Lone was turning back when John Doe threw up his head, stared up the creek for a moment and whinnied shrilly.

Lone stood in the stirrups and looked.
A blaze-faced horse was standing a short rifle-shot away, bridled and with an empty saddle.

Whether he was tied or not Lone could not tell at that distance, but he knew the horse by its banged forelock and its white face and sorrel ears, and he knew the owner of the horse.

He rode toward it slowly.
"Whoa, you rattle-headed fool," he admonished, when the horse snorted and backed a step or two as he approached.

He saw the bridle-reins dangling, broken, where the horse had stepped on them in running.