“Deer!” exclaimed Paul.  “There they are, Henry!  Just waiting for us!”

Henry took a long and keen look, then shook his head.

“No, not deer, Paul,” he said.  “Now guess what they are.”

“They can’t be buffaloes,” replied Paul.  “I think, Henry, I’m right; they’re deer.”

“No,” said Henry, “they’re horses.”

“Horses!  Why there are no plantations hereabouts!”

“Not tame horses.  Wild horses.  Descendants of the horses that the Spaniards brought to Mexico two or three hundreds ago.”

“And which have been spreading northward ever since,” continued Paul, alive with interest.  “Let’s try to get a near look at them, Henry.”

“I’m with you,” said Henry.

Full of boyish curiosity they went around the prairie, keeping in the edge of the woods until they came much nearer to the herd of wild horses, which numbered about thirty.  As a considerable wind was blowing their odor away from the animals, they could approach very closely without their presence being suspected.

The horses were clean limbed and well-shaped, and all except one were small and dark of color.  But that one was a noticeable exception.  He was almost pure white, far larger than the others, and he had a great flowing white mane and tail.

The herd grazed in a bunch, but the magnificent white stallion stood apart on the side next to the woods.  He, too, grazed at intervals, but most of the time he stood, head erect like a sentinel or rather a leader.  It seemed to both the boys that his whole attitude was full of spirit and majesty, the vast freedom of the wilderness.  He carried, too, the responsibility for the whole herd and he knew it.

“A prairie King,” whispered Paul.  “Wouldn’t I like to catch such a splendid animal, Henry, and ride him into New Orleans!”

“No you wouldn’t, Paul,” replied Henry, “That stallion wasn’t made to be ridden by anybody.  Look.  Paul, look!”

Henry’s last word rose to an excited whisper, and Paul’s gaze quickly followed his pointing finger.  Even then he would not have seen anything had he not looked long and carefully.  At last he made out a long, tawny shape on a low-lying bough of a tree at the very edge of the forest.  The shape was flattened against the bough and almost blended with it.

“A panther!” whispered Paul.

Henry nodded.  It was, in fact, a large specimen of the panther or southern cougar, and Henry whispered again: 

“See what he is after!”

A small colt from the herd had wandered dangerously near to the forest and the bough on which the cougar lay, watching him with the yellow, famished eyes of the great, hungry cat.

“Shoot him, Henry!  Shoot him!” whispered Paul.  “You can reach him with a bullet from here.  Don’t let him kill the poor, little colt!”

“I’d do it if it were needed,” replied Henry, “but I don’t think it will be.  See, Paul, the Prairie King suspects!”