The mules just turned their heads to look at them in a surly, uncompromising fashion, and went on feeding again, but as soon as they were passed and the lads approached the ponies, Chris raised his voice, uttering a kind of bird-call, when the effect upon the little herd was immediate: all turned their heads, and Chris’s mount uttered a shrill whinnying sound, before advancing to meet him, going, however, very stiffly on three legs, and as they approached looking as if it had suffered badly enough for anything that claimed to be alive.
“My word, he has had it warmly,” cried Ned. “Poor old chap, he’s been in the wars, and no mistake!”
The animal limped badly, and so did Chris, as they came within touch, when the pony thrust forward its muzzle in response to its master’s extended hand, and then dropped its head and looked dejected in the extreme, but blinked and whinnied again as it felt itself caressed.
“My old beauty! My brave old chap!” cried Chris huskily. “Oh, look here, Ned! A broken arrow sticking in him still.”
“Why, there’s another on this side,” cried Ned, “and a cut or a scratch—no, it’s too bad for a scratch—there in his flank.”
“He’s cut here too, in the forehead. Oh, Ned, however did he manage to struggle back?”
“Oh, never mind about that. Let’s have the heads of these arrows out first thing.”
“Yes; they must be ready to fester in the wounds. No, we mustn’t do it; they want cutting out with a proper knife. Look here, Ned; jump on your pony and go and find father. He’d like to dress the wounds himself.”
“No need,” said Ned sharply, as a distant whistle rang out; “here they come.”
The whistle was answered, and a few minutes later the doctor and Wilton came into sight, saw the lads, and joined them.