Again that thin, long-drawn sound, and this time,
glancing over his right shoulder, he saw a horseman
plunging down the slope of the mountain. He knew
instantly that it was Ronicky Doone. The man had
come to recapture his horse and had taken the short
cut across the mountain to come up with her.
Just by a fraction of a minute Doone would be too
late, for, by the time he came down onto the trail,
the bay would be well ahead, and certainly no horse
lived in those mountains capable of overtaking her
when she felt like running. Gregg touched her
again with the spurs, but this time she reared straight
up and, whirling to the side, faced steadily toward
her onrushing master.
Friendly Enemies
Again and again Gregg spurred the bay cruelly.
She winced from the pain and snorted, but, apparently
having not the slightest knowledge of bucking, she
could only shake her head and send a ringing whinny
of appeal up the slope of the mountain, toward the
approaching rider.
In spite of the approaching danger, in spite of this
delay which was ruining his chances of getting to
Stillwater before the train, Bill Gregg watched in
marvel and delight the horsemanship of the stranger.
Ronicky Doone, if this were he, was certainly the prince
of all wild riders.
Even as the mare stopped in answer to the signal of
her owner, Ronicky Doone sent his mount over the edge
of a veritable cliff, flung him back on his haunches
and slid down the gravelly slope, careening from side
to side. With a rush of pebbles about him and
a dust cloud whirling after, Ronicky Doone broke out
into the road ahead of the mare, and she whinnied
softly again to greet him.
Bill Gregg found himself looking not into the savage
face of such a gunfighter as he had been led to expect,
but a handsome fellow, several years younger than
he, a high-headed, straight-eyed, buoyant type.
In his seat in the saddle, in the poise of his head
and the play of his hand on the reins Bill Gregg recognized
a boundless nervous force. There was nothing
ponderous about Ronicky Doone. Indeed he was
not more than middle size, but, as he reined his horse
in the middle of the road and looked with flashing
eyes at Bill Gregg, he appeared very large indeed.
Gregg was used to fighting or paying his way, or doing
both at the same time, as occasion offered. He
decided that this was certainly an occasion for much
money and few words.
“You’re Doone, I guess,” he said,
“and you know that I’ve played a pretty
bad trick on you, taking your hoss this way. But
I wanted to pay for it, Doone, and I’ll pay
now. I’ve got to get to Stillwater before
that train. Look at her! I haven’t
hurt her any. Her wind isn’t touched.
She’s pretty wet, but sweat never hurt nothing
on four feet, eh?”
“I dunno,” returned Ronicky Doone.
“I’d as soon run off with a man’s
wife as his hoss.”
