The cowboys spurred to his aid and dragged Tommy off him. The bulls had trotted back to the herd and were now engaged in thundering challenges to other range monarchs. Lafe stood up painfully. He put his right foot to the ground, very carefully. A smile of intense satisfaction came over his face.
"Nothing broken," he said—"just shaken up. Jim-in-ee, but I'm sure lucky."
He turned to Tommy, wheezing on the ground and trying weakly to rise.
"Poor li'l devil. Poor ol' Tommy," he said pityingly. After a brief examination, he shot him between the eyes in order to spare him useless suffering.
The boss was very blue throughout the day, and I knew it was for the horse. Tommy had been a pet, and every one of us felt what it had cost Lafe. "Poor li'l devil"—that was all, but Johnson was of the kind who would hardly have said as much audibly for a human being.
Back of his grief I detected a great relief. It was almost a new sense of freedom, revealed in his eyes and his altered manner towards his men. The old quiet authority was his again. Just what he felt was shown when he said to me that night, "I reckon if a big ol' bull can't even hurt me, that I've got a few years to live yet awhile. Hey, Dan?"
"You're whistling. That was a close call, though, Lafe."
"If it had been Casey Jones now—" he began, but something in my face stopped him.
"Did you notice?" he asked, without embarrassment.
"Yes. Why did you do it?"