and his
speed.

What was it now that rode in his saddle--the saddle with the long dark
stain?

Assuredly it was not the slim girl-thing with the golden voice!

El Rey had ever looked through, beyond her.

Nay, it was something bigger, stronger, sterner--who shall say?
Perhaps the spirit of that master whom he had served, whom he had
brought faithfully home that night in spring, for whom he had looked
and listened all these weary months! There was something, indeed--for
El Rey, the great, lay down to earth and ran without the need of
guidance. He set the long red horse out there on the green plain
before him like a beacon and put the mighty machinery of his massive
body into motion. Bolt was a rival worthy of his best--Bolt, the king
of the Ironwoods, huge, spirited, fast as the wind and wild as fire.
El Rey's silver ears lay back along his neck, the mane above them was
like a cloud, his long tail streamed behind him like a comet--and
forgotten was his singlefooting. He ran, his great limbs gathering and
spreading beneath him--gathering and spreading--with the regularity,
of clock-work.

Tharon's blue eyes were narrow as her father's, the little lines about
them stood out. She rode low, like a limpet clinging, and her mind was
on the two ahead--the man and the great bay horse.

As she felt the wind sing by her cheeks, sting the tears beneath her
lids, she shut her lips tighter and hugged the pommel closer.

The green carpet went by beneath her like a blur. The thunder of El
Rey's beating hoofs was like the sound of the cataracts when the
canyons shot their freshets from the Rockface.

The note of his speed was rising--rising--rising. The blood began to
pound in her temples with pride and exultation.

She saw the distance narrowing just the smallest bit between her and
Courtrey. Just the smallest trifle, indeed, but _narrowing_.

"He ain't a-puttin' Bolt down to his best," she told herself tensely,
"I know what he can do." And she remembered that ride from the mouth
of Black Coulee to the pine-guarded glade--and Kenset. At that thought
she pressed her lips tighter.

No thought of Kenset must come to her now--to weaken her with memory
of those pressing, vital hands of his above his pounding heart.

No--she was herself again--Tharon Last, Jim Last's girl, the gun woman
of Lost Valley--and yonder went her father's killer.

She leaned down and called again in El Rey's ear.

No slightest spurt of speed reward