and horses half-hidden by the
dust. Near her lay the gold horse with his head twisted backward by
the taut rope, which choked him until his eyes bulged, and foam
dripped from his lips. The man who had held the lariat lay half under
his fallen pony, whose efforts to rise were checked by the tightened
rope still tied to the saddlebow. The two other men were on their
feet, one clutching the straightened halter, the second deftly
slipping a lariat around the prisoner's pawing hind legs.

It was all over in a minute. The taut rope was cut near the saddle of
the fallen pony, which then scrambled to its feet; the leader rose,
shook himself, and proceeded phlegmatically to adjust the turned
saddle, and to climb stiffly into it; the leading-rope was passed to
him again, the second lariat was loosed from the outlaw's feet,
permitting him to rise; the other men remounted; and the procession
moved on again in silence, scarcely a word having been spoken from the
time the horse made his mad charge for liberty. And now he seemed to
have had enough of the conflict, for he stepped forward obediently
and, Marion fancied, as demurely as a child that has finished a
naughty tantrum.

Then at last there was speech. One of the men had dropped back a few
paces to be in the rear of the prisoner. He sat heavily in the saddle,
leaning forward as if he would fall on the pony's neck. But his eyes
never left the golden horse, and when he spoke it was not to the girl,
who had ridden close up to his side, but to himself, in a kind of
hoarse and guttural soliloquy.

"But he ain't done. He's foolin'," the man said again and again, as if
he had started the words and could not stop them. "He ain't done. He's
foolin'."

Marion looked at him curiously. He was the typical cow-puncher, in
blue flannel shirt and leather chaps, with the inevitable revolver
hanging loosely at his hip, and a long quirt suspended from his right
wrist. The dust on his face was stained with blood that had flowed
from a raw bruise on his temple, and Marion now noticed that his left
arm hung limp at his side.

"You're hurt!" she said softly.

The man turned, and stared at her blankly, and she saw that his face
was distorted into a set expression of pain.

"Arm busted," he said, after a moment, as if surprised by her
question; and then renewed his watch.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

"Throwed me."

"You don't mean you tried to ride him!"

"Jerked me. Th' man ain't b