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She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the other end
of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhaps killed. Certainly a
horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same neigh of agony, only
weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared an ambush. That was a cry which
could not be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There was probably
death, certainly suffering, near at hand. She spurred the King on.
There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to climb--and
then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed harder treatment than
Lucy had ever given him.
"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as she felt
him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. "That's funny!" Then when
she got him quiet she looked around.
The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were lathered as
if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised his head to look at
her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one welcomed her
arrival.


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