“Sit upon his head, Kirke,” ordered the captain. “So long as his head is kept down he can’t flounder about.”
Kirke did as he was told, and while he was perched upon Pizarro’s broad cheek, Captain Bradstreet unbuckled the harness and detached it from the phaeton.
“The thill is broken, isn’t it?” asked Kirke.
“Yes, broken almost in two.”
Captain Bradstreet firmly grasped the horse’s bridle. “Now jump, Kirke, and be quick about it.”
Kirke promptly obeyed, and Pizarro straightway struggled to his feet, looking very much ashamed.
“He doesn’t seem to be injured anywhere,” said the captain, after carefully feeling the horse’s limbs. “I wish the same could be said of the phaeton. Have you a string about you, Kirke, to splice that shaft with?”
For a wonder Kirke’s pocket to-day did not boast of even so much as a fishing-line.
“I might run to the next ranch and beg a bit of rope,” he suggested.
“Wait a moment, my boy, here comes a greaser. Let’s see what he can do for us.”