CHAPTER XXXII
RELAYS
The horses from St. Vincent already wheezed from the run, but the mounts of the posse were staggering—completely blown. Ever since they left Rickett they had been going at close to top speed and the last rush finished them; at least seven of that chosen fifteen would never be worth their salt again, and they stood with hanging heads, bloody foam upon their breasts and dripping from their mouths, their sides laboring, and breathing with that rattle which the rider dreads. The posse, to a man, swung sullenly to the ground.
“Who's boss, boys?” called Johnny Gasney, puffing in his saddle as he rode up. “By God, we'll get him yet! They's a devil in that black hoss! Who's boss?”
“I ain't exactly boss,” answered Mark Retherton, whom not even fear of death could hurry in his ways of speech, “but maybe I can talk for the boys. What you want, Johnny?”
“You gents'll be needin' new hosses?”
“We'll be needin' graves for the ones we got,” growled Mark, and he stared gloomily at the dull eye of his pinto. “The best cuttin' out hoss I ever throwed a leg over, and now—look at him!”
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