BrutuSy Cow Pony 



I call it." Brutus threw up his head with a snort 

 that startled the horses half way down the line. 



"My friend," he remarked, "were you ever in 

 Arizona, when the thermometer was 130, with a 

 wounded cow puncher on your back and six 

 howling red devils chasing you for seventy miles, 

 without a drop to drink?" 



"Arizona? Never heard of it. Is it in the 

 colonies?" the gray condescended. Brutus drew 

 in a deep breath that swelled out his sides and 

 turned away with a sigh . . . 



"Go to sleep," was all he said. 



But there was no more sleep for any one. The 

 little troop of one hundred men was surrounded, 

 and the neighboring hills afforded safe means for 

 attack for the Boers. The shots were popping 

 through the darkness with unpleasant regularity, 

 and even the tiny spurts of flame were visible, 

 the enemy had come in so close. The pickets were 

 falling back one by one and the camp was alive 

 and anxious. The horses were made more secure 

 and the troop stood waiting, every nerve on edge. 

 This attack was not by a mere detachment of 

 Boers, it must be the main body itself. Brutus 

 too felt the strain, though he did not jump or 

 squeal every time a bullet passed unpleasantly 

 near. 



When the first early light came it found the 

 139 



