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.

CHAPTER XXII
QUIESCENCE

After long jogging behind the ranch wagon Pat found himself back in a stable. He found himself attended once more by the round-faced and smiling young man who had looked after him before. This friend put salve upon his wounds, and after that, for days and days, provided him with food and water, sometimes talking to him hopefully, sometimes talking with quiet distress in his voice, sometimes attending to his wants without talking at all. It was all a dread monotony. The days became shorter; the nights became longer; a chill crept into the stable. All day long he stamped away the hours in restless discontent, longing for a change of some sort, longing for a sight of his young master, wanting to get out into the open, there to race his legs off in thrilling action.