Doctor Bond and I at once went out and searched the saddle pockets my father had carried.

They were quite empty.
All this, of course, proved nothing to us.

The most that we could argue was that the horse in some way had thrown his rider, and that the fall had proved fatal; and that perhaps some wandering negro had committed the theft.

These conclusions were the next day bad for the horse Satan, whom I whipped and spurred, and rode till he trembled, meting out to him what had been given old Klingwalla, his sire, for another murdering deed like this.

In my brutal rage I hated all the world.