The horse had done this same thing many times--when would its master learn sense?
The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land.

Lithe, sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line.

A bleached moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow across his eyes.

Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens.
He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of heart-breaking speed.
"I'll show 'em who they're trailin'.

This is th' second time I've started for Muddy Wells, an' I'm goin' to git there, too, for all th' Apaches out of Hades!" To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path.