Old Tom 



I knew they had jumped a ditch. Thus prepared, I 

 managed to stick on when it yawned before me ; and 

 Satan, never slackening, leaped up and up, giving me 

 a new swing. 



Dust began to settle in little clouds before me; 

 Frank, far ahead, had turned his mustang up the side 

 of the break; Wallace, within hailing distance, now 

 turned to wave me a hand. The rushing wind fairly 

 sang in my ears; the walls of the break were confused 

 blurs of yellow and green; at every stride Satan 

 seemed to swallow a rod of the white trail. 



Jones began to scale the ravine, heading up 

 obliquely far on the side of where Frank had van 

 ished, and as Wallace followed suit, I turned Satan. 

 I caught Wallace at the summit, and we raced 

 together out upon another flat of pifion. We heard 

 Frank and Jones yelling in a way that caused us to 

 spur our horses frantically. Spot, gleaming white 

 near a clump of green pinons, was our guiding star. 

 That last quarter of a mile was a ringing run, a ride 

 to remember. 



As our mounts crashed back with stiff forelegs and 

 haunches, Wallace and I leaped off and darted into 

 the clump of pinons, whence issued a hair-raising 

 medley of yells and barks. I saw Jones, then Frank, 

 both waving their arms, then Moze and Sounder 

 running wildly, aimlessly about. 



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