"
"What is the trouble, please?"
"Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were
obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and
their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind."
"Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back
and see."
Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the
way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their
knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the
animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured
from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the
ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle
and fastened with a thong of buck-skin.
"Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked.
"Only one other's 's bad's this, but all uv 'em's bad."
"That certainly is a very bad-looking foot. I don't see how you kept
up, with cattle in that condition."
"Had to, or git left."
"That's where you make a mistake.
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