“Yes,” cried Mark eagerly. “Here, Brown,” cried the boy, “what did you do when you heard the lions?”
“Do?” said the man, rather piteously. “Cut ’em loose—ran—whistled.”
“Bravo!” cried Dean, joining with his cousin in a merry laugh.
“We all ran,” sighed their queer follower. “None scratched.”
“Hurry on,” shouted Buck to his men; but the bullocks kept to their slow, deliberate trudge, munching away at the store of fresh green grass that had been collecting since their escape. “Perhaps you young gents,” continued Buck, “would like to mount two of the ponies and canter back with the news.”
“No saddles or bridles,” said Mark.
“Tchah! You don’t want saddles or bridles. Those little beggars will go which way you like with a touch of the hand; and I am not going to believe that you can’t get along barebacked. Not me!”
“Oh, I daresay we could manage,” said Mark; “but our orders were to see the bullocks inspanned and go back with them.”
“Can’t you trust me?” growled Buck.
“Trust you! Of course!” cried Mark, laying his hand on the big fellow’s shoulder. “I’d trust you anywhere, but—”