Well, he would let Sally do her best. For the
last time he called on her; for the last time she
struggled to respond, and Andrew looked back and grimly
watched the stallion sweeping across the last portion
of the flat ground, closer, closer, and then, at the
very base of the slope, Gray Peter tossed up his head,
floundered, and went down, hurling his rider over
his head. Andrew, fascinated, let Sally fall into
a walk, while he watched the singular, convulsive
struggles of Gray Peter to gain his feet. Hal
Dozier was up again; he ran to his horse, caught his
head, and at the same moment the stallion grew suddenly
limp. The weight of his head dragged the marshal
down, and then Andrew saw that Dozier made no effort
to rise again.
He sat with the head of the horse in his lap, his
own head buried in his hands, and Andrew knew then
that Gray Peter was dead.
The mare herself was in a far from safe condition.
And if the marshal had roused himself from his grief
and hurried up the slope on foot he would have found
the fugitive out of the saddle and walking by the side
of the played-out Sally, forcing her with slaps on
the hip to keep in motion. She went on, stumbling,
her head down, and the sound of her breathing was
a horrible thing to hear. But she must keep in
motion, for, if she stopped in this condition, Sally
would never run again.
Andrew forced her relentlessly on. At length
her head came up a little and her breathing was easier
and easier. Before dark that night he came on
a deserted shanty, and there he took Sally under the
shelter, and, tearing up the floor, he built a fire
which dried them both. The following day he walked
again, with Sally following like a dog at his heels.
One day later he was in the saddle again, and Sally
was herself once more. Give her one feed of grain,
and she would have run again that famous race from
beginning to end. But Andrew, stealing out of
the Roydon mountains into the lower ground, had no
thought of another race. He was among a district
of many houses, many men, and, for the final stage
of his journey, he waited until after dusk had come
and then saddled Sally and cantered into the valley.
It was late on the fourth night after he left Los
Toros that Andrew came again to the house of John
Merchant and left Sally in the very place among the
trees where the pinto had stood before. There
was no danger of discovery on his approach, for it
was a wild night of wind and rain. The drizzling
mists of the last three days had turned into a steady
downpour, and rivers of water had been running from
his slicker on the way to the ranch house. Now
he put the slicker behind the saddle, and from the
shelter of the trees surveyed the house.
It was bursting with music and light; sometimes the
front door was opened and voices stole out to him;
sometimes even through the closed door he heard the
ghostly tinkling of some girl’s laughter.
