He trusted blindly to the mare and when he looked back they were already pulling their mounts down to a hand gallop.

That would teach them to match Molly in a sprint, roan or no roan! He slapped her below the withers, where the long, hard muscles rippled back and forth.

She was full of running, her gallop as light as the toss of a bough in the wind, and now as he pulled her back to a swinging canter her head went high, with pricking ears.

Suddenly his heart went out to her; she would run like that till she died, he knew.
"Good girl," he whispered huskily.
The day was paling towards the end when he headed into the foothills of the White Mountains.

He drew up Molly for a breath on a level shoulder.
Already he was close to the snow line with ragged heads of white rearing above him.