The gap between Diablo and Sol narrowed yard by yard. At first
it had been a wide one. The raider beat his mount and spurred,
beat and spurred, wheeled round to shoot, then bent forward again.
In his circle at the upper end of the valley he turned far short
of the jumble of rocks.
All the devil that was in Blanco Diablo had its running on the
downward stretch. The strange, cruel urge of bit and spur, the
crazed rider who stuck like a burr upon him, the shots and smoke
added terror to his natural violent temper. He ran himself off his
feet. But he could not elude that relentless horse behind him.
The running of Blanco Sol was that of a sure, remorseless driving
power--steadier--stronger--swifter with every long and wonderful
stride.
The raider tried to sheer Diablo off closer under the wall, to make
the slope where his companion had escaped. But Diablo was
uncontrollable. He was running wild, with breaking gait. Closer
and closer crept that white, smoothly gliding, beautiful machine
of speed.
Then, like one white flash following another, the two horses
gleamed down the bank of a wash and disappeared in clouds
of dust.
Gale watched with strained and smarting eyes. The thick throb
in his ears was pierced by faint sounds of gunshots. Then he
waited in almost unendurable suspense.
Suddenly something whiter than the background of dust appeared
above the low roll of valley floor. Gale leveled his glass. In the
clear circle shone Blanco Sol's noble head with its long black
bar from ears to nose.
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