He was the worse for that. As long as the whistling might reach him he
could tell how near the pursuer rode; but in this common roar of the
rain the man might be at any distance behind him--on his very heels,
indeed. Ay, Dan Barry might rush upon him from behind. He had seen that
black stallion and he would never forget--those graceful, agile lines,
that generous breast, wide for infinite wind and the great heart. If the
stallion were exerted, it could overtake his own mount as if he were
standing still. Not on good footing, perhaps, but in this mucky ground
the weight of his horse was terribly against him. He drove the spurs
home again; he looked back again and again, piercing the driving mist of
rain with starting eyes. He was safe still; the destroyer was not in
sight; yet he might be riding close behind that wall of rain.
His horse came to a sudden halt, sliding on all four feet and driving up
a rush of dirty water before him; even then he had stopped barely in
time, for his forefeet were buried to the knees in water. Before Mac
Strann lay a wide arroyo. In ordinary weather it was dry as all the
desert around, but now it had cupped the water from miles around and ran
bank full, a roaring torrent. On its surface the rain beat with a
continual crashing, like axes falling on brittle glass; and the downpour
was now so fearful that Mac Strann, for all his peering, could not look
to the other side.
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