"He is mine," said Ned, "and he knows me."
"He won't be yours much longer," said the sentinel. "Look, there's a Mexican creeping along the ground after him."
Ned followed the pointing finger, and he now noticed the Mexican, a vaquero, who had been crouching so low that his figure blurred with the earth. Ned saw the coiled lariat hanging over his arm, and he knew that the
man intended to capture Old Jack, a prize worth any effort.
"Do you think I ought to shoot him?" asked the sentinel.
"Not yet, at least," replied Ned. "I brought my horse into this danger, but I think that he'll take himself out of it."
Old Jack had paused, as if uncertain which way to go. But Ned felt sure that he was watching the Mexican out of the tail of his eye. The vaquero, emboldened by the prospect of such a splendid prize, crept closer and closer, and then suddenly threw the lasso. The horse's head ducked down swiftly, the coil of rope slipped back over his head, and he dashed at the Mexican.
The vaquero was barely in time to escape those terrible hoofs. But howling with terror he sprang clear and raced away in the darkness. The horse whinnied once or twice gently, waited, and, when no answer came to his calls, trotted off in the dusk.
"No Mexican will take your horse," said the sentinel.
"You're right when you say that," said Ned. "I don't think another will ever get so near him, but if he should you see that my horse knows how to take care of himself."