They had reached top
speed, and yet the speed still increased. The chestnut seemed to
settle towards the earth as his stride lengthened. He was not
galloping. He was pouring himself over the ground with an endless
succession of smooth impulses. The wind of that running became a gale.
The blown mane of Alcatraz whipped and cut at the face of Perris, and
still the chestnut drove swifter and swifter.
He was cutting down the bank of the river which had nearly seen his
death a few moments before, striving to slip past the left flank of
Hervey's men, and now the foreman, yelling his orders, changed his
line of battle, and the cowpunchers swung to the left to drive
Alcatraz into the very river. The change of direction unsettled their
aim. It is hard at best to shoot from the back of a running horse at
an object in swift motion; it is next to impossible when sharp orders
are being rattled forth. They fired as they galloped, but their shots
flew wild.
In the meantime, they were closing the gap between them and the
river bank to shut off Alcatraz, but for every foot they covered the
chestnut covered two, it seemed. He drove like a red lightning bolt,
with the rider flattened on his back, shaking his fist back at the
pursuers.
Pages:
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303