The trail was a winding, hard-packed thread of white ground. It had been
made for leisurely travel. Many turns were sudden and sharp. I loosened the
reins, and cried out to Target. Evidently I had unknowingly held him in,
for he lengthened out, and went on in quicker, longer leaps. In that moment
riding seemed easy. I listened to the roar behind me, now a little less
deafening, and began to thrill. We were running away from the fire.
Hope made the race seem different. Something stirred and beat warm within
me, driving out the chill in my marrow. I leaned over the neck of the great
bay horse, and called to him and cheered him on. Then I saw he was deaf and
blind to me, for he was wild. He had the bit between his teeth, and was
running away.
The roar behind us relentlessly pursuing, only a little less appalling, was
now not my only source of peril. Target could no more be guided nor stopped
than could the forest fire. The trail grew more winding and overhung more
thickly by pine branches. The horse did not swerve an inch for tree or
thicket, but ran as if free, and the saving of my life began to be a matter
of dodging. Once a crashing blow from a branch almost knocked me from the
saddle. The wind in my ears half drowned the roar behind me. With hands
twisted in Target's mane I bent low, watching with keen eyes for the trees
and branches ahead.
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