“My––my hoss!” he cried wonderingly.
He leaped down beside the dead beast. Then he saw crimson upon the animal’s shoulder, as a little gleam of light came from the door.
“That was why he jumped on the trail. He was hit. He carried me all this way with a bullet in him an’ then dropped! One of Long’s men shot him.”
Rathburn looked about vacantly. Then he sank down and buried his face on the shoulder of the dun, as Sheriff Long turned away. Laura Mallory stepped quickly to the side of the sheriff and touched his arm.
“Is he as bad as you think, sheriff?”
Long scowled at her in the dim light from the door, took out a thick, black cigar, bit the end off savagely, and began to chew it. He walked abruptly out to where some of his men were standing by their horses, and he said something in an undertone. When he returned, Rathburn had taken the saddle and bridle off the dead horse and was throwing the leather on the porch.
“Yours, dad,” he called to Mallory; “I wouldn’t use ’em again if I could.” Then he turned to the sheriff. “All right, Bob.”
“Come inside,” said Long gruffly.