Their blood was his blood, their courage his courage, their endurance his endurance.

The difference between them was the difference between the factory machine and the hand made work of art.

From his pasterns to his withers, from his hoofs to his croup every muscle was perfectly designed and perfectly placed for speed, tireless running; every bone was the maximum of lightness and strength combined.

A feather bloom on a steady wind, such was the gait of Satan.
Down the hollow the posse thundered, and up the farther slope, and still the black slipped away from them until Mark Retherton cursed deeply to himself.
"Don't race your hosses, boys," he shouted.

"Keep 'em in hand.