Poor Billy's legs kicked restlessly to and fro as the tremors went through him.
With a mist in his eyes, Charley arose and looked down on the faithful animal. The wounded leg had already swollen to twice its natural size, the body was twitching with spasms, and the large brown eyes were eloquent with pain and suffering.
"I've got to do it, Billy. It's to save you torture, old fellow, just to save you useless suffering, Billy." He drew his pistol from his belt, took careful aim just behind the pony's ear, and, turning his head away, pulled the trigger.
With never a backward glance at the still form, he strode over to the pack pony and removing the pack transferred his own saddle to the animal.
The pack was quickly broken up into smaller packages and distributed equally amongst the party, and soon all were moving forward again on their westerly course.
It was a still, white, and shaken Walter who once more rode beside his silent chum.
"You saved my life, Charley, and it's a poor return to merely thank you," he said earnestly.
"Don't say anything about it," protested Charley, cheerfully. "The shoe may be on the other foot next time, and I know you will do the same for me then."
But Walter had not finished. "I want to say," he continued, "that you are the only one of us qualified to lead this party. Hereafter, what you say goes with me. I know it will with Captain Westfield too."
"There's Chris," said Charley with a smile. "I fear he will have to have his little lesson before he gets in that frame of mind. Walt," he continued earnestly, "I do not want the responsibility but I am not going to shirk it now that it is thrust upon me. Frankly, though, I can't help wishing that this trip was over and we were safe back in town once more."