This was what she wanted, and if it had broken her infernal neck so much the better.
Miss Falkland was sitting straight and square, with her hands down, leaning a bit back, and doing her level best to stop the brute.

Her hat was off and her hair had fallen down and hung down her back--plenty of it there was, too.

The mare's neck was stretched straight out; her mouth was like a deal board, I expect, by that time.
We didn't sit staring at her all the time, you bet.

We could see the boy ever so far off.

We gathered up our reins and went after her, not in a hurry, but just collecting ourselves a bit to see what would be the best way to wheel the brute and stop her.
Jim's horse was far and away the fastest, and he let out to head the mare off from a creek that was just in front and at the end of the plain.
'By George!' said one of the men--a young fellow who lived near the place--'the mare's turning off her course, and she's heading straight for the Trooper's Downfall, where the policeman was killed.