There stood his redoubtable dusty roan at the hitching rack, her head low, one ear back and one flopped forward, her under lip pendulous--in a pasture full of horses one might pick her last either for stout heart or speed.

Even in spite of her history Vic would have engaged Grey Molly to beat the roan at equal weights, but since he outbulked the sheriff full forty pounds, he weighed in nice balance the necessity of shooting the roan before he left Alder.

It was, he decided, unpleasant but vital, and his fingers had already slid around the butt of his gun when a horse whinnied far off and the roan twitched up her head to listen.

She was no longer a cloddish lump of horseflesh, but an individual, a soul; Gregg's hand fell from his gun.

Cursing his sentimental weakness, he lifted Molly into a canter down the street.