ng of this adventure had caused a thrill
of either joy or pride. But he did find in his new place freedom from
dust cast up by the heels of his companions, and he trotted along in
contentment, to all outward appearances. But it was only an appearance
of content. Within were mixed emotions. While he felt pleasure at being
active again, while he was resigned in a way to his hunger pangs, and he
was glad that his friends, the little gray and the young man, were still
with him, yet against all this was a sense of revolt at the unnecessary
tightness of the cinch, the hard hand on the reins, and the frequent
touch of spur and heel and stirrup against his sides. Finally the
feeling which began at that initial torture in bridling swelled with the
consequent annoyances into approaching revolt. He became ugly and
morose.

This soon revealed itself. He was crossing a wide arroyo. Without
counting costs, grimly blind to the result, he burst out of the fox-trot
into a canter. He held to this a thrilling moment, and then, finding
himself keyed to greater exertions, abandoned the canter and broke into
a sharp run. It was all done quickly, the changes of stride lapping
almost within his own length, and his heart leaped and pounded with
delight, for the change somehow relieved him.

But it was a mistake. Quickly as it was done, he found himself almost as
quickly jerked up, swung viciously around, and his sides raked with
ruthless spurs. He gasped a moment under the smarting fire of the spurs,
then, as in the old days, reared in a towering rage. And this was a
mistake. Too late he found the man's weight overbalancing him. He
struggled to recover himself, plunged over backward, and down, striking
the earth heavily. Hurriedly he regained his feet, but not so the man,
not till the others sprang to his assistance. Then he realized what he
had done, realized it fully as he caught the venomous gleam in the man's
eyes and heard the storm of abuse volleying from his lips. Then, looking
at the man, and listening to his raging outburst, he conjured up out of
the dim past memories of the Mexican hostler and of that single
encounter in the white corral. And now his fear for the man left him.

"I'll kill him! I'll shoot the horse!" roared Johnson, his face yellow
underneath the tan. He reached toward his side-arms.

But he did not shoot. With his face white and drawn Jim strode to Pat's
head, while Glover, quick to understand, played the solicitou