“They have ridden the low moon out of the sky; their hoofs drum up the dawn.”—Two Strong Men, Kipling.
“
I’m not speaking of her and I’m not going to,” protested Gibson, in a changed tone. “I’ll promise! My horse is failing, Jeff. I rode hard and fast from Escondido. Your horse carried nothing much but a saddle—that pack was mostly bluff, you know. And those fellows’ horses have come twenty miles less than either of ours.”
No answer.
“I don’t believe we’re going to make it, Jeff!” There was a forlorn little quaver in Charley’s voice.
Jeff grunted. “Uh! Maybe not. Griffith’ll be real pleased.”
Gibson rode closer. “Can’t we turn off the road and hide?”
“Till daylight,” said Jeff. “Then they’ll get us. No way out of this desert except across the edges somewhere. You go if you want to. They won’t bother to hunt for you, maybe, if they get me.”
“No. It’s my fault.... I’ll see it out.... I’m sorry, Jeff—but it was so funny!” Here, rather to Jeff’s surprise, Charley’s dejection gave place to laughter.