A touch of the spur made Sol lunge forward to head off the raider.
Diablo was in his stride, but the distance and angle favored Sol.
The raider had no carbine. He held aloft a gun ready to level it
and fire. He sat the saddle as if it were a stationary seat. Gale
saw Ladd lean down and drop the .405 in the sand. He would take
no chances of wounding Belding's best-loved horse.
Then Gale sat transfixed with suspended breath watching the horses
thundering toward him. Blanco Diablo was speeding low, fleet as
an antelope, fierce and terrible in his devilish action, a horse for
war and blood and death. He seemed unbeatable. Yet to see the
magnificently running Blanco Sol was but to court a doubt. Gale
stood spellbound. He might have shot the raider; but he never
thought of such a thing. The distance swiftly lessened. Plain it
was the raider could not make the opening ahead of Ladd. He saw it
and swerved to the left, emptying his six-shooter as he turned.
His dark face gleamed as he flashed by Gale.
Blanco Sol thundered across. Then the race became straight away
up the valley. Diablo was cold and Sol was hot; therein lay the
only handicap and vantage. It was a fleet, beautiful, magnificent
race. Gale thrilled and exulted and yelled as his horse settled
into a steadily swifter run and began to gain. The dust rolled in
a funnel-shaped cloud from the flying hoofs. The raider wheeled
with gun puffing white, and Ladd ducked low over the neck of his
horse.
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