Out of a draw to the right a horse moved. Through the brush something dragged behind it.
“What’s that?” asked June.
“Don’t know. Looks kinda queer. It’s got some sort of harness on.”
They rode to the draw. June gave a small cry of distress.
He dismounted. The horse with the dragging load backed away, but it was too tired to show much energy. Bob moved forward, soothing the animal with gentle sounds. He went slowly, with no sudden gestures. Presently he was patting the neck of the horse. With his hunting-knife he cut the rawhide thongs that served as a harness.
“It’s a Ute pony,” he said, after he had looked it over carefully. He knew this because the Indians earmarked their mounts.
June was still in the saddle. Some instinct warned her not to look too closely at the load behind that was so horribly twisted.
“Better go back to the road, June,” her husband advised. “It’s too late to do anything for this poor fellow.”
She did as he said, without another look at the broken body.