"Don't you worry; I'm all right," he said. "Ten to one she'll have turned back and I'll meet her coming home. I'd better scoot, hadn't I?" Turning, he ran, pursued by an indignant wail from Bobby.
Conqueror was fresh and impatient, and to saddle a horse of seventeen hands is not an easy task for a boy of thirteen, even if that horse be inclined to stand still. Dick was struggling with him when Mrs. Macleay appeared.
"I'll hold him," she said, briefly. She helped to saddle the great horse, and then gave Dick an awkward leg-up. Still holding the bridle she took something from her pocket.
"Is this any good to you?"
It was a small automatic pistol, and Dick's heart leaped at the sight of it.
"I can't hit a haystack," he admitted. "But I know how to use it—we've been practising every evening—and at least I can fire it off. Is it loaded?"
She nodded.
"Yes—but I can't find any more cartridges."
"Well, I mightn't need even these, but I'd better take it," Dick said. He slipped it into his pocket. "Can you open the gate, Mrs. Macleay?"
"Ay," she said. "And there's black girls ahead at the next two gates for ye. Ride fast, laddie, and God keep ye!"