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it. He had enough money to stock it right. Keep it repaired. It didn’t look to me like he was fixing to leave and not come back.”
    “Then he left, like I said, and he’s injured,” said Sheriff Morris.
    “Mrs. Rose insists that’s not possible. Says her husband is too smart for that.”
    Sheriff Morris shook his head in disgust and spat on the ground again.
    Luke pulled his broad-brimmed hat down a little farther on his forehead. The sun was higher in the sky now, and though its warmth was welcomed by the riders after the cold snap they’d shivered through the last few days, he was sweating under his heavy coat, and they were all thirsty. They’d been scouting for several hours on the far eastern reaches of the Rose ranch and had found no sign of James Rose or his horse. The ground had been soft enough for his horse to make impressions the night he disappeared, but the hours of rain after he had ridden away from his ranch had obliterated any clues to his movements.
    “We’re not far from the North-East Creek,” said Sheriff Morris, halting his horse. “You can see the cottonwoods,” he said, pointing to the gray smudge at the eastern border of the Roses’ property. “Let’s rest a bit, water the horses.”
    Luke nodded. He halted his horse too, turned around in his saddle, and motioned with his arm to the two other men to catch up with him and the sheriff.
    In about twenty minutes the foursome was near enough to the creek to see that another rider had stopped for a drink. A handsome brown Morgan stood just feet from the rushing waters, which flowed icy cold and fast from spring runoff. The horse’s lead was looped tightly to a leafless red ash. Its head drooped unnaturally, and it acted as though it was sleeping, because it did not lift its head as the four riders approached. A nearby stand of cottonwoods, naked from the ravages of winter, provided no camouflage for whoever had tied up the Morgan, neither did the low scrub pine that grew along the prairie’s edge that led to the drop-off to the creek. Yet the horse’s owner was nowhere in sight.
    “Hullo!” called Sheriff Morris as he halted his horse some twenty feet away.
    Instantly the Morgan became alert, jerking its head and snorting. It yanked at the lead, frantically trying to free itself. It jerked violently, again and again, raising its front legs high into the air for added leverage, all the while whinnying piteously.
    “Something’s wrong,” said Luke, and without waiting for Cyrus’ opinion, he goaded his horse closer to the creek bank. Luke’s heart beat rapidly as he approached; he dreaded what gruesome thing he might see in or near the rushing water. The drop from the bank was straight down—this part of the creek was no good for wading. But the drop was only about two feet. A man could lie on his belly and easily scoop water into his mouth without fear of falling in. But if he fell, he would be sent on a one-way ride to eternity, especially if he fell at night, when no one was around to hear him yell for help. The shimmering water was swift, deep, and cold enough to squeeze the breath out of a man. Luke looked downstream and wondered if that was what happened to the horse’s owner.
    “Help us with this animal!” yelled Cyrus.
    Luke broke from his morbid reverie, tied his horse securely to a cottonwood, and joined the others as they tried to get control of the Morgan. It took several minutes of false starts and many soothing words, but finally the exhausted Morgan was calm enough to be led to the creek. Its eyes were cloudy and it trembled. Luke filled his hat with the refreshing water to make drinking easier for the horse. It drank like it hadn’t put its mouth to water in days.
    “It’s his, isn’t it?” said Luke as he watched, amazed, as Beauty slurped noisily from his hat. He bent down and filled his hat again from the creek and lifted it to the horse’s mouth.
    “It’s his alright. I’d know that Morgan anywhere.