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 someone who knows horses is in the saddle.