was to
let go and give the horse his head.

A starless night fell across the desert. With danger of pursuit
practically ended, and only a chance encounter to fear, de Spain tried
to help himself by walking the horse and resting his bleeding foot in
front of the pommel, letting the pony pick his way as he chose. A
period of unconsciousness, a blank in de Spain's mind, soon followed
the slowing up. He came to himself as he was lurching out of the
saddle. Pulling himself together, he put the wet foot in the stirrup
again and clung to the pommel with his hands. How long he rode in this
way, or how far, he never knew. He was roused to consciousness by the
unaccustomed sound of running water underneath his horse's feet.

It was pitch dark everywhere. The horse after the hard experience of
the evening was drinking a welcome draft. De Spain had no conception
of where he could be, but the stream told him he had somehow reached
the range, though Music Mountain itself had been swallowed up in the
night. A sudden and uncontrollable thirst seized the wounded man. He
could hear the water falling over the stones and climbed slowly and
painfully out of the saddle to the ground. With the lines in his left
hand he crawled toward the water and, lying flat on the ground beside
the horse, put his head down to drink. The horse, meantime, satisfied,
lifted his head with a gulp, rinsed his mouth, and pulled backward.
The lines slipped from de Spain's hand. Alarmed, the weakened man
scrambled after them. The horse, startled, shied, and before his rider
could get to his feet scampered off in a trot. While de Spain listened
in consternation, the escaped horse, falling into an easy stride,
galloped away into the night.

Stunned by this new misfortune, and listening gloomily to the
retreating hoof-beats, de Spain pondered the situation in which the
disaster left him. It was the worst possible blow that could have
fallen, but fallen it had, and he turned with such philosophy as he
could to complete the drink of water that had probably cost him his
life. At least, cold water never tasted sweeter, never was so grateful
to his parched tongue, and since the price of the draft might be
measured by life itself, he drank extravagantly, stopping at times to
rest and, after breathing deeply, to drink again.

When he had slaked a seemingly unquenchable craving, he dashed the
running water, first with one hand and then the other, over his face.
He tried f