“Oh! Henry—see—blood on your spurs. Look at Eagle—and yet once you told me that you never rode him with spurs!” As soon as his attention had been directed toward the almost forgotten horse he walked swiftly over to Eagle still quivering and trembling in every limb. “Old boy—was it a pretty hard run? Brace up—don’t give up—you’re good for another,” West was saying as he let his solicitous hands touch here and there. Bess knew from his manner that the horse was really sick, although he tried to appear unconcerned. Henry began to walk the horse about, and it made the girl’s heart ache to see the splendid limbs move with stiffness and pain. If there were only something she could do to help! On she walked, close to Henry West’s side, now unconsciously touching the reins and now patting the shoulder wet with beads of pain. Suddenly—with an almost human cry the horse gave a plunge and fell to the ground! West stood aside—for a moment immovable and still—then with a reluctant yet decisive movement drew his gun from his holster. Bess sprang quickly to his side and grasped both his arms with her own! Thrusting up her face till her breath fanned his cheek she cried, “Don’t—Henry—he shall not die! All this just because I forgot your warning—because I am a fool—a horrid—careless girl!” “He cannot live—I cannot bear to see him suffer. I must—shoot—if—I—can!” Releasing his right arm he drew the left one up and about the girl’s head, and closing her ear with the palm of his hand he held her tightly and closely to him, her face completely buried in the soft, silken folds of his begrimed white shirt. How could she know that that embrace was firm with love? How could she know what the wild, irregular beatings of that strong heart were saying? How could she know that the prolonged hesitancy was caused by the recrudescence of hopeless longings! She sensed his effort at calmness, felt an arm uplifted, a slight concussion, and knew that Eagle was dead. She did not watch Henry West as he removed the saddle and bridle from the dead horse, nor did she see the last tender caress given to the stiffening neck. “Had it not been for you, my Eagle—she—she—would—now—be—,” were the parting words given to the favorite of all the horses which West had ever ridden. And yet he was glad of the sacrifice. “Do you mind staying here alone, Bess, while I go in search of Mauchacho? It will soon be growing chilly and dark and we must get home tonight. Can you give me any idea where he is?” Bess looked helplessly about and was still utterly confused by the mad, mad rush ahead of the steers. She could not tell if she had ridden one mile or twenty. West noted her bewilderment, and with an assurance that he would try to return soon started rather doubtingly forward. He retraced the way they had so recently come and after several indecisive swervings to the right and left Bess saw him hit upon a trail and hurry swiftly on until the thorns and brush hid him from her view.