it's my dear old mustang. Ah!
there! he's walking lame. And I thought he was dead--I thought he was
dead!"

"It is, old chap," cried Ned, after a hurried glance. "He must have got
here somehow and joined his mates in the night. I never noticed it, and
no one else did, of course."

"Oh, Ned, this is good luck!"

"Good? It's glorious! Luck squared or cubed, or somethinged, up to the
tenth power. Here, let's go down and see. Can you walk?"

"Walk?" cried Chris excitedly. "I feel as if I could run!"

"Get your rifle then; we mustn't stir without our popguns now. Why, I
say, I never thought your mount was pure bred. His great-grandfather
must have been a wildcat, a big one of the nine-lives breed, or he never
could have come over that cliff, as you say, and lived. Perhaps it is
his ghost, after all."

"Come on, and don't talk," cried Chris, who had buckled on his belt and
slung his rifle.

"It's enough to make any one talk," cried Ned. "But, I say, you said
that the Indians shot at him till he was as full of arrows as a
pincushion is full of pins."

"I didn't. I said he was wounded two or three times."

"All the same. He must be a wonderful beast. Just wait till I've had a
look at him, and then I tell you what we'll do. We'll change."

"Will we?" cried Chris, through his set teeth. "Poor old fellow, I
wouldn't part with him for the world. _Hff_!"

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm only stiff and bruised all over. Come on."

Chris limped a great deal, and suffered plenty of pain, but he got down
the slope bravely, managing to step from stone to stone until the way
down to the water was passed and the two lads were hurrying across the
verdant portion of the valley towards where the animals were browsing
and grazing.

The mules just turned their heads to look at them in a surly,
uncompromising fashion, and went on feeding again, but as soon as they
were passed and the lads approached the ponies, Chris raised his voice,
uttering a kind of bird-call, when the effect upon the little herd was
immediate: all turned their heads, and Chris's mount uttered a shrill
whinnying sound, before advancing to meet him, going, however, very
stiffly on three legs, and as they approached looking as if it had
suffered badly enough for anything that claimed to be alive.

"My word, he has had it warmly," cried Ned. "Poor old chap, he's been
in the wars, and no mistake!"

The animal limped badly,