“I told Miss Rose I didn’t think the horse was up to it,” said Henry, aggrievedly. “I says to ask you.”
“You fool—you!” said the colonel, blazing. She reached for an old cap, and snatched a whip.
“Give me any horse!” she commanded, pulling down her own saddle. “I’ll follow them! They’ll be at the spring. I’ll bring them home through the woods.”
“Why, there you are, colonel! There aint a horse on this place. It was so hot yesterday that we turned them all out. They’re two miles away, in long meadow. You can’t get a horse on this post.”
Baffled, the child dropped the saddle. She leaned against the door-post, her swimming eyes looking across the baking earth. “It’ll kill Baby, Henry,” she whispered, with trembling lips.
No one was about. Above the Ralston stable some little boys had made a fire in the shade. Jerry clinched her hands in agony above her heart. Then she picked up her saddle, and went resolutely along the path.
“Where are you going, colonel, dear?” called Henry.
She did not answer.
“Oh—Baby! Baby!” she was sobbing as she ran; “I can’t let them kill you! I’ve got to disobey orders!”
The carriage, with the three men in it, was met by the news. A mile from the post a little boy shouted that the Ralston stable, with the wonderful mare inside, was burned to the ground. The old general, bouncing out uncomfortably, kept up a running fire of sympathetic ejaculation. The major, urging on the big grays, freely used his strongest language. But his brother did not speak.