“Yes, leave behind. Won’t fall off,” muttered Ned, who was sinking fast into a state of stupor.
And all the while from ahead, close by the moving lanthorn, came the musical cling, cling, cling, cling of the mules’ bell, with the low muttering sound made by the doctor and Griggs as they entered into a conversation about the state of the country into which they were penetrating.
“Poor fellows!” said Bourne half-aloud. “I can do nothing to keep them awake. Perhaps they will not fall off, after all.”
It was growing darker, but he noted that the mustangs seemed to regulate their movements to those of their riders, and in nowise altered their steady walk when one or the other lurched and made a spasmodic effort to recover himself.
Then Bourne sighed and looked right ahead at the dull star of the lanthorn in front, some of whose rays fell from time to time upon the moving pack carried by one of the mules. From that he turned his eyes upward to the glorious stars, whose rays gave just sufficient light to enable the line of animals to avoid any obstacle in the way, though that was seldom, for Skeeter plodded steadily along with his bell, and the mules which followed almost planted their hoofs, elephant-fashion, in the prints made by those which had gone before.
“What a long, long, weary night!” sighed Bourne at last. “Will the morning never come?”
“Who’s that?”—a sharp voice from close behind.
“I. Anything the matter, Wilton?”
“Yes; I nearly fell off my nag just now, to be left behind.”
“You mustn’t do that. ’Ware snakes.”