The squaw got to her feet, wristlets and chains tinkling, and leaned to peer among the goats. The Boy sprang up, too, his gaze toward the ridge top.
“Little Watcher!” he called anxiously; “Little Watcher!”
Then into the moonlight on the distant summit they saw other wolf forms race; and as these centred to where the lone coyote sat, saw him struggle forward to meet them. And through the desert night, there came a shrill yelp of defiance—then a wrangle of exultant cries.
MISSY AND I
IT all happened after Missy and I arrived from San Francisco. I was taken to Hart’s (which, as you must know, is one of the most perfectly appointed boarding-places for horses in New York) and given a roomy box-stall toward the front of the stable. Across from me was another box, just as large and loose. In it was a stylish black gelding with docked tail and hogged mane. That was Thunderbolt.
I was very car-stiff. For though I came by express on the same train with Missy, it had taken six days. My first day at Hart’s, as she was in my stall, petting me and giving me nice bites of carrot (it was a Wednesday, Wednesday being my day for carrots), a man came down the row of stalls with Martin, the head-groom. As he turned to open Thunderbolt’s box, he looked at me—or Missy—(his look was admiring, anyway) and raised his hat. That was Thunderbolt’s master.
Missy bowed back, sweetly, but gravely, and went on feeding me.
I did not know he was Thunderbolt’s master then. But later, before Peter, one of the under-grooms, took me out for an airing (I was not fit, Missy said, to be ridden—but I noticed Peter rode me when he got me out of sight of the stable), I nickered over to Thunderbolt to ask him who his visitor was.
“That is my master,” said he, putting his head over the side of his box. “And he is one of the best masters I have ever had.”
I gave a good horse laugh at that. “One of the best,” I said. For I had never belonged to anyone but Missy, and I think that a first-class animal doesn’t keep changing quarters.