Bobby was eager to be off, pawing as the doctor mounted and backing in a circle when his rider held him in to wait for Eastman. The reins loosened, the little horse sprang forward at a brisk canter, leading the way out of town.
It was at the forks of the road that the first halt was made. Here the doctor, having first tied the bridle reins to his pommel assumed the exact position in the saddle that he had twice been compelled to take, and laid his hands on his saddle-horn.
“Now, Bobby,” he said, touching the mustang gently with his heels, “here we are. Go on.”
Bobby moved forward, but hesitatingly, and, when he had gone a few steps, stopped, looking about him.
Again the doctor urged him kindly. “Want your supper, Bobby? Come, now.”
The little horse made forward at a brisk walk then, travelling straight south along the road that followed the track. Presently, however, he turned sharply to the right and entered the brush.
“Do you think he’s going right?” called out Eastman anxiously.
“Wal,” answered the doctor, “he acts like he means business. You see, for two days I ain’t give him a bite to eat except when he was out yonder in that cañon.”
Bobby was taking a westward course that was almost at right angles to the road he had just come down. He wound through scrubby liveoaks and bristling chaparral, evidently along no path. Behind him the other horse had to be urged constantly, for the undergrowth was heavy and hung across the way. But soon the brush parted to leave a straight, open track, so narrow, however, that it seemed only a path. The doctor got down and lit a match. They were on a trail that showed recent use. Upon it, stamped plainly in the dust, were the round, eastward-pointing hoofprints of a mule.
“Are we right?” asked Eastman.