Slowly the man’s face lifted, and two bloodshot eyes regarded her dully through a matted lock of hair that lay stiffly plastered against his forehead. With a curious, stealthy movement, one hand twisted back to his side and fumbled there for an instant. Then the man groaned softly.
“I forgot,” he mumbled. “It’s gone. You—you’ve got me this time, I reckon.”
Face drained to paper-white and lips quivering, Mary Thorne slid out of her saddle, steadied herself against the horse for a second, and then dropped on her knees beside him.
“Buck!” she cried in a shaking voice. “You—you’re hurt! What—what is it?”
A puzzled look came into his face, and as he stared into the wide, frightened hazel eyes so close to his, recognition slowly dawned.
“You!” he muttered. “What—How—”
She twined her fingers together to stop their trembling. “I was riding through the pass,” she told him briefly. “I saw your horse and I—I was—afraid—”
A faint gleam came into the bloodshot eyes. “My—my horse? You mean a—a Rocking-R cayuse?” 217
“Yes.”
He tried to sit up, but the effort turned him so white that the girl cried out protestingly.