This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the consideration of it from his mind. "And for clothes, Jack?" They were both dumb. It had been years since she had worn the clothes of a woman. She had danced with the men of her father's gang many a time while someone whistled or played on a mouth-organ, and there was the time they rode into Beulah Ferry and held up the dance hall, and Jim Boone and Mansie lined up the crowd with their hands held high above their heads while the sweating musicians played fast and furious and Jack and Pierre danced down the center of the hall. She had danced many a time, but never in the clothes of a woman; so they stared, mutely puzzled. A thought came first to Jacqueline. She stepped close and murmured her suggestion in the ear of Pierre. Whatever it was, it made his jaw set hard and brought grave lines into his face. She stepped back, asking: "Well?" "We'll do it. What a little demon you are, Jack!" "Then we'll have to start now. There's barely time." They ran from the room together, and as they passed through the room below Wilbur called after them: "The dance?" "Yes." "Wait and go with me." "We ride in a roundabout way." They were through the door as Pierre called back, and a moment later the hoofs of their horses scattered the gravel down the hillside. Jacqueline rode a black stallion sired by her father's mighty Thunder, who had grown old but still could do the work of three ordinary horses in carrying the great bulk of his master. The son of Thunder was little like his sire, but a slender-limbed racer, graceful, nervous, eager. A clumsy rider would have ruined the horse in a single day's hard work among the trails of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline, fairly reading the mind of the black, nursed his strength when it was needed and let him run free and swift when the ground before him was level. Now she picked her course dexterously down the hillside with the cream-colored mare of Pierre following half a length behind. After the first down-pitch of ground was covered they passed into difficult terrain, and for half an hour went at a jog trot, winging in and out among the rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the hills. Here the ground opened up again, and they roved on at a free gallop, the black always half a length in front. Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch of a mile or more, Jack eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a sudden lengthening of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flat while he fairly flew over the ground. Nothing could match that speed. The strong mare fell to the rear, fighting gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.