“Mostly feather-weight,” he said easily. “You see, I’m not old. I got white hair, but I wouldn’t say there’s many years between us. Say, Molly——”
But that which he would have added remained unspoken. Perhaps Molly guessed. Perhaps her little mare’s eagerness was real. At any rate, the pinto recklessly took to the shallow water of the creek, and its chill set her sporting with apparent delight.
There was a moment in which Beelzebub watched her curiously. He stood on the bank with his head raised and his nostrils a-quiver. Then he moved. He stepped down into the water, which covered little more than his fetlocks, and his manner was completely dignified. But the gallant creature knew what was due to his sex. He went ahead of the mare and led the way.
They were at the mouth of the cavern, gazing down at the waters of the lagoon. A few yards ahead of them the stream hurled itself, tumbling and splashing, to the depths below. The full light of the sun blazed athwart the cavern entrance, and the rugged beauty of the valley of Three-Way Creek lay spread out in full view.
The pinto had drawn abreast of the black. And the two creatures stood together like statues. They stood with ears pricked and heads thrown up, and their soft eyes were far gazing, while their sensitive nostrils quivered with a scarcely expressed equine greeting.
It was neither the cascading waters, nor the beauty of daylight after the darkness of the tunnel, nor the mysterious depths of the waters of the lagoon, that preoccupied the riders as well as their horses. Molly and Jim were startled into complete silence, while their horses apparently regarded that which they beheld as a revelation of the intensest interest. A big sorrel horse, saddled and bridled, was down there beyond the waters of the lagoon, searching amongst the boulders, cropping hungrily at the green, ripe tufts of grass that grew about them.
Even at that distance there was no mistaking the identity of the horse; its size, rich colour, its short, staunchly-ribbed body. It was Pedro. And he was roaming free, even though he remained saddled, and it looked as though his bit had not been removed from his mouth.
It was Molly who drew attention to the latter detail. Perhaps Jim was less observant. Perhaps his mind was more deeply absorbed in the significance of the apparition. At any rate, he had given no sign from the moment he reined in Beelzebub and permitted Molly’s mare to come abreast.
“Do you see?” the girl asked, in a low, hushed tone, as she raised a hand, pointing. “Pedro’s tight cinched, and his bit’s still fixed.” She shook her head. “That sure isn’t Lightning. Lightning doesn’t set a horse grazing that way. Where is he? Lightning? Do you see him—anywhere?”