I lost my comrades ahead; the pinyons blurred in my sight; I only faintly heard the hounds.

It occurred to me we were making for the breaks, but I did not think of checking Satan.

I thought only of flying on faster and faster.
"On! On! old fellow! Stretch out! Never lose this race! We've got to be there at the finish!" I called to Satan, and he seemed to understand and stretched lower, farther, quicker.
The brush pounded my legs and clutched and tore my clothes; the wind whistled; the pinyon branches cut and whipped my face.

Once I dodged to the left, as Satan swerved to the right, with the result that I flew out of the saddle, and crashed into a pinyon tree, which marvelously brushed me back into the saddle.

The wild yells and deep bays sounded nearer.