It was months, now, since Piggie had learned that
call. Again and again she had come trotting up to him, to rub her
muzzle against his neck in token that she had heard and understood.
There was scant chance that the call would be carried to her by the
boisterous wind, scanter chance still that, hearing it now in that
mad rout, she would heed. Nevertheless, Weldon took the chance.
Obviously stampeded by the enemy, the missing horses would leave the
column powerless to repel the attack which was imminent. If Piggie
could be recalled, there was still a chance to regain the other
mounts. Yet, even while he was weighing all the chances, he smiled
to himself as he recalled the ineffectual little whistle that had
gone out on the whistling wind. The chance was gone. Like Carew, he
would lie down and seek what shelter he could get from the earth and
from his own clasping arms.
The hail, falling thickly, shut down about the troop of horses and
took them from his sight. If his eyes could have followed them, he
would have seen one little gray head toss itself upward from the
heart of the throng, one sturdy little gray back move more and more
slowly, turn slightly, then weave its patient way in and out between
its frightened companions until, free from the press of the crowd,
it stood alone on the hail-lashed plain.
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