Jerry, who, in anticipation of a running fusillade, had huddled himself into a little twisted ball on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would make sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat in the saddle.
In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment was the beginning of the real race.
Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then backward to put it on his flank.

Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity.

But Wrangle's flesh was still cold.

What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he had never given to any other.

It would not have been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.
So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters lived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of wildness to the dregs.
When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse.