.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE.
Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward along the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail.

Venters heard a mournful howl from Ring, but Whitie was silent.

The blacks settled into their fleet, long-striding gallop.

The wind sweetly fanned Venters's hot face.
From the summit of the first low-swelling ridge he looked back.