There were men who doubted it when
the tale was told, but Mark Retherton swore to the truth of it.
Even then that desperate effort was failing. Not all the generous will in
the heart of the stallion could give his legs the speed they needed; and he
fell back by inches, by feet, by yards, toward the posse. They disdained
their guns now, and kept them in the cases; for the game was theirs.
And then they noted an odd activity in the fugitive, who had slipped to one
side and was fumbling at his cinches. They could not understand for a time,
but presently the saddle came loose, the cinches flipped out, and the whole
apparatus crashed to the ground. Nor was this all. The rider leaned forward
and his hands worked on the head of his mount until the hackamore also came
free and was tossed aside. To that thing fifteen good men and true swore
the next day with strange oaths, and told how a man rode for his life on a
horse that wore neither saddle nor bridle but ran obediently to voice and
hand.
Every ounce counted, and there were other ounces to be spared.
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