“Yes, Señor Gray Moustache, our Benoni. But he acts terr’ble queer.”
“Sergeant, see what’s up with the beast.”
Saluting, the man replied:
“Captain, I reckon it’s all ‘up’ with him.”
“What? You don’t mean it! That adds to the charm of the situation. Not a led horse in the squad. Not even a mule.”
The perplexed officer hurried where Benoni lay upon his side, piteously gazing upon his young mistress. In his eyes was a sure intelligence. He knew perfectly that the march was to be resumed—and not by him. In that cavern down which he had slipped and stumbled during that dreadful “norther,” and out of which he had struggled by an almost impossible effort, he had received some mortal hurt. He could not tell them his agony. He could not cry out, as a human would, but he could and must beseech them—not to leave him!
As yet, Carlota did not understand. She saw that her beloved horse was loath to rise and she bent over him with a jesting reproof which strangely moved her hearers.
“Come, Noni! You darling, old, lazy fellow! Come. We’re going now.”
More than one soldier smiled at her trustfulness in themselves, yet sighed to think she was there. She was a brave little thing, yet bravery counts for nought with a maddened redskin. They had found traces of the Apaches and knew they had struck the right trail. A conflict was inevitable. But Carlota only knew of her horse’s distress, as she cried:
“Benoni, dear! Darling Benoni! What is the matter? Can’t you, won’t you, get up? I’ll walk all the way. So will Carlos. But we can’t leave you here. You’ll have to come, too. You’ll feel better, by and by. With all these nice, nice horses to keep you company. Not alone any longer, Benoni. Lots of horses, Noni.”