He nosed one of the props. He leaned against it heavily, deliberately, and rubbed himself. Verily "His eye had all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming"—of unalloyed mischief.
The prop creaked, finally became loosened, and fell. The colt sprang back awkwardly, snorting in indignant surprise. "The very idea!" he would have said, even as he would have chewed gum and have worn a perpetual tear in his trousers had he been human.
With stiff stealthiness he approached the break again, pretending a hesitancy that he enjoyed immensely. He reached under the lower wire, neck outstretched, and nibbled at a bunch of ripe grass. There was plenty of grass within easier reach, but he wanted the unattainable. A barb caught in his mane. He jerked his head up. The barb pricked his neck. He jerked harder. Another prop became loosened. Then he strode away, this time with calm indifference. He pretended to graze, but his eye roved back to the break. His attitude expressed a sly alertness—something of the quiet vigilance a grazing horse betrays when one approaches with a bridle. He drew nearer the fence again. With head over the top wire he gazed longingly at the clumps of grass on the hummocks scattered over the muck of the overflow. His shoulder needed scratching. With drooping head, eyes half-closed, and lower lip pendant, he rubbed against the loosened post. The post sagged and wobbled. Whether it was deliberate intent, or just natural "horse" predominating his actions, it would be difficult to determine. Finally the post gave way and fell. The colt drew back and contemplated the opening with a vacuous eye. It was not interesting now. No, indeed! He wandered away.
But in the dusk of that evening, when a chill dew sparkled along the edges of the bog, he came, a clumsy shadow and grazed among the hummocks. Slowly he worked toward the treachery of black ooze that shone in the starlight. He sank to his fetlocks. He drew his feet up one after another, still progressing toward the centre of the bog, and sinking deeper at each step. He became stricken with fear as he sank to his hocks. He plunged and snorted. The bog held him with a soft, detaining grip—and drew him slowly down. He nickered, and finally screamed in absolute terror. Up to his heaving belly the black mud crept. He flung himself sideways. Exhausted, he lay with neck and head outstretched. Again he struggled, his eyes wild and protruding with the blood pressure of his straining. Then the chill of night crept over him. He became quiet—shivered a little, and nickered faintly.
In the willows a little owl called pensively.
The morning light, streaming across the hills, spread like raw gold over the bog. Collie whistled as he rode down the trail, and beat his gloved hands to keep warm. He heard a plaintive whinny and a bubbling gasp. He leaped from his pony, the coiled riata in his hand as he touched the ground.
The blunder colt, neck outstretched, was still above the ooze. His eyes were bloodshot, as their white rims showed. His nose quivered and twisted with his quick, irregular breathing.
It was a "two-man job," but Collie knew that the colt would probably be gone before he could ride back and return with help. He swung the riata, then hesitated. To noose the colt's neck would only result in strangling it when he pulled. He found a branch large enough to stiffen the brush near the break. Swiftly he built a shaky footing and crept out toward the colt. By shoving the riata under the colt's belly with a forked stick, and fishing the loose end up on the other side, he managed to get a loop round the animal's hind quarters. He mounted his own horse and took a turn of the riata round the saddle-horn.
His pony set its feet and leaned to the work. Slowly the colt was drawn to solid ground.