His own physical discomfort was nothing, beside the hurt of leaving his horse out there practically helpless; for a moment his fingers rested upon the butt of his six-shooter, while he considered going back and putting an end to life and misery for Rambler.

But for all the hardness men had found in Ford Campbell, he was woman-weak where his horse was concerned.

With cold reason urging him, he laid the saddle on the ground and went back, his hand clutching grimly the gun at his hip.

Rambler's nicker of welcome stopped him half-way and held him there, hot with guilt.
"Oh, damn it, I can't!" he muttered savagely, and retraced his steps to where the saddle lay.

After that he almost trotted down the coulee, and he would not look back again until it struck him as odd that the nickerings of the horse did not grow perceptibly fainter.