"No use! The roan ain't carryin' a thing but the saddle." "Satan never seen the day he could make the roan eat dust, anyway!" "Look at 'em go, boys!" "There ain't no use," said Jim Silent sadly, "he'll wind his black for nothin'--an' I've lost the best hoss on the ranges." "I believe him," whispered one man to a neighbour, "because I've got an idea that hoss is Red Peter himself!" His companion stared at him agape. "Red Pete!" he said. "Why, pal, that's the hoss that Silent--" "Maybe it is an' maybe it ain't. But why should we ask too many questions?" "Let the marshals tend to him. He ain't ever troubled this part of the range." "Anyway, I'm goin' to remember his face. If it's really Jim Silent, I got something that's worth tellin' to my kids when they grow up." They both turned and looked at the tall man with an uncomfortable awe. The rest of the crowd swarmed into the road to watch the race. The black stallion was handicapped many yards at the start before Dan could swing him around after the roan darted past with poor Morgan in ludicrous pursuit. Moreover, the roan had the inestimable advantage of an empty saddle. Yet Satan leaned to his work with a stout heart. There was no rock and pitch to his gait, no jerk and labour to his strides. Those smooth shoulders were corded now with a thousand lines where the steel muscles whipped to and fro. His neck stretched out a little--his ears laid back along the neck--his whole body settled gradually and continually down as his stride lengthened. Whistling Dan was leaning forward so that his body would break less wind. He laughed low and soft as the air whirred into his face, and now and then he spoke to his horse, no yell of encouragement, but a sound hardly louder than a whisper. There was no longer a horse and rider--the two had become one creature--a centaur--the body of a horse and the mind of a man. For a time the roan increased his advantage, but quickly Satan began to hold him even, and then gain. First inch by inch; then at every stride the distance between them diminished. No easy task. The great roan had muscle, heart, and that empty saddle; as well, perhaps, as a thought of the free ranges which lay before him and liberty from the accursed thraldom of the bit and reins and galling spurs. What he lacked was that small whispering voice--that hand touching lightly now and then on his neck--that thrill of generous sympathy which passes between horse and rider. He lost ground steadily and more and more rapidly. Now the outstretched black head was at his tail, now at his flank, now at his girth, now at his shoulder, now they raced nose and nose. Whistling Dan shifted in the saddle. His left foot took the opposite stirrup. His right leg swung free. The big roan swerved--the black in response to a word from his rider followed the motion--and then the miracle happened. A shadow plunged through the air; a weight thudded on the saddle of the roan; an iron hand jerked back the reins.