“Everything but locking up this door, sir, and here are the keys,” cried the American, holding up a leather bag, in which he jingled the hammer and a few of the big nails within.
“That’s right,” cried the doctor. “Now then,” he shouted, “every one tighten his mustang’s girths a hole or two, and sling his rifle across his back before mounting. Got your revolvers, boys?”
“Yes, father—yes, sir!” came in response, and the next minute half-a-dozen rough-looking wiry cobs were being unhitched and led out through the low doorway, to stand champing their big bits, fidgeting to be mounted and given their heads for a canter.
“Every one see that his bag and blanket are all right,” cried the doctor; and then Griggs’ voice was heard.
“Some one take my nag’s rein,” he said. “Will you, Squire Chris?”
For answer the boy reached out and took hold of the strap, casting his eye over the sturdy little steed, which seemed too small to carry so tall a man as its rider.
Chris noted that there was the long hide lasso-rope curled up and hanging in its place by the saddle-bow, and that the saddle-bags were in their places, carefully strapped on, so that a tin bucket, which was also hung behind, should rest on one and not prove a nuisance to horse or rider.
Ned was close to his companion, and he said—
“I say, it would have been much better if we had kept to our old idea and had, say, three light mule-carts. What a lot of these odds and ends we could have stowed out of the way.”
“I said so to old Griggs,” replied Chris, and then he was silent.