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 Path, Almayne in the lead, the fringes of his buckskin shirt streaming in the breeze, his long rifle balanced in his right hand.

Teeth clenched, muscles taut, Jolie bent forward over Selu's neck. She saw Almayne glance behind him, saw the frown on his brow, read the thought that was in his mind.

The spurs of her riding boots tickled Selu's sides. The claybank was racing now, and Jolie, head down, boring into the wind, spoke to him coolly, gently:

"Faster, Selu! Faster, my sweet boy! We'll teach Almayne something, you and I."

The gale shrilled in her ears. Above the rush of the wind she could no longer hear the thunder of Tuti's hoofs behind her. The Path was hard here, the grass that grew in it was short, its curves as it wound through the forest were long and sweeping; yet Jolie knew that it would have been madness to race an English horse at such break-neck speed along that trail. But she knew also that the Chicasaw horses were marvellously sure-footed, and ahead of her Nunda was racing, too. Almayne had let the piebald out; he was doing his best, and his best was good. For some minutes he held his lead; then, little by little, the space between them lessened, and Jolie smiled.

As inch by inch she drew abreast of Almayne, as inch by inch she passed him, she turned her face to him so that he could see that smile.