Stephen reassured him, explaining that it was his horse. But a long time the man held fast, fingers gripping his hand, as if he did not believe, and was listening to make sure. At length he relaxed, and Stephen, still seated close beside him, heard him sink back into the sand. "I was getting away from--from--Oh, well, it don't--don't make any difference." The fellow was silent. "I needed a--a horse," he continued, finally. "My own--the third since--since--my own had played out. I was near a ranch, and--and it was night, and I--I seen a corral with a horse standing in it--a gray. It was moonlight. I--I got the gate open, and I--I roped him, and--" He interrupted himself, was upon one elbow again. "It was a stallion--a cross-bred, maybe--and--and say, friend, he rode me to death! I got on him before I knowed what he was. Bareback. He shot out of that corral like he was crazy. But I--I managed to hold--hold to him and--if he'd only bucked me off! But he didn't. He just raced for it--tore across the country like a cyclone. He rode me to death, a hundred miles, I bet, without a stop. And I held on--couldn't let go--was afraid to let go." He was silent. "Are you--you dead sure, friend, that was your horse?" Stephen again reassured him, realizing the fear upon the man and now understanding it. But he said nothing. "And then somewhere off here he throwed me," went on the man. "But he--he was a raving maniac. He turned on me before I could get up, and bit and kicked and trampled me till I didn't know nothing--was asleep, or something. When I came to--woke up--he was still hanging around. He's around here yet! I heard him all day--yesterday! He's off there to the east somewheres. He's--he's looking for me. I kept still whenever I'd see him or hear him, and then when he'd move off out of sight, or quit--quit his nickering, I'd crawl along some more. I'm--I'm done, stranger," he concluded, weakly, dropping over upon his back. "I'm done, and I know it. And it was that horse that--that--" He was silent. Stephen did not speak. He could not speak after this fearsome tale. Its pictures haunted him. He could see this poor fellow racing across the desert, clinging for life to that which meant death. His own condition had been brought about through a horse, a horse and wild rides at a time when he should have been, as this unfortunate undoubtedly should have been, in bed under medical care. For a moment he thought he would tell him a tale of misery equal to his own, in the hope that he might turn him from thoughts of his own misfortunes. But before he could speak the other broke in upon his thoughts with a shrill outcry. He had raised himself upon one elbow again, and now was pointing toward the eastern sky. "Look!" he cried. "Look off there!"