The large man smiled. "Let's have it, Bob," he invited. "Where'll we look for it first?"

The lean man showed an impatience born of contempt. "Well," he began, tossing away his cigarette, "in desires, first, then in their power to appreciate, and, finally, in their sense of the worth of things. They have that, and don't you think they hain't. But they've got the others, too. Animals like to eat and drink and play, don't they? You know that!

And they understand when you're good to 'em and when you're cussed mean.

You know that. And they know death when they see it, take it from me, because they're as sensitive to loss of motion, or breathing, or animal heat, as us humans--more so. They feel pain, for instance, more'n we do, because, lackin' one of the five--or six, if you like--senses, their other senses is keyed up higher'n our'n."

The Professor looked belligerent. "Get particular!" he demanded.

"I won't get particular," snapped the other. "S'pose you wrastle it out for yourself--same as us humans." Evidently he was still bitter against this man. "That Lady horse o' mine," he went on, his eyes twinkling, addressing himself to the others, "she had it all sized about right. She used to say to me, when I'd come close to her in the morning: 'Well, old sock,' she'd say, throwin' her old ears forward, 'how are you this mornin'?--You know,' she'd declare, 'I kind o' like you because you understand me.' Then she'd about wipe her nose on me and go on. 'Wonder why it is that so many of you don't! It's easy enough, our language,'

she'd p'int out, 'but most o' you two-legged critters don't seem to get us. It's right funny! You appear to get 'most everything else--houses, and land, and playin'-cards, and sich. But you don't never seem to get us--that is, most o' you! Why, 'tain't nothin' but sign language, neither--same as Injuns talkin' to whites. But I reckon you're idiots, most o' you, and blind, you hairless animals, wearin' stuff stole offen sheep, and your ugly white faces mostly smooth. You got the idee we don't know nothin'--pity us, I s'pose, because we can't understand you.

Lawzee! We understand you, all right. It's you 'at don't understand us.

And that's the hull trouble. You think we're just a lump o' common dirt, with a little tincture o' movement added, just enough so as we can run and drag your loads around for you. Wisht you could 'a' heard me and old Tom last night, after you'd all turned in, talkin' on the subject o'

keepin' well and strong and serene o' mind. Sign language? Some. But what of it, old whiskers? Don't every deef-and-dumb party get along with few sounds and plenty of signs? You humans give me mortal distress!'

"And so on," concluded this lover of animals. "Thus Lady horse used to talk to me every mornin', tryin' to make me see things some little clearer. And that's all animals--if you happen to know the 'try me' on their little old middle chamber work." He fell silent.

The others said nothing. Each sat smoking reflectively, gazing into the dying flames, until one arose and prepared to turn in. Stephen was the last except the Professor and the man with the scrubby beard. And finally the Professor gained his feet and, with a glance at the last figure remaining at the fire, took off his boots and rolled up in his blanket. For a long moment he stared curiously at the other bowed in thought.

"Ain't you goin' to turn in?" he finally inquired. "You ain't et up by nothin', be you?"

The lean man slowly lifted his head. "I was thinkin'," he said, half to himself, "of a--a kind of horse's prayer I once see in a harness-shop in Albuquerque."

The other twisted himself under his blanket. "How did it go?" he asked, encouragingly. "Let's all have it!"

The lean man arose. "'To thee, my master,' it started off," he began, moving slowly toward his blanket. Suddenly he paused. "I--I don't just seem to remember it all," he said, and sat down and pulled off one of his boots. He held it in his hands absently.

The Professor urged him on. "Let her come," he said, his face now hidden in the folds of his covering. "Shoot it--let's hear."

"'To thee, my master, I offer my prayer,'" presently continued the other, turning reflective eyes toward the flickering coals. "'Feed me, water me, care for me, and, when the--the day's work is done, provide me with shelter and a clean, dry bed, and, when you can, a stall wide enough for me to lie down in in comfort. Always be kind to me. Talk to me--your voice often means as much to me as the reins. Pet me sometimes, that I may serve you the more gladly and know that my services are appreciated, and that I may learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when going up-hill. And when I don't understand you, what you want, do not strike or beat or kick me, but give me a chance to understand you. And if I continue to fail to understand, see if something is not wrong with my harness or feet.'"

The Professor's blanket stirred. "Go on!" he yelled. "Sounds all right.

Go ahead! Is that all?"

"I disremember the rest," replied the other. "Let's see!" He was silent.

"No," he finally blurted out, "I can't get it. It says something about overloading, and a-hitching where water don't drop on him, and--Oh yes!

'I can't tell you when I'm thirsty,' it goes on, 'so give me cool, clean water often. Never put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by holdin' it a moment in your hands. And, remember, I try to carry you and your burdens without a murmur, and I wait patiently for you long hours of the day and night. Without power to choose my shoes or path, I sometimes stumble and fall, but I stand always in readiness at any moment to lose my life in your service. And this is important, and, finally, O my master! when my useful strength is gone do not turn me out to starve, or sell me to some cruel owner to be slowly tortured and starved to death; but do thou, my master, take my life in the kindest way, and your G.o.d will reward you here and hereafter. You will not consider me irreverent, I know, if I ask all this in the name of Him Who was born in a stable.'"

The Professor's blanket stirred again. "Go on," he demanded in m.u.f.fled tones. "Is that all?"

The lean man slipped off his second boot. "No," he replied, quietly, "that ain't all."

"Well, go ahead. It's good. That horse must 'a' been a city horse; but go on!"

"Only one more word, anyway," was the rejoinder. He was still holding his boot.

"What is it?"

"Why"--the voice was solemn--"it's 'Amen.'"

"Aw, shucks!" came from the depths of the blanket.

The lean man turned his head. "Say, you!" he rasped, belligerently.

"What?"

For answer the boot sailed across the camp.

The Professor popped his head out of the blanket, drew it back suddenly, popped it out again, all strongly suggestive of a turtle.

There was a hoa.r.s.e laugh, then silence, but none of those men forgot the Prayer of the Horse.

CHAPTER XIX

ANOTHER CHANGE OF MASTERS

The next morning Pat had a change from the tedium of the desert. With the others he struck into a narrow canyon that led out to a beaten trail upon a rolling mesa. The trail wound diagonally across the mesa from the south and lost itself in snake-like twistings among hills to the north.

Guided to the right into this trail, Pat found himself, a little before noon, in a tiny Mexican settlement. It was a squat hamlet, nestling comfortably among the hills, made up of a few adobes, a lone well, and a general store. The store was at the far end, and toward this his young master directed him.

As they rode on Pat noticed a queer commotion. Here and there a door closed violently, only to open again cautiously as they drew opposite, revealing sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes five pairs of black eyes, all ranged timidly one pair over another in the opening. Dogs skulked before their approach, snarling in strange savagery, while whole flocks of chickens, ruffling in dusty hollows, took frantically to wing at their coming, fleeing before them in unwonted disorder. And finally, as they moved past the well, a half-grown boy, only partly dressed, hurtled out of the side door of one house, raced across a yard to the front door of another house, and slammed the door shut behind him in a panic.

It was all very strange, and it made a deep impression upon him. Also it evidently impressed the men, for as they drew rein in front of the store, with its dust-dry shelves and haunting silence, all asked quick questions of the proprietor, a little wizened, gimlet-eyed Mexican who was leaning in the doorway. After glancing over their accoutrements with a nod of understanding, he answered, explaining the reason for the agitation.

It was all the result of a raid. Three days before a band of marauders had swept down from the north, ransacked pigstys and chicken-coops and corrals, and galloped off madly to the south. Yes, they had plundered the store also. Indian renegades--yes. He could not say from what reservation. Yes, they were armed, and in warpaint, and riding good horses--all of them. No, he could not say--about thirty in the band, perhaps. He--What? Yes, he had alfalfa and, if they wished, other things--beans and rice and canned goods. No, the renegades had not wholly cleaned out the store. Yes, he had matches. No, they had not-- What? _Vino?_ To be sure he had _Vino_! He would get--how many bottles?--right away! It was in the cellar, where he kept it cool, and reasonably safe from all marauders--including himself. With this slight witticism he disappeared into the store.

The men dismounted. They sat down upon the porch, and one of them, the large man, removed his hat, produced a blue bandana, and fell to mopping his red face. The day was warm, and the settlement, lying low under surrounding peaks, received none of the outside breezes. Also, it was inert now, wrapped in the quiet of a frightened people. There was no movement anywhere save that of ruffling hens in the dust of the trail, and the nearer switching of horses' tails. Once this stillness was broken. Among the houses somewhere rose feminine lamentations, wailing sobs, the outburst cutting the quiet with a sharpness that caused the men to turn grave eyes in its direction. And now the keeper of the store reappeared, bearing three bottles of wine in his arms, and numerous supplies, which the men accepted and paid for. Then all led their horses back to the well, which was in a little clearing, and there prepared to make camp, throwing off saddle-bags and accoutrements and building a fire while they planned a real meal.

Pat was enjoying all this. The settlement had a faintly familiar look, and he half expected to see a swarthy Mexican, whip in hand, approach him with abusive tongue. Also, after weeks of far horizons and unending sweeps of desert, he found in this nearness of detail pleasurable relief. It was good to see something upright again without straining across miles of desolation, even as it was good to see adobes once more, with windows and doors, and smoke curling up out of chimneys. He felt a deep sense of security, of coziness, which he had been fast losing on the broad reaches, together with his sight for short distances. For his eyes had become affected since leaving the white corral beside the river, although with this he was aware of a peculiar gain. His sense of hearing now was most acute, and he could hear the least faint sounds--sounds which, before his taking to the open, he could not have heard. So he was enjoying it all, feeling real comfort, a kind of fitness, as if he belonged here and would better remain here for ever.

Then, with a generous supply of alfalfa tossed to him, as to the other horses, he became convinced that he should remain in this little settlement for all time.

Along in the afternoon the storekeeper, accompanied by a native woman, who was tear-stained and weeping, crossed the settlement. At the moment the men, lounging about on blankets, were discussing ways and means for Stephen. He need not continue with them now, they informed him, unless he wanted to. Arrangements could be made here to get him to a railroad in some kind of vehicle, leading Pat behind. But it was up to him. They weren't hurrying him away, by any means, yet it sure was up to him to get proper treatment for his arm, which showed slow signs of recovery.

Stephen was considering this when the two Mexicans approached. The proprietor of the store started to explain, when the little woman draped in a black mantilla interrupted him with further sobbing and a pointing finger--pointing back across the settlement.

"_Caballeros_," she began, "you coom please wit' me, I--I haf show you soomt'ing." Then again she burst into weeping.

Startled, Stephen arose, and the others gained their feet. They set out across the settlement. They struck between some adobe houses, crossed some back yards, dodged under clothes-lines, and found themselves in a tiny graveyard. The woman brought them to a stop before a fresh mound of earth. Here she knelt in another outburst of tears, while the gimlet-eyed storekeeper explained.

It was a little boy twelve years old. The marauders had stolen his pig.

He had bitterly denounced them, and one--evidently the leader--had shot him. It was too bad! But it was not all. In one of the houses, the large house they had pa.s.sed in coming here, lay an old man, seventy-eight years of age, dying from a rifle-shot. Yes, the renegade Indians had shot him also. What had he done? He had defended his chickens against theft. It was too bad! It was all too bad! Could not there something be done? To live in peace, to live in strict accord with all known laws, such was the aim and such had been the conduct of these people. And then to have a band of cutthroats, murderers, thieves, descend upon their peace and quiet in this fashion! It was all too bad!

The rangers turned away from the scene. All save the woman set out across the settlement, returning to the camp in silence. Seated once more, they fell to discussing this situation. And discussing the tragedy, they reverted to Stephen and his own troubles, light in comparison. They themselves, they acknowledged, had their work all cut out for them. It was what they got their money for. But there was hardly any use, they pointed out, in Stephen's accompanying them on this mission. Yet he could go if he wanted to. What did he say?

And Stephen, gazing off thoughtfully toward the tiny mound of fresh earth, and seeing the little woman prostrated with grief upon the grave, knew that Helen, herself bitter with loss, and no doubt needing Pat as much almost as this woman needed her own lost one, would have him do what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do, felt as if he must do, was to accompany these men, go with them, disabled though he was, and help as best he could to bring down retribution upon the renegades. And he made known his wishes to the others, finally, expressing them with a note of determination.

As they bridled and saddled, leaving all equipment not actually required, the proprietor of the store, his small eyes eager, stood close and frequently repeated his opinion that murder in even more gruesome form had been committed to the north. Then they set out, following the direction taken by the Indians, riding briskly, keyed up to energy through hope of encounter, although Stephen suffered not a little from the jolting of his arm. Dropping down from the hills, they swung out upon the mesa, and thence made into the south along a winding trail.