“Walk?” cried Chris excitedly. “I feel as if I could run!”
“Get your rifle then; we mustn’t stir without our popguns now. Why, I say, I never thought your mount was pure bred. His great-grandfather must have been a wildcat, a big one of the nine-lives breed, or he never could have come over that cliff, as you say, and lived. Perhaps it is his ghost, after all.”
“Come on, and don’t talk,” cried Chris, who had buckled on his belt and slung his rifle.
“It’s enough to make any one talk,” cried Ned. “But, I say, you said that the Indians shot at him till he was as full of arrows as a pincushion is full of pins.”
“I didn’t. I said he was wounded two or three times.”
“All the same. He must be a wonderful beast. Just wait till I’ve had a look at him, and then I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll change.”
“Will we?” cried Chris, through his set teeth. “Poor old fellow, I wouldn’t part with him for the world. Hff!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing much. I’m only stiff and bruised all over. Come on.”
Chris limped a great deal, and suffered plenty of pain, but he got down the slope bravely, managing to step from stone to stone until the way down to the water was passed and the two lads were hurrying across the verdant portion of the valley towards where the animals were browsing and grazing.