One look at him at close range in the clear light of day was enough for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over all horses, even her prize-winner, White Stockings. The cowboy’s great steed was no lithe, slender-bodied mustang. He was a charger, almost tremendous of build, with a black coat faintly mottled in gray, and it shone like polished glass in the sun. Evidently he had been carefully dressed down for this occasion, for there was no dust on him, nor a kink in his beautiful mane, nor a mark on his glossy hide.
“Come hyar, you son-of-a-gun,” said Stillwell.
The horse dropped his head, snorted, and came obediently up. He was neither shy nor wild. He poked a friendly nose at Stillwell, and then looked at Al and the women. Unhooking the stirrups from the pommel, Stillwell let them fall and began to search the saddle for something which he evidently expected to find. Presently from somewhere among the trappings he produced a folded bit of paper, and after scrutinizing it handed it to Al.
“Addressed to you; an’ I’ll bet you two bits I know what’s in it,” he said.
Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at Stillwell.
“Bill, you’re a pretty good guesser. Gene’s made for the border. He sent the horse by somebody, no names mentioned, and wants my sister to have him if she will accept.”
“Any mention of Danny Mains?” asked the rancher.
“Not a word.”
“Thet’s bad. Gene’d know about Danny if anybody did. But he’s a close-mouthed cuss. So he’s sure hittin’ for Mexico. Wonder if Danny’s goin’, too? Wal, there’s two of the best cowmen I ever seen gone to hell an’ I’m sorry.”
With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into the house. Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse and, leading him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and placed the letter in her hand.