The hunter dismounted, and having carefully examined his rifle, strode off in a direction nearly opposite to that where the object had been seen.
I was about to call after him, impatient to continue our journey; but, reflecting a moment, I concluded it was better to leave him to his “instincts”. In five minutes he had disappeared, having entered the chaparral.
We sat in our saddles for half an hour, not without feelings of impatience. I was beginning to fear that some accident had happened to our comrade, when we heard the faint crack of a rifle, but in a direction nearly opposite to that which Lincoln had taken.
“It’s the sergeant’s rifle, Captain,” said Chane.
“Forward!” I shouted; and we dashed into the thicket in the direction whence the report came.
We had ridden about a hundred yards through the chaparral, when we met Lincoln coming up, with his rifle shouldered.
“Well?” I asked.
“’Twur mounted, Cap’n—’tain’t now.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“That the mustang hed a yeller-belly on his back, and that he hain’t got ne’er a one now, as I knows on. He got cl’ar away from me—that is, the mustang. The yeller-belly didn’t.”