United States or Liberia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single file down the ridge. Sarchedon's shrill neigh, like a whistle-blast, pealed in from the sage. From, fields and corrals clamored the answer attended by the clattering of hundreds of hoofs. Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter canter to gallop and soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court.
She was obsessed by things intimately concerning herself. "Oh, I oughtn't to go," she said, aloud. But she did not even check Sarchedon's long swing, his rocking-chair lope. She had said a hundred times that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had fallen despairingly, terribly in love with her.
Like a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and led them up to Bostil. On Sarchedon's neck showed a dry, dust-caked stain of reddish tinge. Holley, the old hawk-eyed rider, had precedence in the examination. "Wal, thet's a bullet-mark, plain as day," said Holley. "Who shot him?" demanded Bostil. Holley shook his gray head.
There was no scar on his face, but the irregularity of his features reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in the face by a horse. Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly pity him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had an antipathy for him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been reminded by Sarchedon's action.
Word Of The Day