He had no gun with him now, but he could ride back, fetch it, and wait till morning. Then he would ride up to the Wattles just when they were going to tie up Leather, take his place beside him, and, with presented gun, dare any one to touch his father’s servant.
Then the weak tears came into the boy’s eyes, and he laughed a piteous, contemptuous laugh at himself for harbouring such a silly, romantic notion.
And all the while Sorrel went on at his steady walk, growing cool and comfortable, refreshed too by the light feed he had had and the rub down.
They went slowly on till sunset, when Nic drew rein, and sat gazing at the large orange ball sinking away beyond the mountains.
“So beautiful!” he said, forced into admiration of the glories of the coming evening; “and poor Leather lying there handcuffed and waiting to be flogged.”
He leaped from his horse and threw the rein over its head.
“There!” he cried, patting the soft arched neck, “eat away, old chap. You needn’t be miserable if I am. I can’t go and leave poor Leather like this.”
He threw himself down on the grass to think—to try and make out some plan, while the birds winged their way overhead back to their roosting places, and here and there the kangaroos and their many little relatives began to steal out of the woodland shelters they had affected through the heat of the day, to lope about like huge hares, look around for danger, and then begin to browse.
At first the only idea that would come to the boy was that he would wait there till daybreak, and then ride the three or four miles he had come in his homeward direction back to the Wattles, getting there in good time; and when the preparations were being made for punishment he would ride boldly up and make a final appeal to Mr Dillon to either let Leather off or to defer everything till the doctor returned.
“Poor Leather!” he said to himself: “he’ll see that I have not deserted him.”