His left arm hung limp, almost useless; he handled the rein with his right; and most of the time he hung low over the pommel.

The gray walls flashing by him, the whip of twigs, the rush of wind, the heavy, rapid pound of hoofs, the violent motion of his horse--these vied in sensation with the smart of sweat in his eyes, the rack of his wound, the cold, sick cramp in his stomach.

With these also was dull, raging fury.

He had to run when he wanted to fight.

It took all his mind to force back that bitter hate of himself, of his pursuers, of this race for his useless life.
Suddenly he burst out of a line of mesquite into the road.