“Because I neglected to ask Mother Coates for the cold cream before the steamer left Sandy Point.”
At this moment a herd of guanacos was sighted. There was a shout from the Indians, who at once spread out to surround them.
“Hurrah!” cried Peter. “Here’s for off. Hoop!”
And away went our erratic messmate, helter-skelter over the plains, quite forgetting the hardness of the saddle in that wild gallop.
Peter had become quite an adept at throwing either lasso or bolas. The only drawback here again being that after “heaving,” as he called it, he was apt to follow them, and this resulted in more bumps. It is really surprising to me that Peter never smashed his neck, or at the very least his collar-bones. When we congratulated him on his good luck in this respect, he replied—
“Why, how can I break bones? There isn’t a bone in my body, I tell you. I’m all pulp.”
Peter certainly had plenty of pluck.
I never saw Peter happier than one morning when awaking, we found that all our horses had stampeded. Perhaps stampeded is too strong a word. It would be more correct to say they had silently disappeared. So we had to walk in search of them.
The trail was evident enough, and led us still farther to the west. There was no mistake about it. Peter could walk if he could not ride. He was constantly turning round to us and calling—
“Come on, you fellows. Haven’t you got any legs under you? Such old dawdlers I never did see!”