Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with each heavy stride it made.  Then he let the reins hang limp.  It was sad to see the answer of the bay—­a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift to the head.

Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing.  He groaned and drove home the spurs.  And still, by some miracle, there was something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it with its fine blood by gentle care for generations.  The going was heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace.  The crackle of the rifles grew more and more distinct.  A fallen trunk blocked the way.

With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.

Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran on among the trees.  Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder which commanded the approach to the old house.

He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire on the house.  McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.

But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew wondered what casualties lay on the other side.

At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash knocked down the boy’s arm.

“We’ve done talkin’; it’s our time to listen; understand?”

Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed.  He was at that age between youth and manhood when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism has possessed the brain.

He looked about to the others for his cue.  What he saw disturbed him.  Shorty Kilrain, like a boy caught playing truant, edged little by little back against the rock; Butch Conklin, his eyes staring, had grown waxy pale; Steve Nash himself was sullen and gloomy rather than defiant.

And all this because of a grey man far past the prime of life who ran stumbling, panting, toward them.  At his nearer approach a flash of understanding touched Ufert.  Perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the newcomer; perhaps, more than this, it was something of stern dignity that oppressed the boy with awe.  He fought against the feeling, but he was uneasy; he wanted to be far away from that place.