Red Perris was now a limp and
hanging weight, something no longer to be feared, something to be
treated, at will, with contempt. The very voice was changed and husky
as it called to him, close to his ear. And he no longer dared to
dodge, because at every swerve that limp burden slid far to one side
and dragged itself back with groans of agony. Then something warm
trickled down over his shoulder. He turned his head. From the breast
of the rider a crimson trickle was running down over the chestnut
hair, and it was blood. With the horror of it he shuddered.
He must gallop gently, now, at a sufficient distance to keep the
rifles from speaking behind him, but slowly and softly enough to
keep the rider in his place. He swung towards the mares, running,
frightened by the turmoil, in the distance. But a hand on his neck
pressed him back in a different direction and down into the trail
which led, eventually, to the ranch of Oliver Jordan. Let it be, then,
as the man wished. He had known how to save a horse from the Little
Smoky. He would be wise enough to keep them both safe even from other
men, and so, along the trail towards the ranch, the chestnut ran with
a gait as gentle as the swing and light fall of a ground swell in
mid-ocean.
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