“Now, old Tar-guts, don’t waste your fodder!” muttered the trapper, addressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and levelled.
No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was aiming. It was a shot frequently made by western riflemen; that is, a mark of the same size at sixty yards. And no doubt Rube would have done it; but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare’s back heaved up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pitahaya fell to the ground.
But the ball had sped; and grazing the animal’s shoulder, passed through one of her ears!
The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its effect was visible at once; for the mare, stung in her tenderest part, uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheeling about, came leaping into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way.
The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the Indians, the “vayas” and “vivas” of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old Rube himself, all formed a medley of sounds that fell strangely upon the ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Programme.
Shortly after, I was wandering out to the caballada to look after my horse, when the sound of a bugle fell upon my ear. It was the signal for the men to assemble, and I turned back towards the camp.