with amazing power and accuracy.
She threw the stallion's rein over her left shoulder, and braced herself to fire from a standing position, leaning forward to absorb the recoil of the Winchester, and let her first shot fly.
She shot in the American style, throwing the rifle to her shoulder and firing in the same movement, not holding her aim nor giving the barrel time to wander. It was fine shooting.
'One hit to missis Sint John,' yelled the steward. But the crash of the shot had startled Shooting Star and he reared wildly and backed off on his hind legs, heaving at the reins that were looped over Louise's shoulder, jerking her over backwards so that her second shot flew in a long spurt of powder smoke towards the sky; and then she was down on her back, being dragged away, her skirts tangled about her legs, and the Winchester rifle was flung from her hand.
The stallion came down on his forelegs again. One hoof, sharp as a woodman's axe, grazed the tender spot at the nape of Louise's neck, just below the thick plait of dark hair, leaving an angry pink blaze on the pale skin but not breaking it.
Zouga felt the sweat on his throat turn so cold that he could not swallow. He swung Tom around to head off the stallion.
For unholy seconds Louise's body was hidden by flying dust and trampling hooves; Zouga tried to shout to her ,to let the horse go, but his voice had choked, and then abruptly Louise was on her knees.
She was facing Shooting Star, clinging stubbornly to his reins with both hands, and when he reared again she used his strength to let him boost her to her feet.
'Steady!' she called to him. 'Steady, I tell you., She was dusty and a tendril of dark hair had escaped the plait and hung into her eyes, but she was safe and very angry. Her voice crackled like breaking ice. Zouga's relief was immediate, but he mocked her as he swung Tom back to the firing line for his last target.
'I advise you to have that animal properly trained, madam.'
'To hell with you, Major Ballantyne!'she told him in the same tone as she had quelled her mount. Somehow the oath on her lips was not shocking at all, but strangely titillating.
Zouga gave Tom a few seconds to settle and regulate his breathing, and then swung up the rifle, held a full bead on the distant white speck and touched off the shot.
'Four hits, you are free to ride on, Major,' shouted the steward.
Louise was dragging Shooting Star by the reins to a wild plum tree, a tree with low and sturdy branches.
Swiftly she lashed the stallion's reins to a branch, and now she was running back holding her skirts up to just below the knee, and the stewards gawked at her ankles in the tight-fitting buttoned boots.
She snatched the Winchester from a clump of sansevieria and ran up towards the firing line, reloading as she came. Zouga could see that there were little blisters of perspiration across her forehead, and knew that she was badly shaken, for when she threw up the rifle she held the shot and the heavy weapon wavered unsteadily.
She lowered it, and her shoulders were trembling. She took two long deep breaths and then lifted the Winchester again, firing on the toss up.
'Hit!' yelled the steward.
Louise's lower lip was quivering and she bit down on it fiercely, and shot again.
Zouga slid the carbine back into its leather scabbard, touched the brim of his helmet to Louise in a cavalier salute. 'Good shooting, ma'am.'
He turned Tom's head away from the firing line.
As they reached the wild plum, Zouga leaned out from the saddle. Louise had tied Shooting Star's reins to the branch with a slippery fisherman, it was a sailor's knot, a quick-release knot for a fast getaway.
Zouga twitched the loose end and the knot fell apart, then he slapped Shooting Star across the cheek with his open hand. 'Go on,' he said. 'Get out of it!' The stallion jerked his head, found that he was free and kicked his heels high.
Zouga looked back as he reached the next low fold in the plain.
The stallion was grazing head down, but even at that distance it was apparent that he was keeping a wary eye on the lonely figure that ran after him in hampering skirts. As soon as Louise came within arm's length of his bridle, he tossed up his head and trotted away to the next clump of grass, leaving her blundering behind.
'Come, Tom.' He turned away, trying not to let his conscience trouble him. There were no rules, any rules was acceptable, but it still felt bad, until he reminded himself of the stakes. A shilling against all he owned and he set Tom to run in earnest.
Another mile and he glanced back, just in time to see Shooting Star and his rider come over the rise. They seemed to fly clear of the earth, borne along by the floating carpet of their own dust.
'Run! Tom! Run!' Zouga swept the hat off his head and slapped it against Tom's neck, goading him to his best speed.
Within another half mile Tom's shoulders were hot and slick with salt sweat. Ropes of saliva spilled from the corners of his lips and splattered onto Zouga's boots , but the yellow flag was in sight.
'Not far,' Zouga called to him anxiously. 'We must beat them to the flag.'
He looked back. He could not believe they were so close.
The stallion's head was driving like a hammer to each stride, and his neck and shoulders were black with sweat. She had pushed him fearfully. Louise was driving him with her arms and the rhythmic force of her body.
Her hair was a wild tangle about her face, and her eyes were a blaze of blue.
Yet as she came up to them she straightened in the saddle, her chin lifted high, and she looked at Zouga coldly, expressionlessly, the way a queen might glance at an urchin running at the wheel of her coach.
