And either he expressed his thoughts unconsciously in words, or as not seldom happens in moments of excitement, Old Mat read his unuttered thoughts.
"She can hold him in a snaffle," he said. "She's the only one as can!"
And in fact the young horse was coming back to his rider. She was swinging to steady him. At the top of the rise she turned him, dismounted, and loosed his girths. Then she led him down the slope back to the group, an alert, fair figure, touched to glory by the gallop, the great horse blowing uproariously at her side, tossing his head and flinging the foam on to his chest and neck, looking like a huge, drenched dog wet from the sea.
"Pull at ye?" asked the old man.
"He caught hold a bit as we came up the slope," answered Boy.
Jim Silver had dismounted and laid a hand on the horse's shining neck.
"Great," he said.
The faint colour was in the girl's cheeks, and she was breathing deep as she peeped up at him with happy eyes.
"He's not clumsy for a big horse, is he?" she said. "Rug him up, Albert, and lead him home. He's hit himself, I see—that off-fore fetlock. Better put a boracic bandage on when you get him in."
She put on her long coat and mounted Silvertail.