He flung
himself sideways. Exhausted, he lay with neck and head outstretched.
Again he struggled, his eyes wild and protruding with the blood pressure
of his straining. Then the chill of night crept over him. He became
quiet--shivered a little, and nickered faintly.
In the willows a little owl called pensively.
* * * * *
The morning light, streaming across the hills, spread like raw gold over
the bog. Collie whistled as he rode down the trail, and beat his gloved
hands to keep warm. He heard a plaintive whinny and a bubbling gasp. He
leaped from his pony, the coiled riata in his hand as he touched the
ground.
The blunder colt, neck outstretched, was still above the ooze. His eyes
were bloodshot, as their white rims showed. His nose quivered and
twisted with his quick, irregular breathing.
It was a "two-man job," but Collie knew that the colt would probably be
gone before he could ride back and return with help. He swung the riata,
then hesitated. To noose the colt's neck would only result in strangling
it when he pulled. He found a branch large enough to stiffen the brush
near the break. Swiftly he built a shaky footing and crept out toward
the colt.
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