"Here's your horse," said Brevoort, "and some chuck."
Harper sat up quickly, too quickly for a man who had ridden as far as
he had. Pete wondered at the other's hardihood and grit, for Harper
was instantly on his feet and saddling the fresh horse, and
incidentally cursing the Olla, Brent, and the universe in general, with
a gusto which bespoke plenty of unspoiled vigor.
"Tell Brent the coast is clear," said Brevoort as Harper mounted.
They could hear his horse getting into his stride long before the sound
of his hoofbeats was swallowed up in the abyss of the night.
Pete turned in. Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence until
daylight.
And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and went
swiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound its
slow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riders
who continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit. Suddenly
the dream changed. He was lying on a bed in a long, white-walled room,
dimly lighted by a flickering gas-jet, and Boca stood beside him gazing
down at him wistfully.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343