m to be.

Smith, it seemed, was riding that morning also, for when Ralston led his
brown mare saddled and bridled from the stable, Smith was tightening the
cinch on his long-legged gray--the horse he had taken from the Englishman.
The Schoolmarm, in her riding clothes, ran down the trail, calling
impartially:

"Will one of you please get my horse for me? He broke loose last night and
is over there in the pasture."

For reply, both Ralston and Smith swung into their saddles.

"I aims to get that horse. There's no call for you to go, feller."

Above all else, it was odious to Ralston to be addressed by Smith
"feller."

"If you happen to get to him first," he answered curtly. "And I'd like to
suggest that my name is Ralston."

By way of answer, Smith dug the spurs cruelly into the thin-skinned
blooded gray. Ralston loosened the reins on his brown mare, and it was a
run from the jump.

Each realized that the inevitable clash had come, that no pretense of
friendliness would longer be possible between them, that from now on they
would be avowed enemies. As for Ralston, he was glad that the crisis had
arrived; glad of anything which would divert him for ever so short a time
from his own bitter thoughts; glad of the test which he could meet in the
open, like a man.

The corral gate was open, and this led into a lane something like
three-quarters of a mile in length, at the end of which was another gate,
opening into the pasture where the runaway pony had crawled through the
loose wire fence.

The brown mare had responded to Ralston's signal like the loyal, honest
little brute she was. The gravel flew behind them, and the rat-a-tat-tat
of the horses' hoofs on the hard road was like the roll of a drum. They
were running neck and neck, but Ralston had little fear of the result,
unless the gray had phenomenal speed.

Ralston knew that whoever reached the gate first must open it. If he could
get far enough in the lead, he could afford to do so; if not, he meant to
"pull" his horse and leave it to Smith. The real race would be from the
gate to the pony.

The gray horse could run--his build showed that, and his stride bore out
his appearance. Yet Ralston felt no uneasiness, for the mare had still
several links of speed to let out--"and then some," as he phrased it. The
pace was furious even to the gate; they ran neck and neck, like a team,
and the face of each rider was set in lines of determination. Ralston
quickly sa