Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she
thought, it was no trick to ride him. In that gait he was dangerous, for a
fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and
certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was
only a white streak in blurred gray. She could not get her breath; the wind
seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening of the
tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her.
Gradually her sight became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down,
satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only a
few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir behind a
sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle Sage King
leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He
went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down with him,
finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a long, snaky,
whipping loop of rope shoot out and close just where Sage King's legs had
been.
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