With that the doctor passed out into the street.
Eight hours between him and the last chance at Claim Number One–eight hours, and sixty miles. That was not such a mighty stretch for a good horse to cover in eight hours–nothing heroic; very ordinary in truth, for that country.
With a clearly defined purpose, Slavens headed for the corral opposite the Hotel Metropole, beside which the man camped who had horses for hire. A lantern burned at the closed flap of the tent. After a little 170 shaking of the pole and rough shouting, the man himself appeared, overalled and booted and ready for business.
“You must weigh a hundred and seventy?” said he, eying his customer over after he had been told what a horse was wanted for. “What’s your hurry to git to Meander?”
“A hundred and eighty,” corrected the doctor, “and none of your business! If you want to hire me a horse, bring him out. If you don’t, talk fast.”
“I ain’t got one I’d hire you for that ride, heavy as you are,” said the man; “but I’ve got one a feller left here for me to sell that I’d sell you.”
“Let me see him,” said the doctor.
The man came out of the straw-covered shed presently, leading a pretty fair-looking creature. He carried a saddle under his arm. While the doctor looked the beast over with the lantern the man saddled it.
“Well, how much?” demanded the doctor.
“Hundred and fifty,” said the man.