Grey Molly was blown,
she stood now with hanging head and her flanks sunk in alarmingly at every
breath, but even fresh from the pasture she was not a rag, not a straw
compared to the black.
"For God's sake," groaned Vic, "loan me your hoss!"
"You couldn't stick the saddle. Come in here out of sight; I'm going to
take 'em off your trail."
While he spoke, he led, half carried Vic, into a thicket of shrubs with a
small open space at the center. The black and the wolf-dog followed and now
the stranger pulled at the bridle rein. The stallion kneeled like a trained
dog, and lying thus the shrubbery was high enough to hide him. Closer,
sweeping through the wood, Vic heard the crash of the pursuit, yet the
other was maddeningly slow of speech.
"You stay here, partner, and sit over there. I'm borrowin' your gun"--a
swift hand appropriated it from Vic's holster and his own fingers were too
paralyzed to resist--"and don't you try to ride my hoss unless you want
them teeth in your throat. Lie quiet and tie up your hurt. Bart, watch
him!"
And there sat Gregg where he had slipped down in his daze of weakness with
the great dog crouched at his feet and snarling ominously every time he
raised his hand.
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