Brutus, Cow Pony 



wind. He hadn't had such sport since those 

 braves had broken loose from the reservation. 

 An occasional shot came unpleasantly near, then 

 the last sound of hoof beats died away, and Brutus 

 settled into his accustomed canter and mile after 

 mile swept by monotonously. Once when he 

 struck a rolling stone he and Livingston went 

 down in a heap, but they were soon up and off 

 again. It was awfully hot, he thought, as hot as 

 Arizona, and such bad going — the rocks were so 

 hard on one's hoofs. 



He could keep this pace up for hours, he knew; 

 he'd done it often before. There was the time 

 the Sheriff and posse had tracked him and Jack 

 Dunton the night they held up the Limited, but 

 the spurs were urging him faster now and his legs 

 were beginning to ache. He heard Livingston's 

 voice. 



'*Half-past eleven. I said we'd do it in five 

 hours; do you think we can, old boy?" 



Brutus swung on doggedly, the dust making 

 dim shadow in the night. He wished it would 

 rain or something. Lord! How thirsty he was! 

 A pony couldn't gallop like that forever without 

 a drink of water. At least in Arizona there was a 

 water hole now and then. His tongue rolled dry 

 in his mouth, and he'd never felt like that inside 

 before. His sides were bursting, and the sweat 

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