Well, a grave was a grave,
wherever it lay. He wondered if he would come to rest in that quiet
nook, with its steady light, its simple dignity of bare plain graves
fitting the brevity of life, the littleness of man.
"We break wild mustangs along this stretch," said Naab, drawing Hare
away. "It's a fine run. Wait till you see Mescal on Black Bolly tearing
up the dust! She's a Navajo for riding."
Three huge corrals filled a wide curved space in the wall. In one corral
were the teams that had hauled the wagons from White Sage; in another
upward of thirty burros, drooping, lazy little fellows half asleep; in
the third a dozen or more mustangs and some horses which delighted Hare.
Snap Naab's cream pinto, a bay, and a giant horse of mottled white
attracted him most.
"Our best stock is out on the range," said Naab. "The white is Charger,
my saddle-horse. When he was a yearling he got away and ran wild for
three years. But we caught him. He's a weight-carrier and he can run
some. You're fond of a horse--I can see that."
"Yes," returned Hare, "but I--I'll never ride again." He said it
brightly, smiling the while; still the look in his eyes belied the
cheerful resignation.
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