When he had them adjusted to suit he mounted
and rode down the trail and out upon the level. He rode
leisurely as if merely going to water his horse. The long black
rifle lying across his saddle, however, was ominous.
Gale securely tied the other horse to a mesquite at hand, and took
a position behind a low rock over which he could easily see and
shoot when necessary. He imagined Jim Lash in a similar position at
the far end of the valley blocking the outlet. Gale had grown
accustomed to danger and the hard and fierce feelings peculiar to
it. But the coming drama was so peculiarly different in promise
from all he had experienced, that he waited the moment of action
with thrilling intensity. In him stirred long, brooding wrath at
these border raiders--affection for Belding, and keen desire to
avenge the outrages he had suffered--warm admiration for the
cold, implacable Ladd and his absolute fearlessness, and a curious
throbbing interest in the old, much-discussed and never-decided
argument as to whether Blanco Sol was fleeter, stronger horse
than Blanco Diablo. Gale felt that he was to see a race between
these great rivals--the kind of race that made men and horses
terrible.
Ladd rode a quarter of a mile out upon the flat before anything
happened. Then a whistle rent the still, cold air. A horse had
seen or scented Blanco Sol. The whistle was prolonged, faint, but
clear. It made the blood thrum in Gale's ears. Sol halted.
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