Hoof Beats 



blinded his eyes. He wouldn't stand it much 

 longer, he thought. No pony could, not if the 

 Boers wiped out the whole blessed troop. It 

 seemed hours before he again heard the other's 

 voice. 



"One o'clock, Brutus; it's tough, I know, but 

 they've got me through the shoulder and it feels 

 pretty bad." 



Brutus plunged on. Shot through the shoulder 

 and not a word of complaint. Well, if Livingston 

 could ride five hours with a hole in his shoulder 

 he needn't whimper, but he couldn't help it if he 

 felt a little dizzy and lost the direction a bit. He 

 wondered what the gray would say now. Oh, well 

 it didn't much matter. Then he went down in a 

 lump, and when he staggered to his feet the man 

 was standing near him, grasping his wounded 

 shoulder, his face showing white in the darkness 

 and his teeth clinched on his lip. A moment 

 later Brutus felt him crawl painfully into the 

 saddle, the touch of his spurred heel and the 

 nerve racking ride went on. 



At fifteen minutes of two the furthermost out- 

 post of the British lines heard the mufiled hoof 

 beats of a wind blown horse, and staring into the 

 blackness saw a piebald pony, laboring cruelly as it 

 galloped, a man lying low on the pony's neck, one 

 arm hanging limp. The picket challenged and 

 144 



