Only the old man who had been the spokesman called after him: "Gregg,
don't be a fool. Maybe you don't recognize the name of Doone, but the
whole name is Ronicky Doone. Does that mean anything to you?"

Into the back of Gregg's mind came several faint memories, but they
were obscure and uncertain. "Blast your Ronicky Doone!" he replied. "I
got to have that hoss, and, if none of you'll take money for her rent,
I'll take her free and pay her rent when I come through this way
tomorrow, maybe. S'long!"

While he spoke he had been undoing the cinches of his own horse. Now
he whipped the saddle and bridle off, shouted to the hotel keeper
brief instructions for the care of the weary animal and ran across the
road with the saddle on his arm.

In the corral he had no difficulty with the mare. She came straight to
him in spite of all the flopping trappings. With prickly ears and eyes
lighted with kindly curiosity she looked the dusty fellow over.

He slipped the bridle over her head. When he swung the saddle over her
back she merely turned her head and carelessly watched it fall. And
when he drew up the cinches hard, she only stamped in mock anger. The
moment he was in the saddle she tossed her head eagerly, ready to be
off.

He looked across the street to the veranda of the hotel, as he passed
through the gate of the corral. The men were standing in a long and
awe-stricken line, their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Whoever
Ronicky Doone might be, he was certainly a man who had won the respect
of this town. The men on the veranda looked at Bill Gregg as though