As he flashed past her she looked at Calumet also. His face was pale;
there was a splotch of blood on his lips which told of an internal
hemorrhage brought on by the terrific jarring that he had received, but
in his eyes was an expression of unalterable resolve; the grim, cold,
immutable calm of purpose. Oh, he would win, she knew. Nothing but
death could defeat him. That was his nature--his character. There was
no alternative. He saw none, would admit none. He found time, as he
went past her, to grin at her, and the grin, though a trifle wan,
contained much of its old mockery and contempt of her judgment of him.
The black raced on for a hundred yards, and what ensued might have been
an accident, or it might have been the deliberate result of the black's
latest trick. He came to a sudden stop, rose on his hind legs and
threw himself backward, toppling, rigid, upon his back to the ground.
As he rose for the fall Calumet slipped out of the saddle and leaped
sideways to escape being crushed. He succeeded in this effort, but as
he leaped the spur on his right heel caught in the hollow of the
black's hip near the flank, the foot refused to come free, it caught,
jammed, and Calumet fell heavily beside the horse, luckily a little to
one side, so that the black lay prone beside him.
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