The prey of the strongest

by Morley Roberts

That was a very clear idea, and the notion satisfied him for a while as he swayed to and fro. But how? The woman with the white linen had taken his horse. It was again a hard problem, but since he knew who he was, things were very much easier, though they were still a struggle. He didn't know how he got there, but presently he found himself in the stable, leading out Ned Quin's horse, a lean and old, but still sound, sorrel. It was wonderful to find that he had a horse already saddled and bridled. He didn't know that he had put the saddle on and cinched up the girths himself.

"Now I'm all right. That kloshe," said Pete. He almost forgot in his satisfaction what he wanted the horse for. But presently he remembered that he had to stop that woman (his sister, was she?) from going somewhere. Was there such a place as Kamloops? Very likely there was. Then he saw the gun.

"She shot at me," he said with feeble indignation, "I'm bleeding."

He wept again.

And suddenly he saw all things as clear as day. He had killed Ned: she had shot him and then she had said she would go into Kamloops and denounce him. There wasn't any time to lose. He "hung up" the horse and picked the gun from the ground. He went to the house and opened the door. It was very dark inside and the outside sun was now burning bright. He stumbled across something and only saved himself from falling with great difficulty. What had he stumbled over? He peered on the ground and as the pupils of his eyes dilated he saw a body stretched out with a white cloth over the face. He trembled.

"It's—it's Ned," he said, shaking. "They'll hang me!"

He wanted to lift the white cloth but dared not. He went round the body to the shelf where he knew the cartridges were kept. He put a handful in his pocket and then went out with his eyes straight before him. But he still saw the white cloth. When he was outside he loaded the gun in both barrels and clambered on the old sorrel with great difficulty. As he rode he swayed to and fro in the saddle.

But he had to catch Mary, had to stop her. That notion was all the thought in him. It helped to keep him from falling off. Yet he rode like a drunken man, and the landscape reeled and shifted and danced. The big bull-pines swayed as if there were a great wind and the road was sometimes a double track. Yet far ahead of him he saw a figure on a horse. It must be Mary. He clutched the gun and the horn of the saddle and spurred the old sorrel with a solitary Mexican spur which he had borrowed in the town. And as he rode the world began to settle down before him at last. Though his head was splitting he rode without his hat. It lay in red dust by Ned's house.

At first he went at a walk, but presently he urged the sorrel to a reluctant lope. The figure before him loped too. He saw he made little headway. He put the sorrel into a gallop and knew that he gained on her who now hated him. It was unjust of her: what he had done was for her, not for himself. Ned had hurt her horribly. Pete couldn't understand her. She appeared to love the man who had cut her down. It was foolish, strange.

And she meant to have him "hanged." That was the last spur to him: his vision cleared and became normal. The shifting planes of the terraced land in front of him sat down at last. He drove the spur into the sorrel brutally and set him at a furious gallop. He knew the horse that Mary rode was tired: it was not much of a cayuse at any time. He saw her plainly now.