“The mule must have smelt the water far-off,” said Chris, “and found the way here.”
“Yes, but he won’t find the way back to camp. What shall we do? What shall we do?”
There was a piteous, despairing ring in Ned’s voice as he sat gazing woefully in Chris’s eyes.
“We might go right away,” said the latter thoughtfully, and then in a tone full of exultation, “We’re a pretty pair,” he cried; “look how plain the hoof-marks are in the sand. Why, we’ve only got to pick up the trail and follow it back. There, you go that way and I’ll go this. It can’t be far away.”
“No, of course not,” cried Ned, urging his pony forward in the direction indicated, while Chris started in the other, keeping close to the water’s edge, where the sand was firm.
But the mule was not going to be left alone, and followed Chris’s mount. Not for far. Within a hundred yards there were the hoof-prints of the animals, going straight into the shallow lake on one side and on the other leading straight away over the sandy plain, which here came right up to the water’s edge.
“Coo-ee!” shouted Chris, and Ned came cantering back.
“Found the trail?” he cried.
“Yes, here it is, with the mule leading. That’s where he walked right into the lake. And we’ve been abusing mules and calling them names ever since I can remember. Ned, I’ll never be a brute to a mule again. Will you lead?”
“No. You found the trail. Go on, and I’ll come last. As fast as you can.”