LIFE AND DEATH
The third group in the affray consisted of cowboys. Weary and
bedraggled, yet joyous at the suppression of the uprising, they set out
for home about noon. Stephen, mounted upon Pat, accompanied them. They
headed into the northwest, riding slowly, talking over the affair, while
Stephen explained in part his interest in the black horse. Night found
them near a water-hole, and here they went into camp, Stephen weak and
distressed, his whole body aching, his arm and shoulder throbbing in
agonizing pain. The men proved attentive and considerate; but he lay
down exhausted and courted sleep, hardly hearing what they said. Sleep
came to him only fitfully, and he was glad when break of day brought a
change. They rode on through the second day, usually in sober silence,
on into another dusk and another night of torture. A third day and a
third dusk followed, but there was no camp this time. Continuing
forward, just before dawn, with the moon brilliant in the heavens, they
reached a cluster of buildings. One of them was a dwelling with a fence
around it as a protection against cattle and horses, and to the rear of
this all dismounted. Stephen led Pat into a spacious stable, and, with
the assistance of the others, unsaddled and unbridled him, watered and
fed him generously, then left him for the night.
Instantly Pat began to inquire into his condition and surroundings. He
was stiff and sore and a little nervous from the events of the past few
days, and he found the stable, spacious though it was, depressing after
his protracted life in the open. Yet there were many offsetting
comforts. He had received a generous supply of grain and all the water
he could drink. Then there was another comfort, though he awoke to this
only after sinking to rest. His stall was thickly bedded with straw,
which was comfort indeed, and though he had become accustomed to the
pricking of the desert sand, he nestled into the straw with a sigh of
satisfaction. To his right and left other horses stirred restlessly, and
from outside came an occasional nicker, presumably from some unroofed
inclosure. All these sounds kept him awake for a time, and it was
approaching day before he felt himself sinking off into easy slumber.
He was awakened by the coming of a stranger into his stall. It was broad
daylight, and he hastily gained his feet, mystified for an instant that
he should be sleeping in broad day, and not a little troubled by his
strange surroundings. The new-comer was a fat youth with a round and
smiling face, who, as he raked down the bedding, talked in a pleasing
drawl.
"Pat," he began, shoving him over gently, "you're shore some cayuse.
Wouldn't mind ownin' a piece o' you myself. But I was goin' for to say
there's trouble come onto you. That mighty likable pardner o' yours is
gone in complete--sick to death. We've telephoned for the doc, but he's
off somewheres, and we've got to wait till he gits back. But it's shore
too bad--all of it. Steve he's got a nasty arm and shoulder, and he's
all gone generally. Mighty distressin' I call it."
With this he slapped Pat heartily and left him.
When he had gone Pat felt a depression creeping over him. It became
heavier as the hours passed. He knew that his young friend was somewhere
about, and could not understand why he failed to come to him himself,
instead of sending this stranger. Then, with the hours lengthening into
a day, and the days dragging into a week, with only the smiling stranger
coming to him regularly, and petting and stroking and talking to him, he
came to feel that something of grave and serious nature was going on
outside. So he longed to get out of the stable, out into sunlight and
away from this restraint, and to see for himself what it was that was
holding his master from him.
Then late one afternoon he heard a step approaching. It was his master's
step, yet it was very different. It was slow and dragging, and while the
voice was the same, yet there was a note of hollowness as he spoke that
did not belong there, a note as if it required great effort to speak at
all. But in spite of this he recognized his young master, and sounded a
welcoming nicker, anxious to be off. For somehow he believed that now he
would be taken out into the sunlight. Nor was he disappointed. After a
moment's petting the young man led him outdoors, and there began to
bridle and saddle him, slowly, with many pauses for breath, all as if it
hurt him, as indeed it must, since he still wore the white bandages.
Then there appeared a group of interested young men, suddenly, as though
they had just discovered the proposed departure.
"See here, Steve," one of them exploded, "this ain't treating us a bit
nice. You're a mighty sick man. I ain't saying that to worry you,
neither; but I can't see the idee of your hopping out of bed to do this
thing. You stick around till the doc comes again, anyway. Now, don't be
a fool, Steve."
Stephen continued slowly with his saddling. "It's decent of you
fellows," he said, quietly. "And I don't want you to think me
ungrateful. It's just a feeling I've got. I want to get this horse back
where he belongs."
Another of the group took up the attempt at persuasion. "But you're
sick, man!" he exclaimed, beginning to stroke Pat absently. "You won't
never make the depot! You owe it to everybody you've ever knowed to get
right back into bed and stay there!"
But Stephen only shook his head. Yet he knew that what the boys said was
true. He was sick, and he knew it. He realized that he ought to be in
bed. And he wanted to be in bed. But already he had suffered too much,
lying inert, not because of his arm and the fever upon him, though these
were almost unbearable, but because of the haunting fear, come to him
ever more insistently with each passing day, that since Pat had escaped
from him twice thus far, he was destined to escape from him a third
time. Sometimes this fear took shape in visions of a blazing fire in the
stable, in which Pat was burned to a crisp; again it took form in some
malady peculiar to horses which would prove equally disastrous. At last,
unable to withstand these pictures longer, he had crept out of bed,
dressed as best he could, and stolen out of the house, bent upon getting
Pat to the railroad, and there shipping him east to Helen at whatever
cost to himself. So here he was, about to ride off.
"You're--you're mighty decent," he repeated, hollowly, by way of
farewell. "But I've got to go. And don't worry about my making the
station," he added, reassuringly. "I have the directions, and I'll get
there in time to make that ten-thirty eastbound to-night." He clambered
painfully up into the saddle.
A third member of the group, the round-faced and smiling cowpuncher,
opened up with his pleasing drawl. "Why'n't you stay over till mornin',
then?" he demanded. "The ranch wagon goes up early, and you could ride
the seat just like a well man."
But Stephen remained obdurate, and, repeating his thanks and farewells,
he urged Pat forward at a walk because he himself could not stand the
racking of a more rapid gait. The men sent after him expressions of
regret mingled with friendly denunciations, but he rode steadily on,
closing his ears grimly against their pleas, and soon he was moving
slowly across the Arizona desert. His direction was northwest, and his
destination, though new to him, a little town on the Santa Fe.
As he rode forward through the quiet of the afternoon he found his
thoughts a curious conflict. At times he would think of the girl, and of
his love for her, and of the long, still hours spent in the ranch-house
brooding, especially the nights, when, gazing out at the stars, he had
wondered whether she knew, or, knowing, whether, after all, she really
cared. They had been lonely nights, fever-tossed and restless, nights
sometimes curiously made up of pictures--pictures of a runaway horse and
of a girl mounted upon the horse, and of long walks and rides and talks
with her afterward, and of the last night in her company, outside a
corral and underneath a smiling moon, the girl in white, her eyes
burning with a strange glow, himself telling his love for her, and
hearing in return only that she did not and could not return that love.
These were his thoughts at times as he rode forward through the desert
solitude. Then he would awaken to his physical torture, and in this he
would completely forget his spiritual distress, would ask why he had
flung himself into this mocking silence and plunged into all this misery
and pain. He knew why--knew it was because of the girl. But would it
have been better to accept her dismissal and, returning to the East, let
her pass out of his memory? In his heart he knew that he could not.
There followed the thought of his responsibility for Pat, and of what
was left for him to do. He recalled the theft, and his weeks of futile
riding to recover the horse, and the thrill accompanying risk of life
when he finally recovered him. And after that the second theft, and
another and more dreadful ride when he raced through the night after the
cavalry--the torture of it, the agony of his arm, the shooting, and the
grappling hand to hand, and Pat sinking with exhaustion, and the thrill
again, his own, at having the horse once more in his possession. It was
_worth_ it--all of it--and he was _glad_--glad to have had an
object for once in his life. And he still had that object, for was he
not riding the horse on a journey which would end in placing Pat in the
hands of the adorable girl who owned him?
Thus he rode through the afternoon and on into an early dusk. Suddenly
awaking to the Stygian darkness around him, he gave over thinking of the
past and future and turned uneasy thoughts upon the present. Above him
was a black, impenetrable dome, seemingly within touch of his hand;
around and about him pressed a dense wall that gave no hint of his
whereabouts. Yet he believed that he was pursuing the right direction;
and, forgetting that Pat, no more than himself, knew the route, he gave
the horse loose rein. Thus for an hour, two hours, three, he rode slowly
forward, when like a flash it came to him that he was hopelessly lost.
He reined in the horse sharply.
For a time he sat trying to place himself. Failing in this, he raised
his eyes, hoping for a break in the skies. But there was no glimmer of
light, and after a while, not knowing what else to do, he sent Pat
forward again. But his uneasiness would not down, and presently he drew
rein again, dismounted, and fell to listening. There was not a breath of
air. He took a step forward, his uneasiness becoming fear, and again
stood motionless, listening, gripped by the oppressive stillness of the
desert. It crept upon him, this death-quiet, seemed to close about him
suffocatingly. Suddenly he started. Out of the dense blackness had come
a voice, weak and plaintive. He turned tense with excitement and
listened keenly.
"Hello, there! This--over this way!"
He could see nothing; but he moved in the direction of the voice. After
a few strides he was stopped by a consciousness of something before him,
and there was a constrained groan.
"Careful, man--I'm hurt. Unhorsed this morning. Been crawling all day
for shade. Strike a match, will you? God! but it's a night!"
Stephen struck a light. As it flared up he saw prone in the sand a young
man, his face drawn with pain, his eyes dark and hunted. The match went
out. He struck another. The man was pitifully bruised and broken. A leg
of his trousers had been torn away, and the limb lay exposed, strangely
twisted. His track, made in crawling through the sand, stood out
clearly, trailing away beyond the circling glow of light. A moment of
flickering, and the second match went out.
"Which way were you headed, friend?" Stephen asked, pityingly. His heart
went out to the stricken stranger. He wanted to ask another question,
too, but he hesitated. But finally he asked it. "Who are you, old man?"
For a moment the fellow did not reply. The silence was oppressive.
Stephen regretted his question. Then suddenly the man answered him,
weakly, bitterly, as one utterly remorseful.
"I'm Jim," he blurted out. "Horse-thief, cattle-rustler."
Stephen bit his lip. More than ever he regretted that he had asked.
Well, something had to be done, and done quickly. Could he but feel sure
of his direction, he might place this unfortunate upon Pat and walk with
him to the railroad town, where proper medical and surgical attendance
could be obtained. But this he was unable to do, since he fully realized
he was astray.
"Brother," he suddenly explained, "I was headed, myself, toward the
railroad. A little before dark I lost my way. Do you happen to know--"
"Sit down," interrupted the other, faintly. "I've been--been lost--a
week."
Stephen sat down thoughtfully. All hope of serving the man for the
present was gone. He must wait till daybreak at least. Then somebody or
something might appear to show him the way out. He thought of the ranch
wagon, and of Buddy's offer, and it occurred to him that unless he was
too far off the regular course he might attract Buddy. It was a chance,
anyway.
"I've been 'most dead, too, for a week," suddenly began the other. "I
'ain't eat regularly, for one thing--'most a month of that, I reckon.
Been times, too, when I couldn't--couldn't find water. I didn't know the
country over here. Had to change--change horses a couple times, too.
Because--" He checked himself. "I made a mistake--the last horse. He
give me all--all that was comin'--"
A nicker from Pat interrupted him. Stephen felt him cringe. Directly he
felt something else. It was a cold hand groping to find his own. The
whole thing was queer, uncanny, and he was glad when the man went on.
"Did--did you hear that?" breathed the fellow, a note of suppressed
terror in his voice. "Did you hear it, friend? Tell me!" His voice was
shrill now.
Stephen reassured him, explaining that it was his horse. But a long time
the man held fast, fingers gripping his hand, as if he did not believe,
and was listening to make sure. At length he relaxed, and Stephen, still
seated close beside him, heard him sink back into the sand.
"I was getting away from--from--Oh, well, it don't--don't make any
difference." The fellow was silent. "I needed a--a horse," he continued,
finally. "My own--the third since--since--my own had played out. I was
near a ranch, and--and it was night, and I--I seen a corral with a horse
standing in it--a gray. It was moonlight. I--I got the gate open, and
I--I roped him, and--" He interrupted himself, was upon one elbow again.
"It was a stallion--a cross-bred, maybe--and--and say, friend, he rode
me to death! I got on him before I knowed what he was. Bareback. He shot
out of that corral like he was crazy. But I--I managed to hold--hold to
him and--if he'd only bucked me off! But he didn't. He just raced for
it--tore across the country like a cyclone. He rode me to death, a
hundred miles, I bet, without a stop. And I held on--couldn't let
go--was afraid to let go." He was silent. "Are you--you dead sure,
friend, that was your horse?"
Stephen again reassured him, realizing the fear upon the man and now
understanding it. But he said nothing.
"And then somewhere off here he throwed me," went on the man. "But
he--he was a raving maniac. He turned on me before I could get up, and
bit and kicked and trampled me till I didn't know nothing--was asleep,
or something. When I came to--woke up--he was still hanging around. He's
around here yet! I heard him all day--yesterday! He's off there to the
east somewheres. He's--he's looking for me. I kept still whenever I'd
see him or hear him, and then when he'd move off out of sight, or
quit--quit his nickering, I'd crawl along some more. I'm--I'm done,
stranger," he concluded, weakly, dropping over upon his back. "I'm done,
and I know it. And it was that horse that--that--" He was silent.
Stephen did not speak. He could not speak after this fearsome tale. Its
pictures haunted him. He could see this poor fellow racing across the
desert, clinging for life to that which meant death. His own condition
had been brought about through a horse, a horse and wild rides at a time
when he should have been, as this unfortunate undoubtedly should have
been, in bed under medical care. For a moment he thought he would tell
him a tale of misery equal to his own, in the hope that he might turn
him from thoughts of his own misfortunes. But before he could speak the
other broke in upon his thoughts with a shrill outcry. He had raised
himself upon one elbow again, and now was pointing toward the eastern
sky.
"Look!" he cried. "Look off there!"
Stephen turned his eyes in the direction of the pointing finger. He saw
a faint light breaking through the black dome of the sky. As he watched
it, it trickled out steadily, like slow-spreading water, filtering
slowly through dense banks of clouds, folding them back like the shutter
of a giant camera, until the whole eastern sky was a field of gray
clouds with frosty edges, between which, coming majestically forward
through the green-white billow, appeared finally a moon, big and round
and brilliant, casting over the earth a flood of wonderland light,
streaming down upon the dunes and flats in mystic sheen, bringing out
the desert in soft outline. Near by, the light brought out the form of
Pat, standing a short distance off with drooping head, motionless in all
the splendor of his perfect outline. Stephen turned back to the man. He
found him staring hard at the horse. He did not understand this until
the fellow burst out excitedly, his eyes still fixed on Pat.
"Whose horse is that?" he demanded. "Tell me. Do you own that black
horse?"
Stephen slowly shook his head. He thought the question but another
expression of the stranger's nervous apprehension due to his experience.
Yet he explained.
"He belongs back in New Mexico," he said, quietly--"the Rio Grande
Valley. He was stolen last spring. Been ridden pretty hard since, I
guess. I happen to know where he belongs, though, and I was taking him
to a shipping-point when I lost my way. That's the horse you heard
nicker a while ago," he added, soothingly.
The man sank flat again.
"I stole him," he blurted out. "I--I hope you'll get him back where he
belongs. His--his name is Pat. He's--he's the best horse I ever rode."
He relapsed, into silence, motionless, as one dead.
Stephen himself remained motionless. He looked at the man curiously. He
believed that he ought to feel bitter toward him, since he saw in him
the cause of all his own misery. But somehow he found that he could feel
nothing but pity. In this man with eyes closed and gasping lips Stephen
saw only a brother-mortal in distress, as he himself was in distress,
and he forgave him for anything he had done.
He looked at Pat, understanding the temptation, and then turned his eyes
pityingly toward the man--the stranger, dozing, murmuring strangely in
his sleep. Seeing him at rest, and realizing the long hours before
daybreak, Stephen finally dropped over upon one elbow, and prepared to
pass the night as best he could. He was suffering torture from his arm
and shoulder, and burning with the fever shown in his hot skin and
parched lips.
The night passed restlessly. He saw the first rays of dawn break over
the range and creep farther and farther down the valley, throwing a pale
pink over the landscape and sending gaunt shadows slinking off into the
light. A whinny from Pat aroused him. He arose painfully, gazed at the
man at his feet, and then turned his eyes toward the distant horizon. A
second whinny disturbed him and he shifted his gaze. Far above two great
buzzards, circling round and round, faded into the morning haze. From a
neighboring sand-dune a jack-rabbit appeared, paused a quivering moment,
then scurried from view. The morning light grew brighter. A third
whinny, and Pat now slowly started toward him. But again he fastened his
eyes upon the distant horizon, hoping for a sight of the ranch wagon.
But no wagon appeared. At length he turned to the horse. Pat stood
soberly regarding the man, his ears forward, head drooping, tail
motionless, as if recognizing in this mute object an erstwhile master.
And suddenly lifting his head, he sounded a soft nicker, tremulously.
Then again he fell to regarding the still form with strange interest.
The form was still, still for all eternity. For the man was dead.
Stephen sat down. He was shaking with fever and weakness. He placed a
handkerchief over the face in repose, almost relieved that peace had
come to this troubled soul. Then he thought of possible action. He
realized that he was utterly lost. He had Pat, and for this he was
thankful, since he knew that he could at least mount the horse and leave
him to find a way out. But the horse alone must do it. He himself was
bewildered, for the desert in broad day, as much as in the long night,
revealed nothing. On every hand it lay barren, destitute of movement,
wrapped in silence, seeming to mock his predicament. Yet he could not
bring himself to mount at once. He sat motionless, suffering acutely,
knowing that the least exertion would increase his pain--a machine run
down--not caring to move.
Suddenly, off to the east appeared a horse--a gray. It cantered
majestically to the top of a dune, and stood there--head erect, nostrils
quivering, ears alert, cresting the hillock like a statue. Stephen
shivered. For instinctively he knew this to be the gray stallion, the
cross-bred, that had trampled the form beside him. His first impulse was
to mount Pat and spur him in a race for life; his second impulse was to
crouch in hiding in the hope of escaping the keen scrutiny of that
merciless demon. He chose the race. Springing to his feet, he leaped for
Pat, and he grasped the saddle-horn. In his haste he slipped, lost his
stirrup, and fell back headlong. The shock made him faint, and for a
time he was unconscious. Shrill neighing aroused him, and, hastily
gaining his feet, he saw Pat running lightly, well-contained, to meet
the swiftly advancing gray stallion. Then events moved with a terrible
unreality.
The gray screamed defiantly and leaped toward Pat faster and faster. Pat
braced his legs to meet the assault. But no assault came. With rare
craft the gray suddenly checked himself, coming to a full stop two
lengths away. Here, with ears flat and lashing tail, he glared at Pat,
who, equally tense, returned defiance. Thus they stood in the desert,
quiet, measuring each other, while Stephen, crouched, watching them,
remembering the lifeless form beside him, prayed that Pat would prove
equal to the mighty stallion. He had no gun. Pat alone could save him.
If Pat were conquered nothing remained but death for both. For with Pat
dead--and surely this masterful foe would stop at nothing short of
death--Stephen realized that he himself, in his present condition, would
never see civilization again. He could not walk the distance even if he
knew the way, nor could he hope to mount the victorious stallion, should
Pat be defeated, because only one man had done that, and that man lay
dead beside him. The thought of being alone in the desert with the dead
struck chill to his heart. He recalled his first ride with Helen, and
her tales of men and horses in the early days, and what it meant to a
man to have his horse stolen from him. It was all clear to him now, and
he clenched his sound hand till the nails cut the flesh. Unless Pat
fought a successful fight he was doomed to die of thirst, even if the
stallion did not attack him. As he looked at Pat, his only hope in this
dread situation, he prayed harder and more fervently than before that
his champion would win.
Pat thrilled with the sense of coming battle, but he did not fear this
horse. He remembered that once he had struck down a rival, and before
that he had twice given successful battle to men--to a finish with the
Mexican hostler, another time when he had brought his enemy to respect
and consider him. Therefore he had no reason to fear this horse, even
though he saw in the gray's splendid figure an enemy to be carefully
considered. But not for an instant did Pat relax. For this was a crafty
foe, as shown by his sudden halt, which Pat knew was the prelude to a
swift attack. So he watched with keen alertness the flattened ears, the
lashing tail--his own muscles held rigid, waiting.
The gray began a cautious approach. He put forward his legs one after
another slowly, the while he held his eyes turned away, as if he were
wholly absorbed in the vastness of the desert reaches. This was but a
mere feint, as Pat understood it, and yet he waited, curious to know the
outcome, still holding himself rigidly on guard. Closer came the gray,
closer still, until he was almost beside him. Pat heard the whistle of
his breath and saw the wild light in his eyes, and for an instant feared
him. Yet there was no attack. The gray calmly gained a point immediately
alongside and stopped, head to Pat's rump, separated from him by not
more than half his length. Yet he did not attack; but Pat did not relax.
And again they stood, end to end now and side by side, until Pat, coming
finally to think, against his better judgment, that this was, after all,
only a friendly advance, became less watchful. Then the blow fell. With
a shrill scream that chilled Pat's heart the gray leaped sideways with a
peculiar broadside lunge intended to hurl him off his feet. It was a
form of attack new to Pat, and therefore never known to his ancestors,
and before he could brace himself to meet it he found himself rolling
over and over frantically in the sand.
He sprang up, screaming with rage, while the gray was trampling him with
fiendish hoofs. He steadied himself, resisted the onslaught, took the
offensive himself. He lunged with bared teeth, sank them into yielding
flesh, and wheeled away quickly. But not fast enough. The gray slashed
his rump. He turned back, tore the gray's shoulder, wheeled sharply,
attacked with lightning heels, and darted away again. But again the gray
sprang upon him, ripped his rump a second time, and sprang off like a
fiend. Raging, vindictive, Pat hurtled after him, and snapped again and
again, drawing hot blood pungent of taste and smell, and then he leaped
aside. But not far enough. The gray dashed into him, enveloped him in a
whirlwind of clashing teeth and flashing heels, and wheeled away in a
wide circle, screaming to the heavens, leaving Pat, with a dozen
stinging wounds, dazed and exhausted.
But Pat was quick to recover himself. Also, he took council. Never had
he fought like this. His battle with the white horse had been
brief--brief because of sudden releasing of weeks of venom stored within
him by the white's continuous nagging, brief because of the white's
inability to spring from each attack in season to protect himself. But
no such sluggishness hampered this enemy, and he grimly realized that
this was a struggle to the death. But he felt no fear. He respected the
other's craft and wit and strength. Yet he knew that he himself had
strength, while he realized that strength alone would not conquer. Craft
and wit must serve with strength. Having strength, he himself must adopt
the other qualities, must adapt himself to the occasion, exercise wit
and craft, wait for openings, feint and withdraw, feint and attack,
until, wearying this enemy, and puzzling him, there would come the
chance to strike a death-blow. He knew what the death-blow was--knew it
from his encounter with the white. He must inflict it first, lest the
gray anticipate him, for the gray undoubtedly knew, also, from his
experience and from his ancestors, what the death-blow was.
After a moment of gasping breath and gradually clearing eyes he felt
self-control and assurance return. Since his enemy appeared to be
waiting, he himself continued to wait. He waited three minutes, five
minutes, ten, until the nervous tension would permit him to wait no
longer. Remembering his plans, and emulating the first approach of the
gray, he started slowly toward him, putting forward one foot after
another quietly, his eyes upon the distant horizon. He even outdid the
gray in his craft. As he drew near, he suddenly took on the manner of
one seeking friendliness, nickering once softly, as if he had had enough
of this and would ask reconciliation. But his ruse failed. The gray was
wise with the wisdom of the world-free. Plunging suddenly upon him, he
snapped for his ears, but missed. His teeth flashed at Pat's neck,
lodged, and ripped the flesh. He whirled, lashed out with his heels,
missed, and sped away. Pat wheeled again and again, almost overthrown,
and staggered away.
Again he took council with himself. He was not beaten, he knew that. But
neither was the enemy beaten. He knew that also. And he knew he must
bide his time. Twice he had closed with the enemy, and twice he had come
away the worse. Nothing was to be gained by this method. He must bide
his time, wait for an encounter, dodge it if the moment proved
unpropitious, but refrain from close attack. He must wait for his
chance.
As he stood there, alert to every least thing, he suddenly awoke to
tease breathing close behind him. For one flaming moment he was puzzled.
Then he remembered that he had been watching the gray out of the corner
of his eye. He had seemed to be off guard, and the other had stolen
cautiously around behind him, evidently to take advantage of this
chance. He swallowed hard. The enemy was stealing upon him. He wanted to
wheel, believed he ought to wheel if he would save himself, but he did
not. Instead, he brought craft into play. He listened patiently,
intensely alert, and bided his time. The breathing came closer, closer
still, and stopped. He heard the enemy swallow. He conquered his longing
to turn, and remained still as death. The gray drew no closer. He seemed
to be waiting, also biding his time. And now it became a test, a matter
of nervous endurance, each waiting for the other. Around them pressed
the desert solitude. There was no sound anywhere. The sun beat down upon
the earth remorselessly. And still Pat waited, but not for long. There
was a soft tread behind him, and he knew that he had won in the contest
of endurance. With the footfalls he heard spasmodic breathing. And yet
he waited. But he was ready to strike--to deal the death-blow. Closer
came the restrained breathing, was close behind him. Then he struck with
all his strength.
And his lightning heels found their mark. He heard the crack of bone and
a long, terrible scream. He wheeled and saw the gray limping away.
Gripped in sudden overwhelming fury, sounding a cry no less shrill than
that of the gray, he leaped upon the enemy, bore him to earth, and,
knowing no mercy, he trampled and slashed the furiously resisting foe
into a bleeding mass. Then he dashed off, believing that it was all
over. He turned toward Stephen and flung up his head to sound a cry of
joy. But he did not sound it, for, taken off his guard, he suddenly
found himself bowled over by the frenzied impact of the gray.
And Stephen, tense with suspense, felt hope sink within him. For the
gray stallion, even with fore leg broken, was smothering the prostrate
Pat in a raging attack. He saw Pat struggle time and again to gain his
feet. At last, only after desperate effort, he saw him rise. He saw him
spring upon the crippled gray and tear his back and neck and withers
until his face and chest were covered with blood. And then--and at sight
of this he went limp in joy and relief--he saw Pat wheel against the
gray and lash out mightily, and he saw the gray drop upon breast and
upper fore legs--hopelessly out of the struggle. For Pat had broken the
second fore leg, and this fiend of the desert was down for all time.
And now Pat did a strange thing. As if it suddenly came to him that he
had done a forbidden thing--for, after all, he was a product of advanced
civilization--he flung up his head a second time and sounded a babyish
whimper. Then he trotted straight to Stephen, there to nestle, as one
seeking sympathy, under his master's enfolding arms. And Stephen,
understanding, caressed and hugged and talked to him in a fervor of
gratitude, until, awaking to the distress of the stallion, he staggered
to his feet, intent upon a search for a revolver in the clothing of the
still form. He found one, unexpectedly, in concealing folds, and with it
shot the gray. Then he dragged himself to Pat, clambered dizzily into
the saddle, gave the horse loose rein.
Pat set out at a walk. He was bleeding in many places, and he was sore
and burning in many others. But he did not permit these things to divert
him from his task. He went on steadily, going he knew not whither, until
he felt his master become inert in the saddle. This troubled him, and,
without knowing precisely why he did it, he freshened his gait and
continued at a fox-trot well into the morning, until his alert eyes
suddenly caught sight of a thin column of dust flung up by galloping
horses and swiftly revolving wheels. Then he came to a halt, and, still
not understanding his motives, he pointed his head toward the distant
vehicle and sounded a shrill nicker.
The effort brought disaster. He felt his young master slip out of the
saddle, saw him totter and sink in a heap on the sand. And now he
understood fully. Throwing up his head again, he awoke the desert with
an outcry that racked his whole body. But he did not stop. Again and
again he flung his call across the silence, hurling it in mighty
staccato in the direction of the ranch wagon until he saw the man
suddenly draw rein, remain still for a time, then start up the horses
again, this time in his direction. And now, and not till now, he ceased
his nickering, and, in the great weariness and fatigue upon him, let his
head droop, with eyes closed, until his nose almost touched the ground.
And although he did not know it, in the past four hours this dumb animal
had in every way lived up to the faith and trust reposed in him by the
little woman in the distant valley.