the posse, racing. There was only time for one desperate appeal.
“Stranger,” he burst out, “I'm follered. I got to have your hoss. Take this one in exchange; it's the best I ever threw a leg over. Here's two hundred bucks” he flung his wallet on the ground and swung himself out of the saddle.
The wolfish dog, which had growled softly all this time and roughed up the hair of its neck, now slunk forward on its belly.
“Heel, Bart!” commanded the stranger sharply, and the dog whipped about and stood away, whining with eagerness.
The moment Gregg's feet struck the ground his legs buckled like saplings in a wind for the long ride had sapped his strength, and the flow of blood told rapidly on him now. The hills and trees whirled around him until a lean, strong hand caught him under either armpit. The stranger stood close.
“You could have my hoss if you could ride him,” said he. His voice was singularly unhurried and gentle. “But you'd drop out of the saddle in ten minutes. Who's after you?”
A voice shouted far off beyond the wood; another voice answered, nearer, and the whole soul of Gregg turned to the stallion. Grey Molly was blown, she stood now with hanging head and her flanks sunk in alarmingly at every breath, but even fresh from the
