The feat proved not so easy of accomplishment. As the fellow bent down to grasp the rein, the old mare uttered one of her wild squeals, slewed her hind-quarters about, and raising her heels high in air, delivered them right upon the ribs of the Mexican.
The heavy “thud” was heard by all of us; and the man swayed from his saddle, and fell to the ground—to all appearance badly hurt, and most probably with a pair of broken ribs.
The squeal of the mare was echoed by a shrill laugh from the throat of her delighted master; and not until she had galloped up to him, did he cease to make the locks ring with his wild cachinnations.
“Wa-hoo—woop! yur thur, ole gal!” he shouted as the animal halted before him. “You gin ’im a sockdolloger—you did. Yeeup! ole blue-skin! yur welkum back! an ye’ve fotched my saddle too! Hooray! Ain’t she a beauty, Bill? She’s wuth her weight in beaver-plew. Wagh! that ’ee ur, ole beeswax! Kum hyur this away—thur now!”
And the speaker proceeded, after some more apostrophising, to draw the animal closer up to the cliff, placing her body as an additional barricade in front of his own.
Our involuntary mirth was of short duration; it was interrupted by an object that filled our hearts with new apprehension.