“We will!” whispered Ingleborough, as soon as they had passed on; “but oh, if the ponies are gone!”
In another minute they knew that they were still safely tethered as they had seen them last, while a little search at the end of the empty wagon brought busy hands in contact with their saddles and bridles.
“Oh, it’s mere child’s play!” whispered Ingleborough, as they hurried back to the ponies, which recognised their voices and readily yielded to being petted, standing firm while the saddles were clapped on and they were girthed.
“Ready?” said West.
“Yes. Shall we lead them to where the muster is being made?”
“No; let’s mount and ride boldly up!” said West.
The next minute they were in the saddle, and, stirred by the natural instinct to join a gathering of their own kind, both ponies neighed and ambled towards the spot where about fifty men were collected, some few mounted, others holding their bridles ready for the order to start.
There was a startler for West, though, just as they were riding towards the gathering patrol, one which communicated itself to Ingleborough, for all at once out of the darkness on their left a voice exclaimed: “Here, Piet, have you moved my rifle?”
“No,” came back.
Then after a pause: “Here, what does this mean? Mine’s not where I left it! Come, no nonsense! We may want them at any time! You shouldn’t play tricks like this; it might mean a man’s life!”