“It’s a damned shame, Teddy, and it’s all my doin’s, damme. I orter had better sense. But brace up, boy; brace up. I’ll do the square thing.”
Dan and Dick had ridden up. Dan leaped from his horse and examined the broken leg carefully.
“No use,” he shook his head soberly; “the little mare’s done for. There’s just one thing left to do, Fred; you must end her sufferings quickly.”
“Oh, I can’t do it; I can’t do it!” replied Fred, chokingly.
“Come, don’t beller,” blurted Dick. “Gimme a gun. I’ll do it.”
“No, you don’t,” said Fred, with a touch of anger. “If she has to die, no heartless cuss shall kill her.” He paused—then turning to Dan asked feelingly—“Won’t you please do it for me?”
“If you wish it, my boy.”
Fred stroked the suffering mare’s forehead, and laid his face against her glossy brown cheek. She pressed his face gently in response to his sympathy, then he turned quickly and walked hurriedly toward camp, never once looking back. The boys sat silent, respecting his sorrow, all but Dick. His face carried a flush of anger and the suggestion of a sneer, which made Jim say, when Fred was out of hearing,
“That was damned mean of you, Dick, to jeer at a man in trouble.”
Dick winced, but held his tongue.