"Look--look him over!" he cried, and his voice was a curious mixture of distress and restrained excitement. "I--I don't want him--him to go back--to go back--hurt--hurt in--in--"

And now Pat saw the strangest thing of all. He saw the young man slowly close his eyes and sink back into the arms of the others as one dead. He saw the others exchange troubled glances and lay the insensible form down tenderly on the sand. It was all very unusual, something new in his life; and, not knowing what else to do, yet somehow feeling that he should do something, be it never so little, he lowered his head and sounded a trembling nicker into the silence.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN ENEMY

There was water in the grove, and the men made camp at the edge of the trees. "The Doc," which was what the rangers early had affectionately nicknamed Stephen, was suffering a compound fracture of the left arm, together with numerous bruises and scratches about the head and face. He had had a nasty fall. His horse had stumbled and almost instantly died as the result of the big cattle-rustler's shots. The men set and splinted Stephen's arm as best they could, and they bandaged his head with rare skill; but it was deemed advisable for him to remain quiet for a time.

So Stephen lay listlessly smiling at the bantering of the men, too sick at heart really to take interest in any living thing. His arm pained him, and his head ached, while throughout his body he was sore and stiff and well-nigh incapable of moving. But not once following the first complete collapse did he let go of himself, although when the men set his arm it seemed that he must. Somehow he was contented that everything was as it was. True, he was hurt. But also he had found Pat, had recovered the horse for Helen, and the horse now was within sound of his voice, did he but care to lift it. His physical hurts would get well, his spiritual hurts never without the recovery of the horse. And now he had the horse.

One morning it became apparent that their food-supplies would soon need replenishing. So it was decided to break camp for the nearest town, a Mexican settlement some eighty miles to the southwest. Stephen had been walking about somewhat cheerfully for three or four days, and his condition was such that he could ride forward slowly without danger to his arm. So they broke camp, utilizing the sorrel as a pack-horse--there now were two extra saddles and bridles--and set out, Stephen, of course, mounted upon Pat.

Once more Pat found himself following an unmarked and desolate trail.

Moving always at a walk now instead of the conventional fox-trot, he found his service, save for this and one other thing, identical with that under his previous masters. The single other difference was that instead of irritating silence, these men unwittingly soothed him with their talk and swift exchange of jokes. Thus the hours pa.s.sed, until noon came, when, with his bridle and saddle removed, and pungent odors of savory cooking tickling his nostrils, he received the privilege of grazing over the whole desert unhobbled and untethered. But this, liberal as it seemed, brought him nothing of the nourishment his soul craved. After an hour or two of lazy wandering, while the men pa.s.sed the time at cards, he was sent forward again along the ever-mysterious trail. And thus he moved, through the long hot afternoon, the cool and lingering twilight, on to a night camp where once more he was turned loose with the other horses to glean as best he might life-giving sustenance from the scant herbage. But it was drearily monotonous.

Throughout it all, however, there was one who kept his interest alive.

It was the white horse. In the camp holding himself aloof, as if superciliously refraining from close contact, on the trail this horse took to revealing his antagonism. He would stand a short way from him while they grazed, lay back his ears and whisk his tail, and, whenever the chance came, he would snap viciously at the other horses. Pat understood the meaning of all this, and held himself ready to resist attack, yet he simply looked at the horse with a kind of amused speculation. Nor at any time did he feel grave apprehension. That he did not take the horse seriously lay in the fact that after drawing near in this fashion and bristling nastily the white horse would quickly draw away again, steadily and craftily, and then fall to worrying one of the other horses, usually one of smaller size that quite obviously feared him.

There came the time when the white did not confine his threatenings to the grazing-periods. He became aggressive on the march. Though less free to give battle here, which was possibly his reason, he would frequently jockey close, and either flash his head around with teeth snapping, or else, as if to make Pat feel inferiority, would plunge forward to a point immediately in front, and in this position fling back choking dust or gravel. At such times the round-faced man, the white's master, would drag him away mightily, or, if he was not quick enough, then the sorrel, drowsing along behind on a lead-rope, would unconsciously offer resistance. But it was all very disagreeable, and Pat, while finding that it broke up the monotony of the journey, yet at length found himself also becoming irritated.

He finally gave way to it. It was his nature to brood over annoyances and sometimes to heap grains of injustice into mountains of woes. He fell to thinking of his general lot, his misfortunes, the lack of proper food, the occasional lack of water, until he became sullen and peevish.

The change showed in sudden starts at unusual sounds which brought sharp protests from his young master, and then he began to refuse to eat. This was grave, and he knew it. But he could not or would not help it; he never knew quite which it was. But he did not eat. Instead of moving about with the other horses, nose to ground, mouthing the bunch-gra.s.s, he would mope by himself well away from the other horses, standing with head hanging and ears inert, all in motionless silence. As the water-holes became farther apart, and the grazing worse yet, he did this more and more, until the white horse, evidently seeing his lack of spirit, became a source of downright aggravation, frequently taking lightning nips at him. At such times Pat would lift his head and hold himself erect and vigilant during the grazing-period, but he brooded, none the less, and as persistently refused to eat.

This was not lost upon Stephen or the rangers, neither his refusing to eat nor the white's antagonism. They spent hours discussing both. Having found in Pat none of the regular symptoms of disease, yet aware that something grave was the matter, the rangers fell to discussing Pat's condition with much earnestness, frequently interrupting their arguments on the one subject to declare that the white horse, provided Pat held out and healed up against his complaint, would get a fight such as was never before witnessed in the desert. That they were evenly matched both as to build and strength was recognized; that Pat was possessed of a reserve that told of finer courage all agreed. Yet in this last lurked opportunities for argument; and argue they did, sometimes long into the night, the little man known as the Professor and the rangy individual with the scrubby beard showing the greatest vehemence. Yet despite all their arguments, to which Stephen invariably listened in smiling silence, none as yet had offered good reason for the villainous att.i.tude of the white toward the peaceful Pat.

"_I_ know!" suddenly declared the man with the scrubby beard one evening, after the tin dishes had been cleared away. "It's jealousy!" He narrowed his eyes out through the darkness in the direction of the horses. "Who ever 'u'd believe old Tom out there 'u'd show jealousy? I see it, though, the first day. You recollect we made a heap of the black, kind of petting him up some, and Tom, bein', as he sure is, an intelligent hoss, I reckon he figured it out that he'd played the game and been faithful all along, and then to see himself set back that way by a complete stranger, it jest nach.e.l.ly made him sore. Same as it would you or me, mebbe, if we was informed polite and all that from headquarters that they was a new man comin' to jine us that was the pure quill whichever way you looked at him. Old Tom is bein' et up with jealousy, I'm regretful to say."

"Animiles feels things a heap more'n humans does," put in the little man known as the Professor. "But they're more reserved in showin' 'em out.

Yit when they do show 'em out, they're a lot less polite about it than humans."

"Nach.e.l.ly," snapped the lean man, glaring savagely across the fire at the other. "But that ain't tellin' us what ails the black," he went on, dropping the subject of the white and taking up with the symptoms of the black, evidently through perverseness. "He's solemn and dumpish," he declared, thoughtfully, "like he might have distemper. But he 'ain't got distemper. And his teeth ain't sharp, yet he don't eat at all. And I can't see anything the matter with his insides."

"Did you look?" inquired the Professor, innocently, but with a quick wink at Stephen.

"Yes, I--" began the lean man, only to check himself with an angry snort. Then he shifted the topic again, reverting to the case of old Tom. "That white hoss'll about push that matter to a finish," he declared. "See if what I say don't pan out! Tom he'll just about obey that law o' nature which animals has knowed from long before the ark, but which us humans is just gettin' a hold on. He'll remove the cause--old Tom will--or get himself removed. He ain't n.o.body's fool--nor never was!" And he rested his eyes significantly upon the Professor.

The Professor was busy, however. He had pulled a deck of cards from his hip pocket, and now was riffling them with pointed interest. Directly he began to deal them around, carefully overlooking the lean man as he did so. But the latter, dropping over upon one elbow, permitted the game to proceed without offering objection to the oversight, a peculiar one, since he was in the full glare of the fire.

That argument was closed.

But next morning Pat received unexpected attention. His young master approached him, looped a rope around his neck, and gave the end to the large man, who mounted the white. Then the lean man bridled and saddled the sorrel for the young man, who evidently was unable conveniently to do these things with his one hand. After this he loaded Pat with the extra saddles and bridles, and thus they set out. It was a not unfavorable change, and Pat, while harboring mixed emotions, since he now was trailing along behind the white, yet found himself in a lighter mood. Feeling little jealousy of the white, however, he soon forgot the changed relations, finding in his own position a new viewpoint upon the cavalcade which was interesting. For now he could survey the whole squad, five horses of varied size and action, and this, as he studied the individual gait of each, was not without its pleasure. Also, being, as he was, free from the weight of a man, he felt an airy lightness that was positively refreshing. And finally, since he was out of reach of the nagging white, this blessing alone made him grateful. So he followed along, working yet not working, with a feeling of complete composure such as had not been his for many a day.

Still his composure did not last. The novelty wore off toward noon, and he found himself morose and introspective again. Sounding the depths of his grievances, he at length took to thinking of the white corral beside the river. Not in many a day had he thought of the ranch. But he was recalling it now, not through affection, not because it was home to him, but because, brooding over his many discomforts in the open, he was suddenly remembering that his life had not always been this--that he knew actual comfort, knew what it was to have his wants gratified. And recalling these facts, he naturally recalled that which had made them possible--the little ranch in the valley. So he let his thoughts linger there. Faint and elusive at first, those other days became finally quite vivid, days of expectancy and gratification, days of sugar and quartered apples, days of affection and love-talk from his pretty little mistress.

And how he missed them all! How he missed them--even the Mexican hostler and the brown saddler and the old matronly horse--his mother by adoption! But they were gone from him now, gone for all time out of his life. Yet though he believed them gone, he continued to brood on them, to live each day over again in his thoughts, till the men ahead dismounted suddenly. Then he was glad to turn his attention to other matters, things close around him. One of these was the coming of the lean man with a pair of familiar objects in his hands--this after the noonday meal.

"Well, my bucky," he began, turning critical eyes over Pat, "I been studyin' your case a heap, and I've come to think I'm old Doctor Sow himself. Your young man here is knocked out of all possible good," he went on, as Stephen smilingly approached, "and so it occurred to me, sir, as how you ain't sick no more'n I be. What ails you is you're an aristocrat--something that's been knocked around unusual--what with them rustlers and with us that's worse than rustlers--and got yourself all mussed up and unfit! All you need is a cleanin'--that's what ails you!

You're just nice furniture--a piece o' Sheraton, mebbe--that's all over sweepings, and I'm the he-maid that's going to dust you off. Hold still, now."

So Pat, after taking a step toward Stephen, who now was stroking him tenderly, held very still, not only under the soothing caress, but under the operation--for such was the cleaning--since he was gritty beyond belief. Also, after the operation he felt immeasurably better, and better still when Stephen led him to a tiny stream and he had relieved his thirst. But that was not all of joy. Turned loose with the other horses, he fell to grazing eagerly, actually finding it good, and once lifting a long and shrill nicker in grat.i.tude for this change in his condition. Nor did his delight stop here. With camp broken, and his young master, instead of returning him to the lead-rope, bridling and saddling him awkwardly with one hand, he set out along the trail at a gait so brisk that it brought a startled exclamation from the young man, who promptly pulled him down. But though he was forced to keep a slow gait, yet frequently during the afternoon, conscious of his fresh coat and the sense of buoyancy it gave him, he flung up his head and nickered loud and joyfully. Also, with night once more descending, and the stars twinkling in the blue-black heavens, and the sheen of a rising moon flooding the desert, he moved about among the other horses with a vigor that was almost insolence, seizing tufts of gra.s.s wherever he saw them, heedless of others' rights.

Around the fire sat or sprawled the men. Two of them were industriously mending, one a shirt, the other a bridle. The Professor and the man with the scrubby beard were complacently smoking, while Stephen, glad to stretch out after the day's ride with an arm that constantly distressed him, was reclining upon a blanket, staring into the flames and conjuring up in their leaping tongues numerous soothing pictures. As he sat there the man with the beard suddenly addressed him.

"Doc," he drawled, removing his pipe from between whiskers that glinted in the light of the fire, "now that you've got him, what are you thinking of doing with that horse?"

"I'll take him back," replied Stephen, pleasantly.

The other was silent. "Sh.o.r.e!" he rejoined, after a moment. "But take him back where?"

"Where he belongs."

There was further silence. "Excuse me!" finally exclaimed the other. "I was thinking as mebbe you'd take him whence he came."

Stephen sat erect and looked at the other. He was smoking again complacently.

"Whence come you?" asked Stephen, after a time.

The other slowly removed his pipe. Then he told him. Then Stephen spoke.

And then the man rose stiffly, crossed solemnly to him and shook hands with him cordially.

"I knowed you was white the fust day I see you," he declared. Then he waved a vague hand over the others. "They've all--all of 'em--traveled that way. I was raised--"

A sudden shrill scream out in the darkness interrupted him. It was a horse. The cry stirred the entire camp. The Professor arose, sauntered out, whistling, whirled, and called back sharply. The others ran toward him; the large man struck a match. The white horse was limping on three legs. They bent over and examined the fourth. The match went out. All straightened up. As they did so Pat sounded a shrill nicker.

"Busted!" exclaimed the large man, quietly. "Well, I'm a goat! That black horse has kicked old Tom clear over the divide. I--I'm clean done!

Quick as lightning, too! No preambles; no circ.u.mlocutions; no nothing.

Just put it to him. Good Lord!" Then he regretfully drew a revolver. "I reckon you boys better stand back."

A shot broke the quiet, and the desert shivered and was still again. The white horse sank to the ground. Stephen walked to Pat, struck a match, and looked him over critically. Pat was torn and bleeding in two places along the neck, but otherwise he needed no attention. Stephen patted him thoughtfully, gratefully, fighting the horror of what might have been had this splendid horse weakened in the crisis. No wonder the little girl in the valley worshiped him.

But he said nothing. After a time he returned to the fire and sat down among a very sober group of men. Presently the man with the scrubby beard broke the quiet. His voice sounded hollow and distressed.

"I knowed it," he declared. "Though I thought old Tom 'u'd done better."

He began to roll a cigarette. "Pore old Tom! He's killed; he's dead--dead and gone." With the cigarette made, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a brand from the fire and lighted it. He fell to smoking in thoughtful silence, in his eyes a look of unutterable sadness.

The Professor bestirred himself. "Tell me," he asked, lifting his gaze to the heavens reflectively--"tell me, does any of you believe that horses--any animiles--has souls?"

The lean man glanced at him. His eyes now had the look of one anxious to express his views, but cautiously refused to be baited. Finally he made answer.

"If you're askin' my opinion," he said, "I'll tell you that I know they have." He was silent. "I know that animals has the same thing we've got," he continued--"that thing we call the soul--but they've got it in smaller proportions, so to speak. It's easy as falling off a bucking bronc. Take old Tom out there. Take that Lady horse that got killed two years ago by rustlers--take any horse, any dumb animal--and I'll show you in fifteen different ways that they've got souls."

"How?"

The lean man glared. "Now 'how'!" he snapped. "You give me a mortal pang. Why don't you never use your eyes once like other and more decent folks? Get the habit. You'll see there ain't any difference between animals and humans, only speech, and they've got that!"