for these hills
are infested with Boers. Do you know the country?"

"Partly. I can learn the rest."

"You need a remount."

Weldon stroked the little gray broncho.

"If I had my own horse. Otherwise, I prefer this. I can trust her,
even if she is tired."

Again the glance swept him over, beginning at the boyish face,
resolute and eager beneath its streaks of red-brown dust. Then, as
Weldon saluted, the General turned and rode away, with the Captain
at his side.

"You've the making of a man there, Captain Frazer," was his sole
comment.

Weldon, meanwhile, was allowing the little gray broncho to pick her
own dainty way out of the shambles about her feet. Then, once free
from the litter of men and horses, he turned her head to the spot
where, he had been told, his squadron were gathering together their
diminished forces. As he rode slowly onward, he was surprised to see
how low the sun had dropped. The fighting must have lasted longer
than he had thought. It had been hot and heavy; but at least he had
not funked it. For so much he could be thankful. In so far as he
could recall any of his emotions as he had dashed into range of the
pitiless firing, they had been summed up in a dull rage against the
enemy, mingled with a vague hope that no harm should come to the
plucky little mount. Just one instant's pause he could remember.
That was when he had put forth all his strength to check her pace
until he could readjust a strap that was plainly galling her. And
afterwards? Not even the thoroughbred Nig could have played her part
in the fight with more steady gallantry. Stooping, he eased the bit
and patted the firm gray neck where the mane swept upward for its
arching fall.

"Boss?"

He straightened in his saddle.

"Kruger Bobs! By all special providences, where did you come from?"

"Naauwpoort. Kruger Bobs come bring Nig to Boss."

"Kruger Bobs, you're a genius."

Kruger Bobs vanished behind his smile.

"Ya, Boss," he replied then. "Boss all right?"

"Yes, all right."

"Dutchmans no killed Boss?"

"No."

Doubtfully Kruger Bobs shook his sable bristles. He had heard the
firing, such firing as he had never dreamed of until then, and it
seemed to him impossible that any man could come unscathed out of
the heart of it. Of Weldon's being in the very heart of it, no doubt
had once stained the loyal whiteness of his soul. To assure himself
of Weldon's safety, he ambled around the gray broncho in a clumsy
ci