bred. The moon shone a little brighter on him than on any other of the
six riders.

Bud Mansie behind, for instance, kept his head slightly to one side
and cursed beneath his breath at the storm and set his teeth at the
wind. His horse, delicately formed, with long, slender legs, could not
have endured that charge against the storm save that it constantly
edged behind the leaders and let them break the wind. It carried less
weight than any other mount of the six, and its strength was cunningly
nursed by the rider so that it kept its place, and at the finish it
would be as strong as any and swifter, perhaps, for a sudden, short
effort, just as Bud Mansie might be numbed through all his nervous,
slender body, but never too numb for swift and deadly action.

On the opposite wing of the flying wedge galloped a dust-colored gray,
ragged of mane and tail, and vindictive of eye, like its down-headed
rider, who shifted his glance rapidly from side to side and watched
the ground closely before his horse as if he were perpetually prepared
for danger.

He distrusted the very ground over which his mount strode. For all
this he seemed the least formidable of all the riders. To see him pass
none could have suspected that this was Black Morgan Gandil.

Last of the crew came two men almost as large as Jim Boone himself, on
strong steady-striding horses. They came last in this crew, but among
a thousand other long-riders they would have ridden first, either
red-faced, good-humored, loud-voiced Garry Patterson, or Phil Branch,
stout-handed, blunt of jaw, who handled men as he had once hammered
red iron at the forge.