But for all the hardness men had found in Ford Campbell, he was
woman-weak where his horse was concerned. With cold reason urging him,
he laid the saddle on the ground and went back, his hand clutching
grimly the gun at his hip. Rambler's nicker of welcome stopped him
half-way and held him there, hot with guilt.
"Oh, damn it, I can't!" he muttered savagely, and retraced his steps to
where the saddle lay. After that he almost trotted down the coulee, and
he would not look back again until it struck him as odd that the
nickerings of the horse did not grow perceptibly fainter. With a queer
gripping of the muscles in his throat he did turn, then, and saw
Rambler's head over the little ridge he had just crossed. The horse was
making shift to follow him rather than be left alone in that strange
country. Ford waited, his lashes glistening in the first rays of the
new-risen sun, until the horse came hobbling stiffly up to him.
"You old devil!" he murmured then, his contrite tone contrasting oddly
with the words he used. "You contrary, ornery, old devil, you!" he
repeated softly, rubbing the speckled nose with more affection than he
had ever shown a woman.
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