He was an ugly headed monster with a savagely hooked Roman nose and
small, keen eyes, always red at the corners. A medieval baron in full
panoply of plate armor would have chosen such a charger among ten
thousand steeds, yet the black stallion needed all his strength to
uphold the unarmored giant who bestrode him, a savage figure.
When the broad brim of his hat flapped up against the wind the
moonshine caught at shaggy brows, a cruelly arched nose, thin,
straight lips, and a forward-thrusting jaw. It seemed as if nature had
hewn him roughly and designed him for a primitive age where he could
fight his way with hands and teeth.
This was Jim Boone. To his right and a little behind him galloped a
riderless horse, a beautiful young animal continually tossing its
head and looking as if for guidance at the big stallion.
To the left strode a handsome bay with pricking ears. A mound
interfered with his course, and he cleared it in magnificent style
that would have brought a cheer from the lips of any English lover of
the chase.
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