. Some one was calling to him,
perhaps, from beyond the mountains. Madeline liked him the better for
that memory, and pitied the wayward cowboy who had parted with his only
possession for very love of it.

That afternoon when Alfred lifted Madeline to the back of the big roan
she felt high in the air.

"We'll have a run out to the mesa," said her brother, as he mounted.
"Keep a tight rein on him and ease up when you want him to go faster.
But don't yell in his ear unless you want Florence and me to see you
disappear on the horizon."

He trotted out of the yard, down by the corrals, to come out on the
edge of a gray, open flat that stretched several miles to the slope of a
mesa. Florence led, and Madeline saw that she rode like a cowboy. Alfred
drew on to her side, leaving Madeline in the rear. Then the leading
horses broke into a gallop. They wanted to run, and Madeline felt with a
thrill that she would hardly be able to keep Majesty from running, even
if she wanted to. He sawed on the tight bridle as the others drew away
and broke from pace to gallop. Then Florence put her horse into a run.
Alfred turned and called to Madeline to come along.

"This will never do. They are running away from us," said Madeline, and
she eased up her hold on the bridle. Something happened beneath her just
then; she did not know at first exactly what. As much as she had been on
horseback she had never ridden at a running gait. In New York it was not
decorous or safe. So when Majesty lowered and stretched and changed the
stiff, jolting gallop for a wonderful, smooth, gliding run it required
Madeline some moments to realize what was happening. It did not take
long for her to see the distance diminishing between her and her
companions. Still they had gotten a goodly start and were far advanced.
She felt the steady, even rush of the wind. It amazed her to find how
easily, comfortably she kept to the saddle. The experience was new.
The one fault she had heretofore found with riding was the violent
shaking-up. In this instance she experienced nothing of that kind, no
strain, no necessity to hold on with a desperate awareness of work. She
had never felt the wind in her face, the whip of a horse's mane, the
buoyant, level spring of a tanning gait. It thrilled her, exhilarated
her, fired her blood. Suddenly she found herself alive, throbbing; and,
inspired by she knew not what, she loosened the bridle and, leaning far
forward, she cried, "Oh, yo