When it was done the corral gate was flung open and the horses it had held were headed up the valley and still up to where it ended in a deep gully of gumbo and yellow gravel. On three sides the animals were hemmed in by almost sheer cliff a hundred feet high; on the fourth by ten N.W. Mounted Policemen with levelled rifles and set faces.
There is only one cure for glanders.
“Queer that buyer don’t come,” said Joe Gilchrist.
Three days before Dode Sinclair had ridden out to meet a florid little man in a livery buggy on the town trail, and after five minutes’ conversation the latter had turned his horses and driven off in a cloud of dust.
“Blamed queer. They’ll be losing flesh if they’re herded much longer.”
Towards evening the old man became restless—both Joyce and Dode noticed it, but neither was quite prepared when returning from the west field to find the homestead empty, except for the Chinese cook, and the pinto cayune gone from the stables.
“He’s gone to have a look at the herd,” Dode said.
“But alone, and on pinto!” exclaimed the girl. “You know how she stumbles. I must go and find him.”
“She stumbles, but she don’t fall,” said Dode. “Let him be—this once. Alone—that’s the best way for him to find out.”