Hapgood glanced at him quickly, and, despite the wrath boiling up
within him, the shrewder side of his nature prompted a peaceful
answer.

"Then I'll go with you. You didn't think that I was the sort of a
fellow to go back on you now, did you? We'll see this thing through
together."

Conniston put out his hand impulsively, ashamed of having misjudged
his friend.

Long before midnight Jimmie left the saloon and crept away to the
stable to stroke the soft nose of a restive cow-pony, and to swear
soft, endearing curses of eternal farewell. Not long afterward he had
the satisfaction of seeing his fellow-cowboy steal through the
darkness to whisper good-by to his own horse. And in the early dawn
both Jimmie and Bart stood peering out from behind the corner of the
barn at two figures riding rapidly southward into the morning mists.

That day's ride was a matter never to be forgotten by the two men.
Their muscles were soft from dissipation and long years of idleness.
In particular did Hapgood suffer. He was a slight man to whom nature
had given none of the bigness of body which she had bestowed upon
Conniston. His luxury-loving disposition had made him abjure the
sports which the other at one time and another had enjoyed. He was,
besides, a very poor horseman, while Conniston had ridden a great
deal. To-day his horse--a spirited colt newly broken--was not content
to go straight ahead as Hapgood would have had him, but danced back
and forth across the road, shied at every conceivable opportunity,