The posse, to a man, swung sullenly to
the ground.
"Who's boss, boys?" called Johnny Gasney, puffing in his saddle as he rode
up. "By God, we'll get him yet! They's a devil in that black hoss! Who's
boss?"
"I ain't exactly boss," answered Mark Retherton, whom not even fear of
death could hurry in his ways of speech, "but maybe I can talk for the
boys. What you want, Johnny?"
"You gents'll be needin' new hosses?"
"We'll be needin' graves for the ones we got," growled Mark, and he stared
gloomily at the dull eye of his pinto. "The best cuttin' out hoss I ever
throwed a leg over, and now--look at him!"
"Here's your relay!" cut in Johnny Gasney. "Old Billy 'phoned down." Five
men came leading three spare horses apiece. "He phoned down and asked me to
get fifteen hosses ready. He must of guessed where Barry would head. And
here they are--the best ponies in St. Vincent--but for God's sake use 'em
better'n you did that set!"
The other members of the posse set to work silently changing their saddles
to the new relay, and Mark Retherton tossed his answer over his shoulder to
Johnny Gasney while he drew his cinch brutally tight.
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