“Now, Nic,” said the doctor, as they stood ready to make a fresh start, “we shall go on, so as to reach another water-hole and camp for the night.”
As he spoke the doctor rammed down the last wad and examined the priming of the new gun Nic had brought out. Then, finding the pan full of powder, he tried whether the flint was well screwed up in the hammer.
“Put these on,” he said, and he handed the boy his shot-belt and powder-flask.
“Are we going to shoot anybody, father?” asked Nic eagerly.
“I hope not, boy; but it is a custom out here to go armed when you are travelling, and we are getting some distance out now away from the town. Up with your and try and mount a little better. Take hold of your reins and the mane there tightly, up with your left foot into the stirrup, and lay your hand on the cantle of the saddle; don’t pull it, only support yourself by it. Now draw your off rein a little, so that the horse cannot sidle away, spring up lightly, and throw your leg over. Mount.”
Nic obeyed, as he thought, to the letter, and got into the saddle somehow, making his horse fidget and wag its tail uneasily.
“Bad—very bad,” cried the doctor, laughing. “I said throw your leg over. You tried to throw yourself over. Never mind; you’ll soon learn. Look at me. One moment: take your gun.”
Nic took the gun handed to him, and was shown how to carry it across his rein arm, and then he enviously watched his father take hold of a wisp of the horse’s mane, place a foot in the stirrup, and lightly swing himself into the saddle, while his horse hung toward him a little, otherwise remained perfectly still.
“You’ll soon do it, Nic. Legs feel stiff?”
“A bit cramped,” replied the boy.