Max Brand

Ronicky Doone Max Brand

He came into the town as a solid, swiftly moving dust cloud. The wind from behind had kept thedust moving forward at a pace just equal to the gallop of his horse. Not until he had brought hismount to a halt in front of the hotel and swung down to the ground did either he or his horsebecome distinctly visible. Then it was seen that the animal was in the last stages of exhaustion, withdull eyes and hanging head and forelegs braced widely apart, while the sweat dripped steadily fromhis flanks into the white dust on the street. Plainly he had been pushed to the last limit of hisstrength. The rider was almost as far spent as his mount, for he went up the steps of the hotel with hisshoulders sagging with weariness, a wide-shouldered, gaunt-ribbed man. Thick layers of dust hadturned his red kerchief and his blue shirt to a common gray. Dust, too, made a mask of his face, andthrough that mask the eyes peered out, surrounded by pink skin. Even at its best the long, solemnface could never have been called handsome. But, on this particular day, he seemed a haunted man, or one fleeing from an inescapable danger. The two loungers at the door of the hotel instinctively stepped aside and made room for him topass, but apparently he had no desire to enter the building. Suddenly he became doubly imposing, ashe stood on the veranda and stared up and down at the idlers. Certainly his throat must be thick andhot with dust, but an overmastering purpose made him oblivious of thirst."Gents," he said huskily, while a gust of wind fanned a cloud of dust from his clothes, "is thereanybody in this town can gimme a hoss to get to Stillwater, inside three hours' riding?"He waited a moment, his hungry eyes traveling eagerly from face to face. Naturally the oldest manspoke first, since this was a matter of life and death