man's attention from the town back to his own immediate
concerns. The animal he rode, the two he led were, at first glance, far
more noticeable than the dusty rider himself.

His saddle was cinched about the barrel of a big gray colt, one that could
not have been more than five years old but showed enough power and
breeding to attract attention in any horse-conscious community. Here was a
thoroughbred of the same blood which had pounded race tracks in Virginia
and in Kentucky to best all comers. Even now, after weeks on the trail,
with a day's burden of alkali dust grimed into his coat, the stud was a
beautiful thing. And his match was the mare on the lead rope, plainly a
lady of family, perhaps of the same line, since her coat was also silver.
She crowded closer, nickered plaintively.

She was answered by an anxious bray from the fourth member of the party.
The mule bearing the trail pack was in ludicrous contrast to his own
aristocratic companions. His long head, with one entirely limp and
flopping ear, was grotesquely ugly, the carcass beneath the pack a bone
rack, all sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master could
have proven, were deceiving.

"Soooo--" The rider's voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but it
was tuned to the soothing croon of a practiced horse trainer. "Sooo--lady,
just a little farther now, girl...."

From the one-story building on the rider's right a man emerged. He paused
to light a long Mexican cigarillo, and as he held the match to let the
sulfur burn away, his eyes fell upon the stallion. A casual interest
tightened into open appreciation as he stepped from under the
porch-overhang into the street.

"That is some horse, sir." His voice was that of an educated gentleman.
The lantern at the end of the porch picked out the fine ruffled linen of
his shirt, a vest with a painted design of fighting cocks, and the wink of
gold buttons. The rather extravagant color of his clothing matched well
with the town.

"I think so." The answer was short and yet not discourteous.

Again the mare voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to the
gentleman. "There is a livery stable here, suh?" Unconsciously he reverted
in turn to the rather formal speech pattern of another place and time.

The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from stallion to
mare. "Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe Kells owns it. He's a
tolerable vet, too. She's near her time, ain't