On the bank of the Hatchet they found Laguerre's pony lying where it had fallen. The animal was not dead. It was sound asleep.
"Hear dat?" said Laguerre, late in the afternoon.
Loudon listened. From afar off came a buzzing murmur. It grew louder and louder.
"The boys are some het up," observed Loudon.
The posse straggled into view. The boys were "het up." They were all talking at once. Evidently they had been talking for some time, and they were full of their subject. At sight of Loudon and his bootless leg the clamour stilled.
"Hit bad, Tom?" called Doubleday.
"Hoss fell on me," explained Loudon. "Yuh don't have to say nothin', Doubleday," he added, as the foreman dismounted beside him. "I know just what happened."
"Oh, yuh do, do yuh?" snorted Doubleday, wrathfully. "I might 'a' knowed there was somethin' up when that gent an' you fellers didn't catch up. An' us ridin' our heads off from hell to breakfast! Why, we'd be combin' this country yet only we met some o' the cavalry from Fort Yardley an' they said there ain't been an Injun off the reservation for a month. They shore give us the laugh. ——! That's his hoss! Did yuh get him?"
"We did not. The fellah got away nice as yuh please on my hoss Ranger—yep, the hoss Rufe Cutting stole in the Bend. Gimme the makin's, somebody, an' I'll tell yuh what happened."