The stranger groaned.  “Then I’ll make another hoss stretch out and do.”

“Can’t be done.  Doone’s hoss is a marvel.  Nothing else about here can touch him, and he’s the only one that can make the trip around the mountain, inside of three hours.  You’d kill another hoss trying to do it, what with your weight.”

The stranger groaned again and struck his knuckles against his forehead.  “But why can’t I get the hoss?  Is Doone out of town with it?”

“The hoss ain’t out of town, but Doone is.”

The traveler clenched his fists.  This delay and waste of priceless time was maddening him.  “Gents,” he called desperately, “I got to get to Martindale today.  It’s more than life or death to me.  Where’s Doone’s hoss?”

“Right across the road,” said the old man who had spoken first.  “Over yonder in the corral—­the bay.”

The traveler turned and saw, beyond the road, a beautiful mare, not very tall, but a mare whose every inch of her fifteen three proclaimed strength and speed.  At that moment she raised her head and looked across to him, and the heart of the rider jumped into his throat.  The very sight of her was an omen of victory, and he made a long stride in her direction, but two men came before him.  The old fellow jumped from the chair and tapped his arm.

“You ain’t going to take the bay without getting leave from Doone?”

“Gents, I got to,” said the stranger.  “Listen!  My name’s Gregg, Bill Gregg.  Up in my country they know I’m straight; down here you ain’t heard of me.  I ain’t going to keep that hoss, and I’ll pay a hundred dollars for the use of her for one day.  I’ll bring or send her back safe and sound, tomorrow.  Here’s the money.  One of you gents, that’s a friend of Doone, take it for him.”

Not a hand was stretched out; every head shook in negation.

“I’m too fond of the little life that’s left to me,” said the old fellow.  “I won’t rent out that hoss for him.  Why, he loves that mare like she was his sister.  He’d fight like a flash rather than see another man ride her.”

But Bill Gregg had his eyes on the bay, and the sight of her was stealing his reason.  He knew, as well as he knew that he was a man, that, once in the saddle on her, he would be sure to win.  Nothing could stop him.  And straight through the restraining circle he broke with a groan of anxiety.

Only the old man who had been the spokesman called after him:  “Gregg, don’t be a fool.  Maybe you don’t recognize the name of Doone, but the whole name is Ronicky Doone.  Does that mean anything to you?”

Into the back of Gregg’s mind came several faint memories, but they were obscure and uncertain.  “Blast your Ronicky Doone!” he replied.  “I got to have that hoss, and, if none of you’ll take money for her rent, I’ll take her free and pay her rent when I come through this way tomorrow, maybe.  S’long!”

While he spoke he had been undoing the cinches of his own horse.  Now he whipped the saddle and bridle off, shouted to the hotel keeper brief instructions for the care of the weary animal and ran across the road with the saddle on his arm.