Venters repaired to the little
pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a
drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a
drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more.
Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time
Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.
The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and
the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales.
Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and,
taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one
ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of
water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his
fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything
but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within
roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in
disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a
quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet
doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he
might be caught.
As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he
kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There
was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters
sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick
and too shrewd for him.
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