“The chestnut wanted to get back at us for killing his herd off,” went on Hervey.  “So he sneaks up to the ranch and opens the corral gate and takes the mares out.  When I seen the mares were traveling so straight as all that I guessed what was up.  Well, if the hoss was leading ’em, where would he take ’em?  Straight to water.  They was no use trying to run down them long-legged gallopers.  I took a swing off to the right and headed for Warner’s Tank.  Sure enough, when we got there we seen the mares spread out and the chestnut and the grey mare hanging around.”

He paused again and looked sternly at Slim, and Slim flushed to the eyes and glared straight ahead.

“Slim, here, had been saying maybe it was my bum shooting and not the bad luck the stallion put on my rifle that made me miss.  So I give him the job of plugging the hoss.  Well, he tried and missed three times.  Off goes the grey and the chestnut like a streak the first crack out of the box, but we got ahead of the mares and turned ’em.  And here we are.  That’s all they was to it.  But,” he added gravely, “we ain’t seen the last of that chestnut hoss, Miss Jordan.”

“I guess hardly another man on the range could have trailed them so well,” she said gratefully.  “But this wild horse—­do you really think he’ll try to steal our mares again?”

“Think?  I know!  And the next time we won’t get ’em back so plumb easy.  Right this morning, if they’d got started quick enough when he give ’em the signal, we’d never of headed ’em.  But they ain’t turned wild yet; they ain’t used to his ways.  Give him another whirl with them and they’ll belong to him for good.  Ain’t no hosses around these parts can run them mares down!”

She heard the tribute with a smile of pleasure and ran satisfied glances over the six beauties which cantered or trotted before them.

“But even wild things are captured,” she argued.  “Even deer are caught.  If the chestnut did run off the mares again why couldn’t—­”

Hervey interrupted dryly:  “Down Concord way, Jess Rankin was pestered by a black mustang.  Jess was a pretty tolerable fair hunter, knowed mustangs and mustang-ways, and had a right fine string of saddle hosses.  Well, it took Jess four years of hard work to get the black.  Up by Mexico Creek, Bud Wilkinson had a grey stallion that run amuck on his range.  Took Bud nigh onto five years to get the grey.  Well, I seen both the grey and the black, and I helped run ’em a couple of times.  Well, Miss Jordan, when it come to running, neither of ’em was one-two-three beside this chestnut, and if it took five years to get in rifle range of ’em for a good shot, it’ll take ten to get the chestnut.  That’s the way I figure!”

And as he ended, his companions nodded soberly.

“Plumb streak of light,” they said.  “Just nacheral crazy fool when it comes to running, that hoss is!”