She could see nothing, but sensed combat. Sim Gage had sprung forward and caught the cheek strap of the nearest horse. It reared and struck out wildly. She heard an exclamation, as though of pain, but could not see him as he swung across to the other horse and caught his fingers in its nostrils, still calling out to them, imperiously, in the voice of a commander.
At length they halted, quieted. She heard his voice speaking brokenly. "Set still where you are, ma'am. I'll tie 'em."
"You're hurt!" she called out. "It was my fault."
"I'm all right. Just you set still."
Apparently he finished fastening the horses to something. She heard him come to the end of the seat, knew that he was reaching up his arms to help her down. But when she swung her weight from the seat she felt him wince.
"One of 'em caught me on the knee," he admitted. "It was my new pants, too."
She could not see his face, gray with pain now under the dust.
"It's all my fault—I didn't dare tell you—I don't know anything about horses. I don't know anything about anything out here!"
"Take hold of my left hand coat sleeve," he answered to her confession. "We'll walk on into the yard. Keep hold of me, and I'll keep hold of them horses. I'll look out if they jump."
For some reason of their own the team became less fractious. He limped along the road, his hand at the bit of the more vicious. She could feel him limp.