It was a bitter struggle, strength against strength. I began to sweat from every pore, but the mule was dripping, and foam fell from her lips in great flakes. Her struggles grew more and more feeble, her heavy breathing became short gasps, till at last she gave in altogether, not willingly, but because she was at her last limit, and stood motionless with bulging eyes. I drew long, deep breaths; it seemed to me as if every bone and sinew in my body were broken.
“Heavens! what a man you are!” cried Sam. “You’re stronger than the brute! If you could see your face you would be scared; your eyes are staring, your lips are swollen, your cheeks are actually blue.”
“I suppose so; that comes of being a tenderfoot who won’t be beaten, while his teacher gives in and lets a horse and a mule conquer him.”
Sam made a wry face. “Now let up, young fellow. I tell you the best hunter gets whipped sometimes.”
“Very likely. How are your ribs and other little bones?”
“I don’t know; I’ll have to count ’em to find out. That’s a fine beast you have under you there.”
“She is indeed. See how patiently she stands; one feels sorry for her. Shall we saddle and bridle her and go back?”
The poor mule stood quiet, trembling in every limb; nor did she try to resist when we put saddle and bridle on her, but obeyed the bit like a well-broken horse. “She’s had a master before,” said Sam. “I’m going to call her Nancy, for I once had a mule by that name, and it’s too much trouble to get used to another. And I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”
“Gladly; what is it?”
“Don’t tell at the camp what has happened this morning, for they’d have nine days’ sport with me.”