The rushing wind fairly sang in my ears; the walls of the break were confused blurs of yellow and green; at every stride Satan seemed to swallow a rod of the white trail.
Jones began to scale the ravine, heading up obliquely far on the side of where Frank had vanished, and as Wallace followed suit, I turned Satan.

I caught Wallace at the summit, and we raced together out upon another flat of pinyon.

We heard Frank and Jones yelling in a way that caused us to spur our horses frantically.

Spot, gleaming white near a clump of green pinyons, was our guiding star.

That last quarter of a mile was a ringing run, a ride to remember.
As our mounts crashed back with stiff forelegs and haunches, Wallace and I leaped off and darted into the clump of pinyons, whence issued a hair-raising medley of yells and barks.