They rounded the base of the big mountain, and, glancing up at the ragged canyons which chopped the face of the peak, he was glad that he had not attempted that short cut.

If Ronicky Doone could make that trail he was a skillful horseman.
Bill Gregg swung up over the left shoulder of the mountain and found himself looking down on the wide plain which held Stillwater.

The air was crystal-clear and dry; the shoulder of the mountain was high above it; Gregg saw a breathless stretch of the cattle country at one sweep of his eyes.
Stillwater was still a long way off, and far away across the plain he saw a tiny moving dot that grew slowly.

It was the train heading for Stillwater, and that train he must beat to the station.

For a moment his heart stood still; then he saw that the train was distant indeed, and, by the slightest use of the mare's speed, he would be able to reach the town, two or three minutes ahead of it.
But, just as he was beginning to exult in the victory, after all the hard riding of the past three days, the mare tossed up her head and shortened her stride.