ome, the big grey accepted the hard Spanish bit. He allowed,
too, the saddle to be thrown on him, only a quick little quivering of
the tense flanks and a twitching of the skin upon his back showing that
he felt and resented. And then with his master's weight upon him, his
master's softened voice in his ear, a hard hand very gently stroking the
hot shoulder, Comet shook his head, a great sigh expanded the deep
lungs, and he was the perfect saddle horse with too much sense to rebel
further at the knowledge that after all he is a horse and the man who
bestrides him is a man. And Buck Thornton, because he knew this animal
and loved him, slackened the reins a little, sensed the tensing of the
powerful muscles slipping like pliant steel through satin sheaths,
turned the proud head toward the south and felt the rush of air whipping
back his hat brim, stinging his face as they shot out across the rolling
hills.

When Comet had had his run, racing through the other herds that flung up
their heads to look at him and the first half mile had sped away behind,
Thornton coaxed him down into a gentle gallop, swearing at him with much
soft and deep affection.

"Easy, Little Horse," he soothed. "Easy. We're going to Dead Man's.
We'll go in slow and watching where we put our feet, all rested and
quick on the trigger and ready to come out ... if we _want_ to! ... like
winning a race."

And Comet, snorting his dislike of any conservation of strength and
energy, nevertheless obeyed. So it was a little after three o'clock
when they entered the crooked, narrow street which gives a bad town a
bad name.

The town had shaken off the lethargy of its morning sleep: there were
many men in the street, some riding back and forth, disdaining to walk
the distance of a hundred yards from a saloon they had just left to the
saloon to which they were going, some sitting their horses in the shade,
lounging in the saddle as a man may lounge in an arm chair, some idled
on foot at the swinging doors, while many others made a buzz of deep
throated voices at the bars and over the gaming tables. As Buck
Thornton, riding slowly, his hat back upon his head, his eyes ranging to
right and left, came into the street where Winifred Waverly had entered
it last week, more than one man lifted his eyebrows on seeing him and
wondered what business had brought him here. For the memory of his
meeting with the Bedloes was still green, the scars which the Kid wore
on his r