He was more than half horse.

Not until the last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of self-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and the spirit of that race.
Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind.

That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in quivering balance.

Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun flashed red on his face.

Turning, he drew Black Star closer and closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.