"I ride the range for thy dear sake,
To win thee gold,
S'rita,
Lolita,
To steal the gringo's cow-ow-ow——"
Curly was first out through the hole, chasing dream bears. "The wind's in the west," she said, looking at the big stars above.
"Crawl up the wind," Jim whispered. "We want our horses; where are they?"
Curly sat up snuffing at the wind, then pointed. "The hawss smell's thar," she said, "but there's a scent of pony-soldiers too—many soldiers."
Jim trailed over cat-foot to the stable and looked in through the door. A lantern hung in the place, and some of the Frontier Guards sat round a box on the hay gambling earnest. If he went off to a distance, and handed out a few shots to draw the guard away searching, he reckoned there might be time to sneak round and steal a horse before they began to stray back. But then there was Curly all delirious with fever, and whimpering small wolf calls, so that every dog in the place had started to bark. The wolf calls had to be stopped, and a new dream started which would keep the little partner good and silent. That is why Jim took a handful of dust which he said was salt.
"Come along, Curly," he whispered, "we're going to stalk the buffalo; to still hunt the buffalo; we must be fearfully quiet, or we'll never put the salt on their tails. Don't you see?"
"But the buffalo's all gawn extinct!"
"Oh, that's all right; it's not their fault, poor things. Come on, and we'll salt their tails."
"I'm sort of tired," says Curly right out loud, and Jim went cold with fright. He could hear the soldiers squabbling over their game not fifty feet away, then the sound of somebody's footsteps rambling over from the guard-house. A soldier staggered drunk within two yards of him, and rolled in at the stable door.
"Come on, old chap," Jim whispered; "I'm your horse, so climb on my back, and we'll travel."