Lute's lips. One hind leg of the mare seemed to collapse, and for a moment the
whole quivering body, upreared and perpendicular, swayed back and forth, and

there was uncertainty as to whether it would fall forward or backward. The
man, half-slipping sidewise from the saddle, so as to fall clear if the mare

toppled backward, threw his weight to the front and alongside her neck. This
overcame the dangerous teetering balance, and the mare struck the ground on

her feet again.
But there was no let-up. Dolly straightened out so that the line of the face

was almost a continuation of the line of the stretched neck; this position
enabled her to master the bit, which she did by bolting straight ahead down

the road.
For the first time Lute became really frightened. She spurred Washoe Ban in

pursuit, but he could not hold his own with the mad mare, and dropped
gradually behind. Lute saw Dolly check and rear in the air again, and caught

up just as the mare made a second bolt. As Dolly dashed around a bend, she
stopped suddenly, stiff-legged. Lute saw her lover torn out of the saddle, his

thigh-grip broken by the sudden jerk. Though he had lost his seat, he had not
been thrown, and as the mare dashed on Lute saw him clinging to the side of

the horse, a hand in the mane and a leg across the saddle. With a quick cavort
he regained his seat and proceeded to fight with the mare for control.

But Dolly swerved from the road and dashed down a grassy slope yellowed with
innumerable mariposa lilies. An ancient fence at the bottom was no obstacle.

She burst through as though it were filmy spider-web and disappeared in the
underbrush. Lute followed unhesitatingly, putting Ban through the gap in the

fence and plunging on into the thicket. She lay along his neck, closely, to
escape the ripping and tearing of the trees and vines. She felt the horse drop

down through leafy branches and into the cool gravel of a stream's bottom.
From ahead came a splashing of water, and she caught a glimpse of Dolly,

dashing up the small bank and into a clump of scrub-oaks, against the trunks
of which she was trying to scrape off her rider.

Lute almost caught up amongst the trees, but was hopelessly outdistanced on
the fallow field adjoining, across which the mare tore with a fine disregard

for heavy ground and gopher-holes. When she turned at a sharp angle into the
thicket-land beyond, Lute took the long diagonal, skirted the ticket, and

reined in Ban at the other side. She had arrived first. From within the
thicket she could hear a tremendous crashing of brush and branches. Then the

mare burst through and into the open, falling to her knees, exhausted, on the
soft earth. She arose and staggered forward, then came limply to a halt. She

was in lather-sweat of fear, and stood trembling pitiably.
Chris was still on her back. His shirt was in ribbons. The backs of his hands

were bruised and lacerated, while his face was streaming blood from a gash
near the temple. Lute had controlled herself well, but now she was aware of a

quick nausea and a trembling of weakness.
"Chris!" she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. Then she sighed,

"Thank God."
"Oh, I'm all right," he cried to her, putting into his voice all the

heartiness he could command, which was not much, for he had himself been under
no mean nervous strain.

He showed the reaction he was undergoing, when he swung down out of the
saddle. He began with a brave muscular display as he lifted his leg over, but

ended, on his feet, leaning against the limp Dolly for support. Lute flashed
out of her saddle, and her arms were about him in an embrace of thankfulness.

"I know where there is a spring," she said, a moment later.
They left the horses standing untethered, and she led her lover into the cool

recesses of the thicket to where crystal water bubbled from out the base of
the mountain.

"What was that you said about Dolly's never cutting up?" he asked, when the
blood had been stanched and his nerves and pulse-beats were normal again.

"I am stunned," Lute answered. "I cannot understand it. She never did anything
like it in all her life. And all animals like you so--it's not because of

that. Why, she is a child's horse. I was only a little girl when I first rode
her, and to this day--"

"Well, this day she was everything but a child's horse," Chris broke in. "She
was a devil. She tried to scrape me off against the trees, and to batter my

brains out against the limbs. She tried all the lowest and narrowest places
she could find. You should have seen her squeeze through. And did you see

those bucks?"
Lute nodded.

"Regular bucking-bronco proposition."
"But what should she know about bucking?" Lute demanded. "She was never known

to buck--never."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Some forgotten instinct, perhaps, long-lapsed and

come to life again."
The girl rose to her feet determinedly. "I'm going to find out," she said.

They went back to the horses, where they subjected Dolly to a rigid
examination that disclosed nothing. Hoofs, legs, bit, mouth, body--everything

was as it should be. The saddle and saddle-cloth were innocent of bur or
sticker; the back was smooth and unbroken. They searched for sign of

snake-bite and sting of fly or insect, but found nothing.
"Whatever it was, it was subjective, that much is certain," Chris said.

"Obsession," Lute suggested.
They laughed together at the idea, for both were twentieth-century products,

healthy-minded and normal, with souls that delighted in the butterfly-chase of
ideals but that halted before the brink where superstition begins.

"An evil spirit," Chris laughed; "but what evil have I done that I should be
so punished?"

"You think too much of yourself, sir," she rejoined. "It is more likely some
evil, I don't know what, that Dolly has done. You were a mere accident. I

might have been on her back at the time, or Aunt Mildred, or anybody."
As she talked, she took hold of the stirrup-strap and started to shorten it.

"What are you doing?" Chris demanded.
"I'm going to ride Dolly in."

"No, you're not," he announced. "It would be bad discipline. After what has
happened I am simply compelled to ride her in myself."

But it was a very weak and very sick mare he rode, stumbling and halting,
afflicted with nervous jerks and recurring muscular spasms--the aftermath of

the tremendous orgasm through which she had passed.
"I feel like a book of verse and a hammock, after all that has happened," Lute

said, as they rode into camp.
It was a summer camp of city-tired people, pitched in a grove of towering

redwoods through whose lofty boughs the sunshine trickled down, broken and
subdued to soft light and cool shadow. Apart from the main camp were the

kitchen and the servants' tents; and midway between was the great dining hall,
walled by the living redwood columns, where fresh whispers of air were always

to be found, and where no canopy was needed to keep the sun away.
"Poor Dolly, she is really sick," Lute said that evening, when they had

returned from a last look at the mare. "But you weren't hurt, Chris, and
that's enough for one small woman to be thankful for. I thought I knew, but I

really did not know till to-day, how much you meant to me. I could hear only
the plunging and struggle in the thicket. I could not see you, nor know how it

went with you."
"My thoughts were of you," Chris answered, and felt the responsive pressure of

the hand that rested on his arm.
She turned her face up to his and met his lips.

"Good night," she said.
"Dear Lute, dear Lute," he caressed her with his voice as she moved away among

the shadows.
*******

"Who's going for the mail?" called a woman's voice through the trees.
Lute closed the book from which they had been reading, and sighed.

"We weren't going to ride to-day," she said.
"Let me go," Chris proposed. "You stay here. I'll be down and back in no

time."
She shook her head.

"Who's going for the mail?" the voice insisted.