The old man nodded.
“An’ I guess Van’s right,” he agreed.
“He’ll be along up in a minute,” said Joe Brand.
Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news the man was bringing?
Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know. Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to wait.
Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and spur––and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before the eager crowd.
Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.
“I’m beat,” the horseman cried desperately. “For mercy’s sake hand me a horn o’ whisky.”
He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded beast to anyone’s care. He was too far spent to think of anything or anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.
Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He passed the foundered horse on to his “choreman,” and then himself procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he administered without a moment’s delay, and the ranchman opened his eyes.