"
This was at the line shack.
Several nights later, as Pete was riding his line, he noticed that Blue
Smoke occasionally stopped and sniffed, and always toward the north.
Near the northwestern angle of the fence, Pete thought he could hear
the distant drumming of hoofs. Blue Smoke fretted and fought the bit.
Pete dismounted and peered into the darkness. The rhythmic stride of a
running horse came to him--not the quick patter of a cow-pony, but the
long, sweeping stride of a racer.
Then out of the night burst a rider on a foam-flecked horse that reared
almost into the gate, which Pete unlooped and dragged back.
"That you, Brevoort?" called the horseman.
"He's at the shack," Pete shouted, as the other swept past.
"Looks like we're goin' to be right busy," reflected Pete as he swung
to the saddle. "We'll jest jog over to the shack and report."
When he arrived at the line shack, Brevoort was talking with the
hard-riding messenger. Near them stood the thoroughbred, his flanks
heaving, his neck sweat-blackened, his sides quivering with fatigue.
He had covered fifty miles in five hours.
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