He bent a downward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail.

He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were snorting unseen fire.

Wrangle was the horse for a race with death.

Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing, colorless wall.

In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple breadth split by the white trail.