“Don’t go,” implored Jane.

“Bern, you want a hoss thet can run.  Miss Withersteen, if it’s not too bold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don’t let him go.”

“Yes, yes, Judkins.  He must ride a horse that can’t be caught.  Which one—­Black Star—­Night?”

“Jane, I won’t take either,” said Venters, emphatically.  “I wouldn’t risk losing one of your favorites.”

“Wrangle, then?”

“Thet’s the hoss,” replied Judkins.  “Wrangle can outrun Black Star an’ Night.  You’d never believe it, Miss Withersteen, but I know.  Wrangle’s the biggest en’ fastest hoss on the sage.”

“Oh no, Wrangle can’t beat Black Star.  But, Bern, take Wrangle if you will go.  Ask Jerd for anything you need.  Oh, be watchful careful....  God speed you.”

She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with the rider.

Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd.  The boy came running.  Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits, to be packed in saddlebags.  His own horse he turned loose into the nearest corral.  Then he went for Wrangle.  The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite of amiability.  He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard he broke from Venters, and plunged about with ears laid back.  Venters had to rope him, and then he kicked down a section of fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down and fought the rope.  Jerd returned to lend a hand.

“Wrangle don’t git enough work,” said Jerd, as the big saddle went on.  “He’s unruly when he’s corralled, an’ wants to run.  Wait till he smells the sage!”

“Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil.  I never straddled him but once.  Run?  Say, he’s swift as wind!”

When Venters’s boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, giving him the rider’s flying mount.  The swing of this fiery horse recalled to Venters days that were not really long past, when he rode into the sage as the leader of Jane Withersteen’s riders.  Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rein.  He galloped out of the lane, down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up at the watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit.  Venters got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank.  The dogs, Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink.  Then Venters remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage.

A wide, white trail wound away down the slope.  One keen, sweeping glance told Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were lying down in the sage.  Ring loped in the lead and Whitie loped in the rear.  Wrangle settled gradually into an easy swinging canter, and Venters’s thoughts, now that the rush and flurry of the start were past, and the long miles stretched before him, reverted to a calm reckoning of late singular coincidences.