"To the finish," echoed Pete, and with one accord they slackened rein.
The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride
that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the
Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in
need of beef.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A GAMBLE
On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques of
the cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed. Beyond, to
the south, lay a sea of shimmering space, clear to the light blue that
edged the sky-line. The afternoon sun showed copper-red through a
faint haze which bespoke a change of weather. The miles between the
Olla and that tiny dot on the horizon--the Ortez hacienda--seemed
endless, because of no pronounced landmarks. Pete surmised that it
would be dark long before they reached their destination. Incidentally
he was amazed by the speed of the thoroughbreds, who ran so easily, yet
with a long, reaching stride that ate into the miles. To Pete they
seemed more like excellent machines than horses--lacking the pert
individuality of the cow-pony.
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