They rode side by side, saving the animals for the rush at the finish, yet putting them at a pace that drew upon vitality and staying power.  Curving around a clump of white oaks, the road straightened out before them for several hundred yards, at the end of which they could see the ruined mill.

“Now for it!” the girl cried.

She urged the horse by suddenly leaning forward with her body, at the same time, for an instant, letting the rein slack and touching the neck with her bridle hand.  She began to draw away from the man.

“Touch her on the neck!” she cried to him.

With this, the mare pulled alongside and began gradually to pass the girl.  Chris and Lute looked at each other for a moment, the mare still drawing ahead, so that Chris was compelled slowly to turn his head.  The mill was a hundred yards away.

“Shall I give him the spurs?” Lute shouted.

The man nodded, and the girl drove the spurs in sharply and quickly, calling upon the horse for its utmost, but watched her own horse forge slowly ahead of her.

“Beaten by three lengths!” Lute beamed triumphantly, as they pulled into a walk.  “Confess, sir, confess!  You didn’t think the old mare had it in her.”

Lute leaned to the side and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly’s wet neck.

“Ban’s a sluggard alongside of her,” Chris affirmed.  “Dolly’s all right, if she is in her Indian Summer.”

Lute nodded approval.  “That’s a sweet way of putting it—­Indian Summer.  It just describes her.  But she’s not lazy.  She has all the fire and none of the folly.  She is very wise, what of her years.”

“That accounts for it,” Chris demurred.  “Her folly passed with her youth.  Many’s the lively time she’s given you.”

“No,” Lute answered.  “I never knew her really to cut up.  I think the only trouble she ever gave me was when I was training her to open gates.  She was afraid when they swung back upon her—­the animal’s fear of the trap, perhaps.  But she bravely got over it.  And she never was vicious.  She never bolted, nor bucked, nor cut up in all her life—­never, not once.”

The horses went on at a walk, still breathing heavily from their run.  The road wound along the bottom of the valley, now and again crossing the stream.  From either side rose the drowsy purr of mowing-machines, punctuated by occasional sharp cries of the men who were gathering the hay-crop.  On the western side of the valley the hills rose green and dark, but the eastern side was already burned brown and tan by the sun.

“There is summer, here is spring,” Lute said.  “Oh, beautiful Sonoma Valley!”

Her eyes were glistening and her face was radiant with love of the land.  Her gaze wandered on across orchard patches and sweeping vineyard stretches, seeking out the purple which seemed to hang like a dim smoke in the wrinkles of the hills and in the more distant canyon gorges.  Far up, among the more rugged crests, where the steep slopes were covered with manzanita, she caught a glimpse of a clear space where the wild grass had not yet lost its green.