The nature of that color became clear to him and he roused himself. It was a light—a light in a window—the window of a ranch house—Dick Worth's ranch house!
Bullets had ceased to zip and sing and spatter. He did not turn to see what had become of his pursuers, for he was capable of only one thought at a time.
"Dick Worth! Dick Worth!" he screamed.
Then he looked behind. Away to the left he saw two riders pushing through the dawn, détouring. And he laughed, almost gayly.
Another blotch of light, a bigger one, showed in the young day. It was an opened door, and a deep chest gave forth an answer to his cry. Dick Worth stepped from the threshold of his home and ran to the gate to see better this crazy figure which lurched toward him. It was a man on foot, hatless, his face gray like the sky above, hair tousled, eyes glowing red. He stumbled to the fence and leaned there for support, holding something forward, something limp and bloodstained.
"Dick—it's Kelly's money belt—Rhues—he killed him— He shot me—he's got the money—on him—he's swinging off west—two of 'em— Their horses are—all in— He—he shot Kelly because—I wouldn't take—a drink—he—and I need—a—drink—"
He slumped down against the fence.
After an uncertain age VB swam back from that mental vacuity to reality. He saw, first, that the Captain was beside him, standing there breathing loudly, eyes closed, sobbing low at every heave of his lungs.
A quavering moan made its way to the boy's throat and he moved over, reaching out groping arms for the stallion's lowered head.
"Captain!" he moaned. "Oh, boy—it was our last ride—I can never—ask you to carry me—again."