This was play--a game--a race--plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl.
Lucy's hair was a bright stream of gold in the wind.

She rode bareback.
It seemed that she was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back--scarcely astride him at all.

Yet her motion was one with the horse.

Again that wild, gay scream pealed out--call or laugh or challenge.

Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down, while Buckles thundered past.