Brutus, Cow Pony 



horses, "would break their necks." And Brutus 

 bobbed his head approvingly. 



"You're a non-combatant. If they caught you 

 out there those chaps would hang you," the officer 

 said. 



"The New York Call wouldn't allow it," the 

 other smiled, "and I'm the only one who can do 

 it." 



That night at nine o'clock, when the first ping 

 of a shot sounded from the hills, Brutus recognized 

 a tall, stooping figure coming down the line, and 

 gave a little whinny of pleasure as the man stopped 

 and threw a cloth and saddle over his back and 

 tightened the girths with his knee in the pony's 

 stomach. The Lieutenant's gray looked around 

 sharply. "Huh," he snorted. "I wonder what 

 they're up to. No good, I'll be bound. Two 

 of a kind, I say." Brutus lashed out with both 

 heels, for hard words against one's master is a 

 personal insult among horses. Then he felt the 

 cold steel between his teeth as the bridle slipped 

 over his ears, and a minute later was following 

 Livingston, treading softly past the furthermost 

 picket. 



"Good luck, sir, and God bless you!" he heard 

 the picket whisper. Then he felt Livingston's 

 weight in the saddle and the powerful grip of his 



141 



