Fitz nodded, eager.
"Then take the rope, and go after her."
Fitz did. He was a boss roper, too. You wouldn't believe it, of a one-armed boy, but it was so. All we Elk Scouts could throw a rope some. A rope comes in pretty handy, at times. Most range horses have to be caught in the corral with a rope, and knowing how to throw a rope will pull a man out of a stream or out of a hole and will perhaps save his life. But Fitz was our prize roper, because he had practiced harder than any of us, to make up for having only one arm.
The way he did was to carry the coil on his stump, and the lash end in his teeth; and when he had cast, quick as lightning he took the end from between his teeth ready to haul on it.
Major Henry might have gone, himself, to get the credit and to show what he could do; but he showed his sense by resigning in favor of Fitz.
So now at the command Fitz took the rope from him and shook it out and re-coiled it nicely. Then, carrying it, he sneaked through the trees, and crossed the creek, farther up, wading to his ankles, and advanced upon Sally.
Sally divided her attention between him and us, and finally pricked her ears at him alone. She knew what was being tried.
Coming out into the open space Fitz advanced slower and slower, step by step. He had his rope ready—the coil was on his stump, and the lash end was in his teeth, and the noose trailed by his side, from his good hand. We glanced from him and Sally to the lean-to, and back again, for the campers were sleeping peacefully. If only they would not wake and spoil matters.
Sally held her head high, suspicious and interested. Fitz did not dare to speak to her; he must trust that she would give him a chance at her before she escaped into the trees where roping would be a great deal harder.
We watched. My heart beat so that it hurt. Having that burro meant a lot to us, for those packs were heavy—and it was a point of honor, too, that we recapture our own. Here was our chance.