"They's a pile of hoss-flesh in these parts, but they ain't more'n one
Barry. You gents can say good-bye to your hosses unless we nail him
before they're run down,"
Johnny Gasney rubbed his red, fat forehead, perplexed.
"It's all right," he decided, "because it ain't possible the black hoss can
outlast these. But--he sure seemed full of runnin! One thing more, Mark.
You don't need to fear pressin' Barry, because he won't shoot. He had his
gun out, but I guess he don't want to run up his score any higher'n it is.
He put it back without firin' a shot. Go on, boys, and go like hell. Billy
has lined up a new relay for you at Wago."
They made no pause to start in a group, but each sent home the spurs as
soon as he was in the saddle. They had ridden for the blood of Pete Glass
before, but now at least seven of them rode for the sake of the horses they
had ruined, and to a cow-puncher a favorite mount is as dear as a friend.
They expected to find the black out of sight, but it was a welcome surprise
to see him not half a mile away wading across St.
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