freshly-turned earth, or occasionally stretching out to step over an entrance hole.
The ground squirrels were almost indistinguishable from their northern cousins, except for the stripe down their furry backs and their terrestrial habit. They stood on their hind legs, like small groups of spectators at the entrance of each warren, their expressions comically astonished and their long bushy tails curled over their backs as Tom pounded past them.
Zouga looked over his shoulder. Shooting Star was off the steep slope of the hills, down onto the open plain, and it was apparent that he was burning the last reserves of his great strength, coming on in a blazing run, driving with his forelegs, and then bunching up his sweat drenched hindquarters to hurl himself into the next stride. Louise was pushing him with her arms, like a washerwoman working over the scrubbing board, but she was too far behind for Zouga to see the expression on her face.
Much too far behind, half a mile behind, and there was less than a mile to run to the line of gaily coloured bunting that marked the finish.
Zouga could clearly see the crowds on each side of the posts, thick as bees at the entrance to the hive, and others were running for the wagons to join them.
He could hear the faint pop of gunfire, see the little spurts of gunsmoke jumping up above the heads of the crowd as his supporters fired into the air in jubilation.
Soon he would hear their voices, catch the sound of their cheers, even above the beat of Tom's hooves.
It was all over. He had won. He had won back his claims, the cherished image of the falcon god, and the five thousand pounds with which he could take his family away to a new life. He had taken on the gods of chance and won.
He had only one regret, that the courage of the horse and rider behind him had been in vain. Careful not to unbalance Tom's heavy unlovely gallop, he looked back under his own arm.
By God, she had not yet accepted defeat. She was driving with all her strength and all her heart, pushing the horse as hard as she pushed herself, coming on so swiftly that Zouga glanced uneasily over Tom's pricked ears to reassure himself as to the proximity of the finish line. No, there was no chance, even at that tremendous speed, Shooting Star could never catch them.
Already he could hear the voices of the crowd, make out their individual faces, even recognize Pickering, the chief steward, on his seat on the wagon, and beside him Rhodes' unmistakable bulk and the mop of unruly hair.
With him to witness it, Zouga's triumph was complete.
He turned for the last time to look back at Shooting Star, just in time to see him fall. It had been much too fast, too uncontrolled, that wild gallop across ground rotten with squirrel warrens. Shooting Star's front legs went from under him. Zouga imagined he could hear the bone break, like the crack of a pistol shot, and the huge horse went down from full gallop, shoulder first, neck twisted around in an agonized contortion'like that of a dying flamingo; dust flew up in a cloud, blanketing them, and above it the stallion's hooves kicked spasmodically, convulsively, and then sagged.
The pale beige dust cloud drifted aside, revealing the tragic tangle of horse and rider. Shooting Star lay on his side and, as Zouga reined in and swung Tom's nose back the way he had come, the great stallion made a feeble effort to lift his head off the ground and then let it fall back weakly.
Louise's body had been flung clear. She lay curled like a sleeping child on the bare earth, very still, very small.
'Ha, Tom, ha!'Zouga urged him to greater speed. He was shocked at the sense of utter desolation that assailed him as he galloped back to where she lay. There was something so final, so terribly chilling in her stillness, in the complete relaxation, the lifelessness of that tiny crumpled body.
'Please God,' Zouga spoke aloud, his throat seared by dust and thirst and dread. 'Please don't let it be.'
He imagined the lovely delicate neck twisted at an impossible angle against the shattered vertebrae. He imagined the awful bloodless depression in the delicate dome of her skull; he imagined those huge dark eyes, open and staring, the inner glow fading, he imagined, oh God, he imagined, Then he was kicking his feet clear of the stirrups and jumping down even while Tom was at full gallop, stumbling to keep his balance and then running to where she lay.
Louise uncurled her body and rolled lightly to her feet.
'Come, darling, up darling,' she called to Shooting Star, as she ran to him. The stallion lunged once, twice and then he was standing, head up.
'What a clever darling,' Louise laughed, but with the huskiness of excitement and the tremor of heart-breaking exertion in the sound of it.
She did not have the strength left to vault for the saddle, and for a moment she hopped with one foot in the stirrup before she could find the energy to swing her other leg up over Shooting Star's back, while Zouga stood and gaped at her.
From the saddle she looked down at Zouga. 'Playing dead is an old Blackfoot Indian's trick, Major.'
Louise swung the stallion's head towards the finish line.
'Let's see you run the last lap on equal terms,' she challenged, and Shooting Star jumped away at full gallop.
For a moment Zouga could not bring himself to believe that she had taught the stallion to fall so convincingly, and to lie so still. Then suddenly his concern for her safety, the desolate feeling of believing her dead or maimed turned to fury and outrage.
As he ran back to where Tom stood, he yelled after her.
'Madam, you are a cheat, may God forgive you for that.'
She turned in the saddle and waved gaily. 'Sir, you are gullible, but I will forgive you for that.'
And Shooting Star bore her away towards the finish at a pace that poor Tom could never match.
