t level stretch of a mile or more,
Jack eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a sudden
lengthening of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flat
while he fairly flew over the ground.

Nothing could match that speed. The strong mare fell to the rear,
fighting gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.

Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, laughing her triumph.
Pierre smiled grimly in response and leaned forward, shifting his
weight more over the withers of Mary. He spoke to her, and one of her
pricking ears fell back as if to listen to his voice. He spoke again
and the other ear fell back, her neck straightened, she gave her whole
heart to her work.

First she held the stallion even, then she began to gain. That was the
meaning of those round, strong hips, and the breadth of the chest. She
needed a half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and now the
black came back to her with every leap.

The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned the girl. One more glance
she cast in apprehension over her shoulder, and then brought her spurs
into play again and again. Still the rush of hoofs behind her grew
louder and louder, and now there was a panting at her side and the head
of cream-colored Mary drew up and past.

She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger and slowed up her
mount with a sharp pull on the reins. It needed only a word from
Pierre and his mare drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head a
little toward the black as if she called for some recognition of her
superiority.

"It's always this way," cried Jack, and jerked at the reins with a
childish impotence of anger. "I beat you for the first quarter of a
mile and then this fool of a horse--I'm going to give him away."

"The black," said Pierre, assuming an air of quiet and superior knowing
which always aggravated her most, "is a good second-rate cayuse when
some one who knows horses is in the saddle. I'd give you fifty for him
on the strength of his looks and keep him for a decoration."

She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment. Then she
changed swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture of
surrender.

"After all, what difference does it make? Your Mary can beat him in a
long run or a short one, but it's your horse, Pierre, and that takes
the sting away. If it were any one else's I'd--well, I'd shoot either
the horse or the rider. But my partner's horse is my