For a space the man with the silver-studded bridle stared up
the valley. "Oh, come on!" he cried at last. "What does it matter?"
and jerked his horse into movement again.

The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from
nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human
character. "Come on!" he whispered to himself. "Why should it be
given to one man to say 'Come on!' with that stupendous violence
of effect. Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle
has been saying that. If _I_ said it--!" thought the little man.
But people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest
things. This half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one,
mad--blasphemous almost. The little man, by way of comparison,
reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as
his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him
there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly. . .

Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back
to more immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up
beside his gaunt fellow. "Do you notice the horses?" he said in an
undertone.

The gaunt face looked interrogation.

"They don't like this wind," said the little man, and dropped behind
as the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.

"It's all right," said the gaunt-faced man.

They rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode