first day the boys had arrived on the Rio Grande they had noticed it and Billie was sure that it was the only dog village for miles.
“I must be about two miles from Don Pablo’s,” he mused. “That makes me fully six miles from the city and with this lame pony I don’t know how long it will take me to get there! I wish I could get hold of one of old Don Pablo’s mules.”
He gave the broncho a slap with the reata, not having the heart to use his spurs. The animal tried to go a bit faster, but the effort was a failure.
“I can walk faster than this,” was the lad’s next thought and without a moment’s hesitation he threw himself from the horse and started in the direction of the river on a run.
“If I can only find that river,” he muttered as he sped along. “I’ll stick close to it until I reach town. It can’t be so very far away!”
Billie was a good runner and he had learned in his months of experience on the plains how to run so as not to tire himself. It was vastly different from running along a beaten path, or even along a regular trail. The ground was covered with sand hummocks, and every once in a while he would run into a patch of sand so deep that it was impossible to do more than walk.
After some minutes Billie struck a belt of chaparral.
“Well!” he gasped, “this is encouraging, anyway. I am getting nearer the river.”
Through the brush he ran and finally, to his great delight, he emerged into a beaten path.
“Now I’m all right,” he thought. “This will lead me right down to the shore.”