“Look–look him over!” he cried, and his voice was a curious mixture of distress and restrained excitement. “I–I don’t want him–him to go back–to go back–hurt–hurt in–in–”
And now Pat saw the strangest thing of all. He saw the young man slowly close his eyes and sink back into the arms of the others as one dead. He saw the others exchange troubled glances and lay the insensible form down tenderly on the sand. It was all very unusual, something new in his life; and, not knowing what else to do, yet somehow feeling that he should do something, be it never so little, he lowered his head and sounded a trembling nicker into the silence.
CHAPTER XVIII
AN ENEMY
There was water in the grove, and the men made camp at the edge of the trees. “The Doc,” which was what the rangers early had affectionately nicknamed Stephen, was suffering a compound fracture of the left arm, together with numerous bruises and scratches about the head and face. He had had a nasty fall. His horse had stumbled and almost instantly died as the result of the big cattle-rustler’s shots. The men set and splinted Stephen’s arm as best they could, and they bandaged his head with rare skill; but it was deemed advisable for him to remain quiet for a time.
So Stephen lay listlessly smiling at the bantering of the men, too sick at heart really to take interest in any living thing. His arm pained him, and his head ached, while throughout his body he was sore and stiff and well-nigh incapable of moving. But not once following the first complete collapse did he let go of himself, although when the men set his arm it seemed that he must. Somehow he was contented that everything was as it was. True, he was hurt. But also he had found Pat, had recovered the horse for Helen, and the horse now was within sound of his voice, did he but care to lift it. His physical hurts would get well, his spiritual hurts never without the recovery of the horse. And now he had the horse.
One morning it became apparent that their food-supplies would soon need replenishing. So it was decided to break camp for the nearest town, a Mexican settlement some eighty miles to the southwest. Stephen had been walking about somewhat cheerfully for three or four days, and his condition was such that he could ride forward slowly without danger to his arm. So they broke camp, utilizing the sorrel as a pack-horse–there now were two extra saddles and bridles–and set out, Stephen, of course, mounted upon Pat.
Once more Pat found himself following an unmarked and desolate trail. Moving always at a walk now instead of the conventional fox-trot, he found his service, save for this and one other thing, identical with that under his previous masters. The single other difference was that instead of irritating silence, these men unwittingly soothed him with their talk and swift exchange of jokes. Thus the hours passed, until noon came, when, with his bridle and saddle removed, and pungent odors of savory cooking tickling his nostrils, he received the privilege of grazing over the whole desert unhobbled and untethered. But this, liberal as it seemed, brought him nothing of the nourishment his soul craved. After an hour or two of lazy wandering, while the men passed the time at cards, he was sent forward again along the ever-mysterious trail. And thus he moved, through the long hot afternoon, the cool and lingering twilight, on to a night camp where once more he was turned loose with the other horses to glean as best he might life-giving sustenance from the scant herbage. But it was drearily monotonous.
Throughout it all, however, there was one who kept his interest alive. It was the white horse. In the camp holding himself aloof, as if superciliously refraining from close contact, on the trail this horse took to revealing his antagonism. He would stand a short way from him while they grazed, lay back his ears and whisk his tail, and, whenever the chance came, he would snap viciously at the other horses. Pat understood the meaning of all this, and held himself ready to resist attack, yet he simply looked at the horse with a kind of amused speculation. Nor at any time did he feel grave apprehension. That he did not take the horse seriously lay in the fact that after drawing near in this fashion and bristling nastily the white horse would quickly draw away again, steadily and craftily, and then fall to worrying one of the other horses, usually one of smaller size that quite obviously feared him.
There came the time when the white did not confine his threatenings to the grazing-periods. He became aggressive on the march. Though less free to give battle here, which was possibly his reason, he would frequently jockey close, and either flash his head around with teeth snapping, or else, as if to make Pat feel inferiority, would plunge forward to a point immediately in front, and in this position fling back choking dust or gravel. At such times the round-faced man, the white’s master, would drag him away mightily, or, if he was not quick enough, then the sorrel, drowsing along behind on a lead-rope, would unconsciously offer resistance. But it was all very disagreeable, and Pat, while finding that it broke up the monotony of the journey, yet at length found himself also becoming irritated.