Max Brand

Ronicky Doone Max Brand

He came into the town as a solid, swiftly moving dust cloud. The wind from behindhad kept the dust moving forward at a pace just equal to the gallop of his horse. Notuntil he had brought his mount to a halt in front of the hotel and swung down tothe ground did either he or his horse become distinctly visible. Then it was seenthat the animal was in the last stages of exhaustion, with dull eyes and hanginghead and forelegs braced widely apart, while the sweat dripped steadily from hisflanks into the white dust on the street. Plainly he had been pushed to the last limitof his strength. The rider was almost as far spent as his mount, for he went up the steps of thehotel with his shoulders sagging with weariness, a wide-shouldered, gaunt-ribbedman. Thick layers of dust had turned his red kerchief and his blue shirt to acommon gray. Dust, too, made a mask of his face, and through that mask the eyespeered out, surrounded by pink skin. Even at its best the long, solemn face couldnever have been called handsome. But, on this particular day, he seemed a hauntedman, or one fleeing from an inescapable danger.