“Of all the darned fools!” said the two men in one voice.

And then they grinned at each other.  Certainly it was not the first fight or the first wound for either of them.

“I’m sorry,” they began again, speaking together in chorus.

“Matter of fact,” said Ronicky Doone, “that bay means a pile to me.  When I seen the red on her side—­”

“Can’t be more than a chance prick.”

“I know,” said Ronicky, “but I didn’t stop to think.”

“And I should of give you fair warning before I went for the gat.”

“Look here,” said Ronicky, “you talk like a straight sort of a gent to me.”

“And you thought I was a cross between a hoss thief and a gunfighter?”

“I dunno what I thought, except that I wanted the mare back.  Stranger, I’m no end sorry this has happened.  Maybe you’d lemme know why you was in such a hurry to get to Stillwater.  If they’s any trouble coming down the road behind you, maybe I can help take care of it for you.”  And he smiled coldly and significantly at Bill Gregg.

The latter eyed with some wonder the man who had just shot him down and was now offering to fight for his safety.  “Nothing like that,” said Bill.  “I was going to Stillwater to meet a girl.”

“As much of a rush as all that to see a girl?”

“On that train.”

Ronicky Doone whistled softly.  “And I messed it up!  But why didn’t you tell me what you wanted?”

“I didn’t have a chance.  Besides I could not waste time in talking and explaining to everybody along the road.”

“Sure you couldn’t, but the girl’ll forgive you when she finds out what happened.”

“No, she won’t, because she’ll never find out.”

“Eh?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Riding all that way just to see a girl—­”

“It’s a long story, partner, and this leg is beginning to act up.  Tell you the best thing would be for you to jump on your mare and jog into Stillwater for a buckboard and then come back and get me.  What d’you say?”

Twenty minutes after Ronicky Doone had swung into the saddle and raced down the road, the buckboard arrived and the wounded man was helped on to a pile of blankets in the body of the wagon.

The shooting, of course, was explained by the inevitable gun accident.  Ronicky Doone happened to be passing along that way and saw Bill Gregg looking over his revolver as he rode along.  At that moment the gun exploded and—­

The two men who had come out in the buckboard listened to the tale with expressionless faces.  As a matter of fact they had already heard in Stillwater that no less a person than Ronicky Doone was on his way toward that village in pursuit of a man who had ridden off on the famous bay mare, Lou.  But they accepted Ronicky’s bland version of the accident with perfect calm and with many expressions of sympathy.  They would have other things to say after they had deposited the wounded man in Stillwater.