And Frisco was a long way off! "You'd better take the rest of the boys part way," Potter greeted dryly as I came up.
I brushed past him and swung up into the saddle, feeling that if I stopped to answer I might be too late.

I had a foolish notion that even a long breath would conspire to delay me.

Frosty was already on his horse, and I noticed, without thinking about it at the time, that he was riding a long-legged sorrel, "Spikes," that could match Shylock on a long chase--as this was like to be.
We were off at a run, without once looking back or saying good-by to a man of them; for farewells take minutes in the saying, and minutes meant--more than I cared to think about just then.

They were good fellows, those cowboys, but I left them standing awkwardly, as men do in the face of calamity they may not hinder, without a thought of whether I should ever see one of them again.

With Frosty galloping at my right, elbow to elbow, we faced the dim, purple outline of White Divide.
Already the dusk was creeping over the prairie-land, and little sleepy birds started out of the grasses and flew protesting away from our rush past their nesting-places.