It happened at a corner where the usual slouchy, shirt-sleeved loungers
were congregated. They were in high glee over the predicament of one
ruffian who had purchased or been given a poor, emaciated little burro
that was on his last legs. The burro evidently did not want to go with
its new owner, who pulled on a halter and then viciously swung the end
of the rope to make welts on the worn and scarred back.

If there was one thing that Diane Sampson could not bear it was to see
an animal in pain. She passionately loved horses, and hated the sight of
a spur or whip.

When we saw the man beating the little burro she cried out to me:

"Make the brute stop!"

I might have made a move had I not on the instant seen Steele heaving
into sight round the corner.

Just then the fellow, whom I now recognized to be a despicable character
named Andrews, began to bestow heavy and brutal kicks upon the body of
the little burro. These kicks sounded deep, hollow, almost like the boom
of a drum.

The burro uttered the strangest sound I ever heard issue from any beast
and it dropped in its tracks with jerking legs that told any horseman
what had happened. Steele saw the last swings of Andrews' heavy boot. He
yelled. It was a sharp yell that would have made anyone start. But it
came too late, for the burro had dropped.