and trembled in his expanding nostrils. It was like a human
effort and for that reason terrible in a brute beast. Marianne saw
Colonel Dickinson with the fingers of one hand buried in his plump
breast; the other had reared his hat aloft, frozen in place in the midst
of the last flourish; and never in her life had she seen such mingled
incredulity and terror.
She looked back again. There were three sections to the race now. The
range ponies were hopelessly out of it. The Coles horses ran well in the
lead. Between, coming with tremendous bounds, was Alcatraz. He got no
help from his rider. The light jockey on Lady Mary was aiding his mount
by throwing his weight with the swing of her gallop, but Manuel Cordova
was a leaden burden. The most casual glance showed the man to be in a
blue funk; he rode as one astride a thunderbolt and Alcatraz had both
to plan his race and run it.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63