CHAPTER XXVII
THE END OF THE RACE
Far behind him he could see the pursuers driving their horses at a
killing gallop. He answered their spurt and held them safely in the
distance with the very slightest of efforts. All his care was given
to picking out the easiest way, and avoiding jutting rocks and sharp
turns which might unsettle the rider. Just as, in those dim old
days in the pasture, when the short brown legs of the boy could not
encompass him enough to gain a secure grip, he used to halt gently,
and turn gently, for fear of unseating the urchin. How far more
cautious was his maneuvering now! Here on his back was the power which
had saved him from the river. Here on his back was he whose trailing
fingers had given him his first caress.
He had no power of reason in his poor blind brain to teach him the why
and the wherefore. But he had that overmastering impulse which lives
in every gentle-blooded horse--the great desire to serve. A mustang
would have been incapable of such a thing, but in Alcatraz flowed the
pure strain of the thoroughbred, tracing back to the old desert stock
where the horse lives in the tent of his master, the most cherished
member of the family.
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