“Wrangle, the race’s on,” said Venters, grimly.  “We’ll canter with them and gallop with them and run with them.  We’ll let them set the pace.”

Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands.  Recalling Jane Withersteen’s devoted assurance that Night could run neck and neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to him, Venters wished that Jane were there to see the race to recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the giant sorrel.  Then Venters found himself thankful that she was absent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card’s death.  The first flush, the raging of Venters’s wrath, passed, to leave him in sullen, almost cold possession of his will.  It was a deadly mood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, and released by the wild passions of wild men in a wild country.  The strength in him then—­the thing rife in him that was note hate, but something as remorseless—­might have been the fiery fruition of a whole lifetime of vengeful quest.  Nothing could have stopped him.

Venters thought out the race shrewdly.  The rider on Bells would probably drop behind and take to the sage.  What he did was of little moment to Venters.  To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden career as well as his present flight, and then to catch the blacks—­that was all that concerned Venters.  The cattle trail wound for miles and miles down the slope.  Venters saw with a rider’s keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear purple sage.  There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aid Card.  His only chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses and creeping away in the sage to hide.  In ten miles Wrangle could run Black Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could kill them outright.  So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card make the running.  It was a long race that would save the blacks.

In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept appreciably closer to the three horses.  Jerry Card turned again, and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to a gallop.  Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into his stride.

Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into a gallop.  The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run.  But Venters restrained him.  And in the gallop he gained more than in the canter.  Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star and Night had been trained to run.  Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to a quarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer.

Jerry Card wheeled once more.  Venters distinctly saw the red flash of his red face.  This time he looked long.  Venters laughed.  He knew what passed in Card’s mind.  The rider was trying to make out what horse it happened to be that thus gained on Jane Withersteen’s peerless racers.  Wrangle had so long been away from the village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten.