He was a gambler--one day rich, the next poor. Now he'd be a millionaire!
l!" burst out Ben Connor. "The telegraph!"
He started up from his chair, feeling betrayed, for that light, irregular tapping was the voice of the world from which he had fled. A hard, cool mind worked behind the gray eyes of Ben Connor, but as he fingered the cigar his brain was fumbling at a large idea. Forty-Second and Broadway was calling him back.
When he looked out the window, now, the mountains were flat shapes against a flat sky, with no more meaning than a picture.
The sounder was chattering: "Kid Lane wins title in eighth round. Lucky punch dethrones lightweight champion." Ben Connor swallowed hard and found that his throat was dry. He was afraid of himself--afraid that he would go back. He was recalled from his ugly musing by the odor of the cigar, which had burned out and was filling the room with a rank smell; he tossed the crumbled remnants through the window, crushed his hat upon his head, and went down, collarless, coatless, to get on the street in the sound of men's voices
This romance is for horse lovers---a Western about a mythos: the perfect race horse, the flock it comes from, and the thief who tried to steal it. Max Brand succeeds in mixing philosophy/religion and romantic adventure in one of his many well-written novels.