Pete is saving our horses; they're going strong.

These fellows are five miles away yet.

They've shot their bolt, and they know it." He was right.

The bobbing black shapes came abreast--held even--fell back--came again--hung on, and fell back at last, hopelessly distanced when the goal was still ten miles away.

Pete and his troop held on at the same unswerving gait--trot, trot, trot! The ten miles became nine--eight--seven-- Sharp-eyed Benavides touched Pete's arm and pointed.