For a week, at odd times, Robin had been looking for that particular horse. Now he stood in his stirrups, whooping in sheer exultation of the chase. It didn’t matter how much he excited them. They were as wild as hawks and would run themselves out anyway. He meant to head them off from water, turn them back up the ridge and when they tired he would bunch them in a corral he knew, rope out Red Mike and lead him home. He headed the wild bunch and turned them once. But a badger hole hidden in the grass undid him. The gray put a forefoot in the hole, went down as if shot, rolled over twice and scrambled to his feet, trembling. Robin fell clear, unhurt, except for the jar. He gathered up the reins, swung to his saddle. The gray took a step. Robin dismounted, stood looking with a frown. His mount had twisted a leg, wrenched a shoulder. He walked on three feet. Riding him was out of the question. “Damn all badgers, anyway!” young Tyler muttered. He looked after the band of broom tails streaking it westward up the ridge. As he watched they came to a stop, stood with up-pricked ears. Robin knew precisely what they would do; stand awhile, circle wide and make for that watering place by a cautious detour. He wanted Red Mike. He needed him now more than ever. And he was afoot in the blistering midsummer heat, fifteen miles from the nearest ranch, in a region where no rider could be expected to heave in sight. Robin lifted his hat and ran his fingers through a thatch of brown, curly hair. He was hot and thirsty. Walking in high-heeled boots under a blazing sun was not his idea of pleasure. “I hate to leave you, old _caballo_,” he said whimsically, “but I guess I’ll bid you a fond farewell.” With which he stripped his riding gear off the gray and turned him loose, undid the fifty-foot _reata_ from the bulging fork of his saddle and with the coils in his hand bore straight down the hill leaving his saddle, bridle and leather chaps in the grass, and the gray horse staring after him.