“Steady, boy; steady.” He patted the glossy neck, already wet; and in about five miles pulled him down to a walk and let him puff and grunt.
The pony himself broke into an ambling trot, which was his easiest gait, and which carried him faster than might be imagined. This was the pace that he could maintain all day; and this was the pace that an Indian would have ridden him, mile after mile. An Indian pony he was, of Texas mustang stock; wiry and tough and stanch, asking little and giving all.
Ernest let him walk and amble; then with a word and pressure of the knees sent him into a gallop again.
They had passed the Berry ranch, four miles from town; but nobody seemed at home. Doubtless the family already knew of the trouble. At Peach Creek, ten miles, was the McClure ranch. Ernest barely drew rein, to shout, at a figure in the doorway:
[Illustration: ERNEST BARELY DREW REIN TO SHOUT AT A FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY: “GONZALEZ ATTACKED! THEY NEED MEN!”]
And he was away again. Looking back, he could see men and women running. Like a Paul Revere he felt, who bore the word to the minute-men that the British were on the march.
A lonely road, as ever, was this road to San Felipe, via Burnam’s Crossing. Only at long intervals did he have the opportunity to cry, flashing past traveller ahorse or with ox team:
The Lavaca was the next stream; after that the Navidad; and after that, but far, the Colorado. The yellow pony was streaked with sweat-soaked dust; from his lips and neck and flanks the soapy lather drifted in shreds of foam. But he was breathing without effort, he was strong on his legs, his stride faltered not; and as long as he sweat freely and did not stumble, he was good for many a mile yet.
Occasionally Ernest pulled him down to fast walk and amble, so that he might blow and rest his muscles. Once they halted at a ford, and the pony drank a few swallows, but only a few, to clear his mouth and throat of dust. Then they trotted on, and presently resumed the steady gallop.
The sun set; the golden glow faded from the west and the stars appeared. Through the gloam they sped, pounding away, with Burnam’s ever nearer. Go it, little horse! Prick your ears, hopefully; and go it!
Those last ten miles were the hardest of all. Not of late had Ernest rasped forth his message, with dry tongue and dusty throat. He had met nobody, he had passed no more ranches. His face burned with the breeze and the flying grit, he was blistered from the wet saddle, the rifle scabbard had chafed the inside of his thigh raw, and the stirrups had gouged his insteps to the bone, he thought. And he was hungry, being dinnerless and supperless.