Both had heard of the grey horse and wished to identify it; Hexford for his own satisfaction, Sweetwater as the first link of the chain leading him into the mysterious course mapped out for him by fate.
That each was more or less under the surveillance of the other did not trouble either.
There were three stalls, and in each stall a horse stamped and fidgeted.
Only one held their attention.

This was a mare on the extreme left, a large grey animal with a curious black patch on its near shoulder.

The faces of both men changed as they recognised this distinguishing mark, and instinctively their eyes met across the width of the open space separating them.

Hexford's finger rose to his mouth, but Sweetwater needed no such hint.

He stood, silent as his own shadow, while the coachman rubbed away with less and less purpose, until his hands stood quite still and his whole figure drooped in irresistible despondency.