Redmond, ex-medical student, made swift examination. "Dead!" he
pronounced with finality, "Good God! dead as a herring! The man's been
dragged and kicked to death!" He made a futile effort to release the
imprisoned foot.

"No! no!" cried Yorke sharply, "no use doing that if he's dead.
Coroner's got to view things as they are."

The horse began to struggle again painfully. Peering down the
badger-hole they could see the broken bone of its leg protruding bloodily
through the skin. Yorke released one hand and reached for his gun.

"Poor old chap!" he said, "we'll fix you. Quick Red! pull the body as
far back as the stirrup-legadeiro'll go! That'll do! There, old
boy! . . ."

And with practised hand he sent a merciful bullet crashing through brain
and spinal cord. The hind legs threshed awhile, but presently, with a
muscular quiver they stiffened and all was still. Yorke, releasing his
hold struggled to his feet, and the two men stared pityingly at what lay
before them. What those merciless, steel-shod hoofs had left of the head
and the youthful body indicated a man somewhere in his twenties. His
ice-bound outer clothing consisted of black Angora goatskin chaps and a
short sheepskin coat.

"Can't place him--like this," muttered Yorke, after prolonged scrutiny,
"but I seem to know the horse."

Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation--something between a groan and a