“By George!” exclaimed Billie aloud, as he finally drew rein and peered into the darkness, “I wonder where that river has gone to. It ought to be around here somewhere!”
He turned his horse sharply to the left and for several minutes rode slowly along, looking all about his narrow horizon.
“Don’t you know where you are?” he asked of the horse; but not understanding English, there was no answering movement of the animal’s ears and no sense of that companionship which a horseman should feel from his mount.
“If I’d had Jupiter under me I wouldn’t be in this fix!” thought Billie, and for a brief moment he was almost overcome with a sense of loneliness.
But there was no time to waste. The lives of his companions depended upon his success, and he hastily pulled himself together and spurred forward.
For another five minutes he galloped along, when all at once his horse went down upon his knees and only the saddle kept Billie from going over his head.
Quickly gathering himself, he tried his best with the reins to lift the animal to his feet; but his efforts were in vain and he was obliged to dismount.
One look at the ground beneath his feet was sufficient. He had ridden into the midst of a prairie dog village and his horse had fallen into one of the holes.
After some minutes, Billie succeeded in getting the animal on his feet; but when he mounted and started to ride, he found that the broncho was so lame he could scarcely move.
While the accident was unfortunate in one way, it was a good thing in another. It served as a landmark to tell Billie where he was—for the very