"Oh, I am very glad!" cried Donald. "Father said he should always look out for Johnson because he had been so faithful."
"It is like your father to do it—and like your grandfather, too, Don. May you be as good a man! Now get your traps together and be off with Pete. It's many a time I'll be thinking of you after you are gone, laddie."
"But you know I am coming back in a few weeks, Sandy."
"There's long weeks and short weeks; it all depends on what you're doing," was Sandy's whimsical answer. "Now be off. Why, you'd think I was seeing you to India instead of just down to the lowlands!"
As he dropped over the rimrock, Donald tried to laugh. It was not until he was mounted upon the little Mexican pony that he gained courage to look up. Outlined against the sky Sandy was standing on a point of rock, waving his sombrero. That was the last Donald saw of him.
Chatting as they rode down the mountainside the boy and Pete pressed forward over the trail. At noon they dismounted and lunched on salt-pork and pilot bread. Then off they cantered again. The tiny ponies, sure-footed as mules, made their way over the steep inclines of the hilly country with astonishing daintiness, but although they maintained a fair and even speed it was sunset when the white top of the prairie schooner came into sight, drawn up beside a stream and sheltered by a group of great trees. Several Mexican ponies were pastured near it. The curtains at the end of the wagon were parted and fastened back and inside Donald could catch a glimpse of Manuel, the Mexican cook, busily preparing the food. A curl of faint smoke rose from the tin pipe which protruded through the canvas, arching the top of the wagon. Then as Donald looked, into the clearing came the erect figure of his father.
THE PANTING PONY STOOD STILL
The boy gave a shrill whistle on his fingers and touched the spurs to his horse's flank.