There was the speed of the blooded racer in her and the tirelessness of the mustang.
Now, down the rocky, half-broken trail she picked her way as daintily as any debutante tiptoeing down a great stairway to the ballroom.

Life had been easy for Mary since that thousand-mile struggle to overtake Canby, and now her sides were sleek from good feeding and some casual twenty miles a day, which was no more to her than a canter through the park is to the city horse.
The eye which had been so red-stained and fierce during the long ride after Canby was now bright and gentle.

At every turn she pricked her small sharp ears as if she expected home and friends on the other side of the curve.

And now and again she tossed her head and glanced back at the master for a moment and then whinnied across some echoing ravine.
It was Mary's way of showing happiness, and her master's acknowledgment was to run his gloved left hand up through her mane and with his ungloved right, that tanned and agile hand, pat her shoulder lightly.
Passing to the end of the down-grade, they reached a slight upward incline, and the mare, as if she had come to familiar ground, broke into a gallop, a matchless, swinging stride.

Swerving to right and to left among the great boulders, like a football player running a broken field, she increased the gallop to a racing pace.
That twisting course would have shaken an ordinary horseman to the toes, but Pierre, swaying easily in the saddle, dropped the reins into the crook of his left arm and rolled a cigarette in spite of the motion and the wind.