Jones's bay had gotten about a hundred paces the start.

I lived to learn that Spot hated to be left behind; moreover, he would not be left behind; he was the swiftest horse on the range, and proud of the distinction.

I cast one unmentionable word on the breeze toward the cabin and Frank, then put mind and muscle to the sore task of remaining with Spot.

Jones was born on a saddle, and had been taking his meals in a saddle for about sixty-three years, and the bay horse could run.

Run is not a felicitous word--he flew.