The others ran toward him; the large man struck
a match. The white horse was limping on three
legs. They bent over and examined the fourth.
The match went out. All straightened up. As
they did so Pat sounded a shrill nicker.

"Busted!" exclaimed the large man, quietly.
"Well, I'm a goat! That black horse has kicked
old Tom clear over the divide. I -- I'm clean done!
Quick as lightning, too! No preambles; no circumlocutions;
no nothing. Just put it to him.
Good Lord!" Then he regretfully drew a revolver.
"I reckon you boys better stand back."

A shot broke the quiet, and the desert shivered
and was still again. The white horse sank to the
ground. Stephen walked to Pat, struck a match,
and looked him over critically. Pat was torn and
bleeding in two places along the neck, but otherwise
he needed no attention. Stephen patted him
thoughtfully, gratefully, fighting the horror of
what might have been had this splendid horse
weakened in the crisis. No wonder the little girl
in the valley worshiped him.

But he said nothing. After a time he returned
to the fire and sat down among a very sober group
of men. Presently the man with the scrubby
beard broke the quiet. His voice sounded hollow
and distressed.

"I knowed it," he declared. "Though I
thought old Tom 'u'd done better." He began
to roll a cigarette. "Pore old Tom! He's killed;
he's dead -- dead and gone." With the cigarette
made, he snatched a brand from the fire and lighted

[[221]]

p220 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p221w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p222

v?