She
did not speak again until they were passing the Thurman fence where it
ran up into the mouth of the canyon. A few horses were grazing there,
the sun striking their sides with the sheen of satin. They stared
curiously at the little procession, snorted and started to run, heads
and tails held high. But one wheeled suddenly and came galloping toward
them, stopped when he was quite close, ducked and went thundering past
to the head of the field. Lorraine gave a sharp little scream and set
down the stretcher with a lurch, staring after the horse wide-eyed, her
face white.
"They do it for play," Swan said reassuringly. "They don't hurt you. The
fence is between, and they don't hurt you anyway."
"That horse with the white face--I saw it--and when the man struck it
with his quirt it went past me, running like that and dragging--_oh-h_!"
She leaned against the bluff side, her face covered with her two palms.
Swan glanced down at Brit, saw that his eyes were closed, ducked his
head from under the looped rope and went to Lorraine.
"The man that struck that horse--do you know that man?" he asked, all
the good nature gone from his voice.
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