Waldron pushed back his hat to scratch his head.
"Look at them eyes, boys," he suggested. "Molly has been beatin' us all day
and she looks like she's fightin' us still."
The sheriff was not a man of very many words, and surely of little
sentiment; perhaps it was the heat of the long chase which now made him
take off his hat so that the air could reach his sweaty forehead. "Gents,"
he said, "she lived game and she died game. But they ain't no use of
wastin' that saddle. Take it off."
And that was Grey Molly's epitaph.
They decided to head straight back for the nearest town with the body of
Harry Fisher, and, fagged by the desperate riding of that day, they let
their horses go with loose rein, at a walk. Darkness gathered; the last
light faded from even the highest peaks; the last tinge of color dropped
out of the sky as they climbed from the valley. Now and then one of the
horses cleared its nostrils with a snort, but on the whole they went in
perfect silence with the short grass silencing the hoofbeats, and never a
word passed from man to man.
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