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 wish to find for myself; not a mustang, not a range pony, but a blooded stallion, fifteen hands, black and perfect; not a horse that's been left too long on the range and become wild, but the original wild horse that no one has ever ridden, or ever caught, or rarely, if ever, seen."

He got out the last words with an effort, fully conscious, now that they were spoken and ringing in the air, of how improbable, fantastic and laughable they sounded. He braced himself to meet Rader's ridicule, or, at the best, his amusement. But the scholar, with his long body bent a little farther forward over the table, was only gazing at him with a face of increasing perplexity, with a slow-dawning, troubled look of being aware of something he was going to recognize if only he had a little more time.

Carron watched him, and pushed one sentence further.

"No one seemed to be sure how much truth there was in the story, or whether there was any at all, but they seemed to think, if any one could tell me, you could."

The effect of this was more than he had bargained for. Rader let his relaxed hands fall on the table, and stared in amazement. "I can—they think!" he murmured, seeming to catch at these words as the