“Hallo!” I cried, “are you alive?”
“Very much so, only my left hip pains me, or the right; I’m sure I can’t tell which.”
“And your horse?”
“Done for; he’s still alive, but he’s torn past help. We’ll have to shoot him to put him out of his misery, poor fellow. Is the buffalo dead?”
I was not able to answer this question positively, so we made sure that there was no life in my former foe, and Hawkins said: “He treated me pretty badly, this old brute; a cow would have been gentler, but I suppose you can’t expect such an old soldier to be lady-like. Let us go to my poor horse.”
We found him in a pitiable condition, torn so that his entrails protruded, and groaning with agony. Sam loaded, and gave the poor creature the shot that ended his suffering, and then he removed the saddle and bridle, saying: “I’ll be my own horse, and put these on my back.”
“Where will you get another horse?” I asked.
“That’s the least of my troubles; I’ll find one unless I’m mistaken.”
“A mustang?”
“Yes. The buffaloes are here; they’ve begun travelling southward, and soon we’ll see the mustangs, I’m sure of that.”