“Dave's right,” said August. “You can't trust a wild mustang any more than a wild horse.”
August was right. Black Bolly broke her halter about midnight and escaped into the forest, hobbled as she was. The Indian heard her first, and he awoke August, who aroused the others.
“Don't make any noise,” he said, as Jack came up, throwing on his coat. “There's likely to be some fun here presently. Bolly's loose, broke her rope, and I think Silvermane is close. Listen sharp now.”
The slight breeze favored them, the camp-fire was dead, and the night was clear and starlit. They had not been quiet many moments when the shrill neigh of a mustang rang out. The Naabs raised themselves and looked at one another in the starlight.
“Now what do you think of that?” whispered Billy.
“No more than I expected. It was Bolly,” replied Dave.
“Bolly it was, confound her black hide!” added August. “Now, boys, did she whistle for Silvermane, or to warn him, which?”
“No telling,” answered Billy. “Let's lie low, and take a chance on him coming close. It proves one thing—you can't break a wild mare. That spirit may sleep in her blood, maybe for years, but some time it'll answer to—”
“Shut up—listen,” interrupted Dave.
Jack strained his hearing, yet caught no sound, except the distant yelp of a coyote. Moments went by.