Her horse, searching grass, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright. Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint, broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and, surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a panicky run. Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would only set the runaway at a greater speed. "Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!" Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap that carried them forward. Nora, seeing that a runaway was inevitable, cried to her mount and the pony, keyed to flight, sped along behind the other, losing with every length traveled. Tears of fright spilled from the girl's eyes, chilling her cheeks. What might happen was incalculable, she knew. Then new sounds, above the beat of her horse's hoofs, above the wind in her ears; the sweeping, measured, rolling batter of other hoofs, and Nora turned her head to see Bruce Bayard, mouth set, eyes glowing, brim of his hat plastered back against the crown by his rush, urge his big sorrel horse toward her. He hung low over the fork of his saddle, clear of his seat, tense, yet lithe, and responding to every undulation of the beast that carried him.