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Updated: May 10, 2025
Soldiers ran out and officers stepped from their comfortable quarters, while the officers' club emptied itself into the street. The horse was recognized in a moment as Colonel Fortescue's mount, and he made straight for the commandant's house. It was not necessary for the trooper to seize the reins hanging loose on Gamechick's neck.
Outside the door, a trooper was holding Gamechick by the bridle, delivering the horse to his new master. "Good-bye, good horse," said Broussard, patting Gamechick's neck. "You did me the best turn any creature, man or beast, ever did me, and I promise never to forget my obligations to you." Horses are sentimental creatures. Gamechick knew that Broussard's words were a farewell.
He stopped and began to pat Gamechick's beautiful neck and the horse, who was, like all intelligent horses, a sentimentalist, rubbed his nose against Broussard's head, and said, as plainly as a horse can say: "Dear master, I love you still." Colonel Fortescue, coming out of the gate, saw Broussard, and his heart softened as he recalled the last time he had seen Broussard riding Gamechick.
Amid the blare of the band and the riders and chargers almost upon the struggling horse and motionless girl, lying on the tanbark, Broussard, coolly, as if he were on the parade ground, lifted Gamechick by the bridle, gave him a touch of the spur, and the next moment cleared both mare and girl, with twenty inches between Gamechick's iron-shod hind hoofs and Anita's beautiful blonde head.
Fortescue whispered in his ear: "Be brave, brave as you were in battle." Colonel Fortescue had been in battle, but the screaming shells and crash of machine guns brought with them no such wild and shivering terror as when he saw Gamechick's forefeet in the air over Anita, lying on the tanbark.
Colonel Fortescue was helped on Gamechick's back and a trooper dismounted and gave his horse to Broussard, the trooper mounting behind a comrade; and without asking anybody's leave, Broussard rode beside Anita.
Anita put her arm about his neck and rubbed her cheek against his satin coat, Gamechick receiving her caresses with dignity, as a cavalry charger should, and not with the tender bondings and nosings for lumps of sugar, like Pretty Maid. The last glimpse Broussard had of Anita was, as she stood, her arm about Gamechick's neck, her crimson mantle falling away from her graceful shoulder.
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