Chip's muscles shrank. Eager to shoot him--Silver, the only thing that
loved and understood him?

"You may come and look at him, if you like," he said, after a breath or
two.

Miss Whitmore overlooked the tolerance of the tone and stepped to his
side, mechanically clutching the sketch in her fingers. It was Chip,
looking down at her from his extra foot of height, who called her
attention to it.

"Are you thinking of using that for a plaster?"

Miss Whitmore started and blushed, then, with an uptilt of chin:

"If I need a strong irritant, yes!" She calmly rolled the paper into a
tiny tube and thrust it into the front of her pink shirt-waist for want
of a pocket--and Chip, watching her surreptitiously, felt a queer grip
in his chest, which he thought it best to set down as anger.

Silently they hurried down where Silver lay, his beautiful, gleaming
mane brushing the tender green of the young grass blades. He lifted
his head when he heard Chip's step, and neighed wistfully. Chip
bent over him, black agony in his eyes. Miss Whitmore, looking on,
realized for the first time that the suffering of the horse was a mere
trifle compared to that of his master. Her eyes wandered to the loaded
revolver which bulged his pocket behind, and she shuddered--but not
for Silver. She went closer and laid her hand upon the shimmery mane.
The horse snorted nervously and struggled to rise.