Whitby pushed his horse sufficiently to overtake Rose who, he knew, was riding slowly. Just outside the town he met Cock Murray, astride the Goat; the Goat was a very tired pony and showed it.
"My dear man! Why are n't you following Peters?" asked Whitby, in surprised remonstrance.
"My dear Brit! I sorta allowed it was n't healthy," answered Cock. "I tells you th' same as I tells th' French Rose: 'When Buck says "Scoot for th' ranch an' tell Cassidy to hit Wayback pronto an' he 'll get news o' me at th' bank,"' it 'pears like, to my soft-boiled head, that's what I oughta do."
"I beg your pardon. Of course. Rather odd Peters didn't tell me."
"He meant to. I 'm sorry he did n't. So long."
"So long," echoed Whitby, mechanically. He pulled up to shout after Cock: "You won't get far on that horse; he 's done, you know."
"I ain't goin' far on that 'oss," Cock shouted back; "an' they 're never done till they 're down, you know."
"Impudent beggar, but a good man. They grow 'em good out here. I fancy the bad-plucked ones don't last." And Whitby hastened on to overtake Rose.
He had left Two Fork Creek four miles behind him before sighting her; in her impatience she had gone faster than she knew. Whitby had almost caught up, when he saw Rose bend forward, wave to him, and then dash away, as if she were inviting him to a race.
"Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction. "It's Buck as sure as little apples Kesicks." Fifty yards' advance showed him that he was right. The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly Buck, and beside him was his dead pony. Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him; and Whitby, wearing the terribly savage expression of the man slow to anger, was not far behind. Together they laid the unconscious figure at full length.