The Last of the Plainsmen 



tang had one black spot in his pure white snorted 

 like I imagined a blooded horse might, under dire 

 insult. Jones s bay had gotten about a hundred paces 

 the start. I lived to learn that Spot hated to be left 

 behind; moreover, he would not be left behind; he 

 was the swiftest horse on the range, and proud of 

 the distinction. I cast one unmentionable word on 

 the breeze toward the cabin and Frank, then put 

 mind and muscle to the sore task of remaining with 

 Spot. Jones was born on a saddle, and had been 

 taking his meals in a saddle for about sixty-three 

 years, and the bay horse could run. Run is not a 

 felicitous word he flew. And I was rendered men 

 tally deranged for the moment to see that hundred 

 paces between the bay and Spot materially lessen at 

 every jump. Spot lengthened out, seemed to go 

 down near the ground, and cut the air like a high- 

 geared auto. If I had not heard the fast rhythmic 

 beat of his hoofs, and had not bounced high into the 

 air at every jump, I would have been sure I was rid 

 ing a bird. I tried to stop him. As well might I 

 have tried to pull in the Lusitania with a thread. 

 Spot was out to overhaul that bay, and in spite of 

 me, he was doing it. The wind rushed into my face 

 and sang in my ears. Jones seemed the nucleus of a 

 sort of haze, and he grew larger and larger. Pres 

 ently he became clearly defined in my sight; the 



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