“I have, Griggs,” cried Chris quickly, and, with something to do, the pain of the farewell to the beautiful scene came to an end.
“Ready?” cried the doctor sharply.
“Aye, aye!” came back, and the horses shuffled and spread their legs.
“Mount!” cried the doctor, and every one sprang to his saddle amidst the stamping of the mustangs’ feet. “Lead on, Griggs,” cried the doctor.
The American pressed his cob’s sides and trotted to where the leading mule stood browsing, ready to raise its head, shaking the bell violently, and make a vicious snap at the horse’s neck with its bared teeth.
But Griggs was ready for it, and threw out one of his long legs, the toe of his boot catching the mule in the cheek and spoiling the aim.
“Look here, my fine fellow,” he cried, “don’t you try that game again, or I’ll fix a spike to the end of a stout hickory ready for lancing those gums of yours. I’m afraid you’ve got toothache, or you wouldn’t be so ready to bite. Now then, ring up. Get on.”
“Forward!” snouted the doctor; and as the mule led the way under the American’s direction the whole heavily-laden team filed after, settling down steadily enough, the horsemen bringing up the rear, looking like a little detachment of irregular cavalry as they wound along the tracks through the blighted plantation, straight away for the uncultivated wilds.
“Good-bye to five years’ labour,” said the doctor, turning in his saddle for a last look.
“Five years’ disappointment,” said Wilton sadly.