The left foreleg lay twisted horribly beneath her, broken.

Grey Molly had run her last race, and as Barry kneeled, holding the brave head close to him, he groaned, and looked away from her eyes.

It was only an instant of weakness, and when he turned to her again he was drawing his gun from its holster.
The beating hoofs of the posse as they raced towards him made a growing murmur through the clear air.

Barry glanced towards them with a consummate loathing.

They had killed a horse to stop a man, and to him it was more than murder.