Blackleg could do it; he would make him do it, if he killed him in the end.
In three minutes Blackleg shot out of the stable door--a flash in the night.

The swift turn that was required of him he made on his hind legs, and then, with a plunge and a snort of delight, he was away over the level toward the wood.
Calumet guided Blackleg toward the spot where he had seen the rider, certain that he could not have gone far during the interval that had elapsed, but when he reached the spot there was no sign of a horse and rider in any direction.
For an instant only Calumet halted Blackleg, and then he spurred him down the river trail.

One mile, two, three, he rode at a breakneck pace, and then suddenly he was out of the timber and facing a plain that stretched into an interminable distance.

The trail lay straight and clear; there was no sign of a horse and rider on it.

Taggart had not come in this direction, though in this direction lay the Arrow.
He wheeled Blackleg and, with glowering eyes and straightened lips, rode him back the way he had come, halting often and peering into shadows.