. In front sloped the lay of ground with
its purple breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with
heavy, steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweet
odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.

Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space separating
him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The blacks were proving
their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider's
horsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born in
the saddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, or
the position of the horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that
Jerry had been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The
racer was now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But,
Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star. Another
clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was really
riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.

"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters, realizing the
astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed at full speed! Jerry
Card, that's what you've done unless I'm drunk on the smell of sage. But
I've got to see the trick before I believe it."

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the little
rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daring
horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out the
greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had them on a dead run,
but not yet at the last strained and killing pace. From time to time he
glanced backward, as a wise general in retreat calculating his chances
and the power and speed of pursuers, and the moment for the last
desperate burst. No doubt, Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that
race, perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage
and the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the
last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of self-preservation--would
he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and the spirit of that race.
Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind. That little crime-stained rider was
actually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling them
with knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing
stride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hung
suspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and
the sun flashed red on