Haste--the haste of the pursuer--showed in every movement, every line of her figure.
She came to the descent, and the pinto, having no desire for applause but a very great hankering for whole bones in his body, planted his forefeet and slid to a stop upon the brink.

His snort came clearly down to those below who watched.
"He won't tackle it," Pete Lowry predicted philosophically while he turned the camera crank steadily round and round and held himself ready to "panoram" the scene if the pinto bolted.
But the pinto, having Annie-Many-Ponies to reckon with, did not bolt.
The braided rein-end of her squaw bridle lashed him stingingly; the moccasined heels dug without mercy into the tender part of his flanks.
He came lunging down over the first rim of the bluff; then since he must, he gathered himself for the ordeal and came leaping down and down and down, gaining momentum with every jump.

He could not have stopped then if he had tried--and Annie-Many-Ponies, still the incarnation of eager pursuit, would not let him try.
At the big flat rock of which Jean had warned her, the pinto would have swerved.

But she yanked him into the straighter descent, down over the bank.

He leaped, and he fell and slid twice his own length, his nose rooting the soil.