"But I ought not to use up your ammunition in this way!" Jack protested.
"I guess you can afford to," replied Wad. "It was mostly bought with money we sold that fawn-skin for."
Jack was willing enough to try another shot; and, the piece reloaded, he resumed his tramp.
He had nearly reached the fence, when a bird rose between it and him, and flew over Peakslow's pasture. Jack had brought the gun to his shoulder, and was about to pull the trigger, when he remembered Peakslow's horses, and stopped to give a hasty glance over the fence.
Down went the gun, and Jack stood astonished, the bird forgotten, and his eyes fixed on an object beyond.
What Wad said of their neighbor having brought out a new horse from Chicago, together with what the captain of the Heron said of one of Peakslow's span being a light roan, rushed through his thoughts. He ran up to the fence, and looked eagerly over; then gave a shout of joy.
After all his futile efforts to find him,—chasing about the country, offering rewards, scattering hand-bills,—there was the lost horse, the veritable Snowfoot, grazing quietly in the amiable Mr. Peakslow's pasture!