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Updated: June 21, 2025
Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblooded attention to certain rough miles in the journey, just how swiftly Coaley could cover ground and live. He knew horses.
Her mother even her own mother, who had held unswervingly to her faith even she had been struck down! A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from rocks.
To her Tom turned with more harshness than he had shown for many a long day. "Schoolin' don't seem to set good on a Lorrigan," he said. "How long's he goin' to stay this time?" "Why, honey, don't you want Lance home? He rode Coaley but that's no crime. Lance wouldn't hurt him, he's too good a rider and he never was hard on horses. And Coaley just goes wild when he has to stand shut up all day "
"I thought at the time that Coaley was liable to be a damn expensive horse for you to be ridin'." His eyes traveled over the restless herd, singling out this horse and that for brief study. "There's some right speedy stuff in that bunch," he said. "They've got the look of stayers, some of 'em. Take that there bay over there by the post: He's got a chest on him like a lion and look at them legs!
Abruptly he rose, put on a pair of well-worn tennis shoes, opened a door leading outside and went quietly down to the corrals. The first corral he crossed and found it empty of any horses save the pintos and Coaley. The second corral held three horses, one of them the chunky roan he had ridden that afternoon. The third and largest corral was empty, the gate swinging open.
Nay, a True Gentleman Black meeting a "Coaley," as we called the charcoal fellows, with so much as a hare, a rabbit, or a pheasant with him, let alone venison, would ofttimes give him a sackful of sore bones to carry as well as a game-bag. No "Coaley" was ever let to slake his thirst at the Stag o' Tyne.
Mary Hope was framing a sentence of defiance when Coaley wheeled and went back the way they had come, so swiftly that even with shouting she could not have made herself heard in that whooping wind. She pulled Rab to a willing stand and stared after Tom, hating him with her whole heart.
Sam Pretty Cow paused, half turned, spat meditatively into the dust and jerked a thumb toward the stable. "Me, I dunno. Bes' horse on the ranch is in them box stall. Them's Coaley. I guess you don' want Coaley, huh?" Lance bit his lip, looking at Sam Pretty Cow intently. "You needn't catch up a horse for me, Sam. I'll ride Coaley," he said smoothly.
The rumbling after-note of the thunder seemed like silence. "It struck close. That shed look!" Lance's voice was no longer the voice of the young male whose love would override Fate itself. It was the voice of the man who will meet emergencies quietly, unflinchingly, and soothe the woman's fear. "Don't be afraid it's all right, sweetheart." He forced Coaley to go on.
He did not hurry. Lance had pulled off the saddle and the sweaty blanket and the bridle, and had turned Coaley into the corral before he knew that some one was coming. Even then he did not turn to look. He was staring hard at a half-dozen horses grouped in the farther corner of the corral, horses with gaunt flanks and the wet imprint of saddles.
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