it very
much.

Just as Rex expected, Tobe allowed himself to be overpersuaded and rode
the sorrel horse. He renamed the sorrel horse Goldie, on the spot,
saddled him awkwardly, mounted in like manner, and rode into the shadowy
depths of Double Mountain.

Once he was out of sight Mr. Griffith followed, despite the angry
protest of Mr. Steele--alleging falsely that he was going to try for a
deer.

Tobe rode slowly up the crooked and brush-lined canyon. Behind him,
cautiously hidden, came Griffith, the hawk-eyed avenger--waiting at each
bend until Mr. Long had passed the next one, for closer observation of
how Mr. Long bore himself in solitude.

Mr. Long bore himself most disappointingly. He rode slowly and
awkwardly, scanning with anxious care the hillsides before him. Not once
did he look back lest he should detect Mr. Griffith. Near the summit the
Goldie horse shied and jumped. It was only one little jump, whereunto
Goldie had been privately instigated by Mr. Long's thumb--"thumbing" a
horse, as done by one conversant with equine anatomy, produces
surprising results!--but it caught Mr. Long unawares and tumbled him
ignominiously in the dust.

Mr. Long sat in the sand and rubbed his shoulder: Goldie turned and
looked down at him in unqualified astonishment. Mr. Long then cursed Mr.
Bransford's sorrel horse; he cursed Mr. Bransford for bringing the
sorrel horse; he cursed himself for riding the sorrel horse; he cursed
Mr. Griffith, with one last, longest, heart-felt, crackling,
hair-raising, comprehensive and masterly curse, for having persuaded him
to ride the sorrel horse. Then he tied the sorrel horse to a bush and
hobbled on afoot, saying it all over backward.

Poor Griffith experienced the most intense mortification--except one--of
his life. This was conclusive. Bransford was reputed the best rider in
Rainbow. This was Long. He was convinced, positively, finally and
irrevocably. He did not even follow Mr. Long to the other side of Double
Mountain, but turned back to camp, keeping a sharp eye out for traces of
the real Bransford; to no effect. It was only by chance--a real
chance--that, clambering on the gatepost cliffs to examine a curious
whorl of gneiss, he happened to see Mr. Long as he returned. Mr. Long
came afoot, leading the sorrel horse. Just before he came within sight
of camp he led the horse up beside a boulder, climbed clumsily into the
saddle, clutched the saddle-horn, and so rode into camp. The