I flung myself off Jingo and slid down somehow into the sand, thirty feet below.
Here was Joe safe enough, but the bronco lay with a broken leg, and half under him was Gwen.

She hardly knew she was hurt, but waved her hand to me and cried out, 'Wasn't that a race?
I couldn't swing this hard-headed brute.

Get me out.' But even as she spoke the light faded from her eyes, she stretched out her hands to me, saying faintly, 'Oh, Duke,' and lay back white and still.

We put a bullet into the buckskin's head, and carried her home in our jackets, and there she lies without a sound from her poor, white lips." The Duke was badly cut up.

I had never seen him show any sign of grief before, but as he finished the story he stood ghastly and shaking.