And in front--always just a little in front with the plunging
forefeet of the horse seeming to threaten him at every stride, ran
Black Bart with his head turned as if he were the guard and guide of
the fugitive.
Dan called and Black Bart yelped in answer. Satan tossed up his
head and neighed as he raced along. The two replies were like human
assurances that there was still a fighting chance.
The steady loss of blood was telling rapidly now. He clutched the
pommel, set his teeth, and felt oblivion settle slowly and surely upon
him. As his senses left him he noted the black outlines of the next
high range of hills, a full ten miles away.
He only knew the pace of Satan never slackened. There seemed no effort
in it. He was like one of those fabled horses, the offspring of the
wind, and like the wind, tireless, eternal of motion.
A longer oblivion fell upon Dan. As he roused from it he found
himself slipping in the saddle. He struggled desperately to grasp the
saddlehorn and managed to draw himself up again; but the warning was
sufficient to make him hunt about for some means of making himself
more secure in the saddle. It was a difficult task to do anything
with only one hand, but he managed to tie his left arm to the
bucking-strap.
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