MR. CASSIDY COGITATES

While Hopalong tried to find his horse, Ben Ferris pushed forward,
circling steadily to the east and away from the direction of Hoyt's
corners, which was as much a menace to his health and happiness as the
town of Grant, twenty miles to his rear. If he could have been certain
that no danger was nearer to him than these two towns, he would have
felt vastly relieved, even if his horse was not fresh. During the last
hour he had not urged it as hard as he had in the beginning of his
flight and it had dropped to a walk for minutes at a stretch. This was
not because he felt that he had plenty of time, but for the reason that
he understood horses and could not afford to exhaust his mount so early
in the chase. He glanced back from time to time as if fearing what might
be on his trail, and well he might fear. According to all the traditions
and customs of the range, both of which he knew well, somewhere between
him and Grant was a posse of hard-riding cow-punchers, all anxious and
eager for a glance at him over their sights. In his mind's eye he
could see them, silent, grim, tenacious, reeling off the miles on that
distance-eating lope. He had stolen a horse, and that meant death if
they caught him. He loosened his gaudy kerchief and gulped in fear,
not of what pursued, but of what was miles before him. His own saddle,
strapped behind the one he sat in, bumped against him with each reach of
the horse and had already made his back sore--but he must endure it for
a time. Never in all his life had minutes been so precious.

Another hour passed and the horse seemed to be doing well, much better
than he had hoped--he would rest it for a few minutes at the next water
while he drank his fill and changed the bumping saddle. As he rounded a
turn and entered a heavily grassed valley he saw a stream close at hand