He was cool, first of all, in
spite of his grimness; he kept his temper, he was absolutely without
fear; he was implacable, inexorable in his determination to conquer.
Somehow the battle between horse and man, as it raged up and down
before her, sometimes shifting to the far end of the level, sometimes
coming so near that she could see the expression of Calumet's face
plainly, seemed to be a contest between kindred spirits. The analogy,
perhaps, might not have been perceived by anyone less intimately
acquainted with Calumet, or by anyone who understood a horse less, but
she saw it, and knowing Calumet's innate savagery, his primal
stubbornness, his passions, the naked soul of the man, she began to
feel that the black was waging a hopeless struggle. He could never win
unless some accident happened.
And they were very near her when it seemed that an accident did happen.
The black, his tongue now hanging out, the foam that issued from his
mouth flecked with blood; his sides in a lather; his flanks moist and
torn from the cruel spur-points: seemed to be losing his cunning and to
be trusting entirely to his strength and yielding to his rage. She
could hear his breath coming shrilly as he tore past her; the whites of
his eyes white no longer, but red with the murder lust. It seemed to
her that he must divine that defeat was imminent, and in a transport of
despair he was determined to stake all on a last reckless move.
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