He slipped back into the cabin, looking for a rawhide or horsehair rope that he might use to catch the animal. He found nothing. He unlaced the rawhide strip that had served as a bottom for the bed, formed a loop in one end of it, then walked out slowly and carefully, making no sudden move that might startle the horse and cause it to run. It pricked up its ears and watched his approach. It turned once as if to move away. James talked in a low, even tone. “Gentle now, boy. Be gentle and stand there. I ain’t fixin’ to do you no harm. Just stand there, feller.”

The horse snorted and jerked its head up, a sign of misgivings and a strong hint that it was about to run. James held the makeshift rawhide rope behind his back with his left hand, raising his right hand carefully while he kept talking. The sorrel’s hide rippled as James cautiously touched the neck, and the horse backed off half a step. James ran his hand gently up into its mane and took a firm hold, then brought the rope up and laid it across the animal’s neck, forming a hand-held loop around the throat. When the horse accepted that, James slipped the main loop over its head. Now, unless it took a sudden fright and jerked away, breaking the rawhide, the horse was caught.

James could tell right away that it was well broken and dependent upon a kind human hand. He rubbed it along the neck, and the horse nuzzled him. It followed him as he laid the gate open and walked into the pen. Beside a rough lean-to shed James found a corncrib. He shelled several ears into a trough and watched the horse take it eagerly.

“Old boy,” he said, “the folks that left you here must’ve figured this wasn’t any safe place to stay. I reckon they knew the situation a lot better than I do, so we’re fixin’ to do what they did. We’re goin’.”

He formed the rawhide into a makeshift hackamore, as he had seen Mexican horsemen do. He led the horse to the cabin, picking up the blanket, the ham, and his rifle. He forgot about the eggs. Jumping up onto the horse’s bare back, he bade the sow and her shoats farewell. “Don’t you-all let the Mexicans catch you,” he said. “They’ll have themselves a pork roast.”

He realized that technically he was guilty of horse theft, but under the circumstances nobody was likely to object. The horse’s owners had abandoned it to the Mexicans, who would probably have taken it anyway, had they found it. Having the animal would allow him to make much faster progress.

He kept moving in the same northeasterly direction he had followed during the many days of his long walk. Sooner or later he must come to the Colorado River. There should be no mistaking it when he did. He knew it from well west of his farm most of the way down to its mouth at the coast. North of the Colorado lay the Brazos, and eastward along the Brazos, San Felipe.