Long since, Weldon had discovered that the
thoroughbred Nig was an ornament; but that Piggie was a necessity.
Again and yet again, her flying feet and gritty temper had brought
him, unscathed, through perilous plights. She read his mind as by
instinct; left unguided, she guided herself with exceeding
discretion; and, upon more than one occasion, she had endured the
nervous strain of feeling a human body dangling limply above the
saddle bow, held in place by main strength of her master who,
crouching forward beneath the heavy fire, could only indicate the
way of safety by the pressure of this heel and then that against her
heaving flanks. Surely, if ever honors could be given to a faithful,
plucky little broncho, Piggie should have been gazetted for the
Distinguished Service Order. Not to the men alone is due all the
honor of victory.
But now Piggie, fresh from a prolonged interval of resting in the
care of Kruger Bobs, felt that she was out on an excursion of pure
pleasure. Behind her trailed a long column of men and mounts and
wagons; around her was a knot of horses whom she knew well; and
before her stretched away the dry and level veldt, broken at the
sky-line by a range of hills that rose sharply in a jagged line
which culminated in one peak lifted far above all the others.
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