“Here's a horse.”
“Mine?” exclaimed Presley. “He wouldn't carry you a mile.”
Annixter was already far ahead, trumpeting orders.
“The buckskin,” he yelled. “Get her out, Billy. Where's the stable-man? Get out that buckskin. Get out that saddle.”
Then followed minutes of furious haste, Presley, Annixter, Billy the stable-man, and Dyke himself, darting hither and thither about the yellow mare, buckling, strapping, cinching, their lips pale, their fingers trembling with excitement.
“Want anything to eat?” Annixter's head was under the saddle flap as he tore at the cinch. “Want anything to eat? Want any money? Want a gun?”
“Water,” returned Dyke. “They've watched every spring. I'm killed with thirst.”
“There's the hydrant. Quick now.”
“I got as far as the Kern River, but they turned me back,” he said between breaths as he drank.
“Don't stop to talk.”