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Wildfire ran indeed like fire before the wind. He wanted to
run, and the other horse made him fierce. Like a burr Lucy stuck low over his
neck, a part of the horse, and so light he would not have known he was
carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never spurred him.
She absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran away from Slone,
and, turning at the end of the two-mile course they had marked out, she loped
Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and they were soon in camp. Lucy did not
jump off. She was in a transport. Every race kindled a mounting fire in her.
She was scarlet of face, out of breath, her hair flying. And she lay on
Wildfire's neck and hugged him and caressed him and talked to him in low tones
of love.
Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed to where Lucy
still fondled Wildfire. He paused a moment to look at her, but when she saw
him he started again, and came close up to her as she sat the saddle.
"You went past me like a bullet," he said.


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