For a time the roan increased his advantage, but quickly Satan began to hold him even, and then gain.  First inch by inch; then at every stride the distance between them diminished.  No easy task.  The great roan had muscle, heart, and that empty saddle; as well, perhaps, as a thought of the free ranges which lay before him and liberty from the accursed thraldom of the bit and reins and galling spurs.  What he lacked was that small whispering voice—­that hand touching lightly now and then on his neck—­that thrill of generous sympathy which passes between horse and rider.  He lost ground steadily and more and more rapidly.  Now the outstretched black head was at his tail, now at his flank, now at his girth, now at his shoulder, now they raced nose and nose.  Whistling Dan shifted in the saddle.  His left foot took the opposite stirrup.  His right leg swung free.

The big roan swerved—­the black in response to a word from his rider followed the motion—­and then the miracle happened.  A shadow plunged through the air; a weight thudded on the saddle of the roan; an iron hand jerked back the reins.

Red Pete hated men and feared them, but this new weight on his back was different.  It was not the pressure on the reins which urged him to slow up; he had the bit in his teeth and no human hand could pull down his head; but into the blind love, blind terror, blind rage which makes up the consciousness of a horse entered a force which he had never known before.  He realized suddenly that it was folly to attempt to throw off this clinging burden.  He might as well try to jump out of his skin.  His racing stride shortened to a halting gallop, this to a sharp trot, and in a moment more he was turned and headed back for Morgan’s place.  The black, who had followed, turned at the same time like a dog and followed with jouncing bridle reins.  Black Bart, with lolling red tongue, ran under his head, looking up to the stallion now and again with a comical air of proprietorship, as if he were showing the way.

It was very strange to Red Pete.  He pranced sideways a little and shook his head up and down in an effort to regain his former temper, but that iron hand kept his nose down, now, and that quiet voice sounded above him—­no cursing, no raking of sharp spurs to torture his tender flanks, no whir of the quirt, but a calm voice of authority and understanding.  Red Pete broke into an easy canter and in this fashion they came up to Morgan in the road.  Red Pete snorted and started to shy, for he recognized the clumsy, bouncing weight which had insulted his back not long before; but this quiet voiced master reassured him, and he came to a halt.

“That red devil has cost me a hundred bones and all the skin on my knees,” groaned Morgan, “and I can hardly walk.  Damn his eyes.  But say, Dan”—­and his eyes glowed with an admiration which made him momentarily forget his pains—­“that was some circus stunt you done down the road there—­that changin’ of saddles on the run, I never seen the equal of it!”