OVER THE MOGOLLON MESA 75 



Shorty I had been told that he once had a repu- 

 tation as a bucker. The first "buster" that 

 mounted him after he was taken wild from the 

 range was thrown and nearly killed and another 

 was unceremoniously dismounted before he fi- 

 nally succeeded in "staying with" Shorty. But 

 with me he had been gentleness itself, until 

 now, save on one occasion when we met some 

 Indians whose appearance he did not approve 

 of and he made an attempt to bolt, but I had 

 felt he was entirely justified in his desire to 

 avoid those particular Indians. 



We were now on the summit of the Mogol- 

 lon Mesa and our ascent had carried us into 

 a great pine forest. Now and again wide views 

 of desert, mountain, and valley appeared to us 

 from cliffs or bared eminences. Old Baldy and 

 the White Mountains towered in the distance 

 in majestic, rugged splendor and seemed higher 

 than any mountains I had ever seen. Sombrero 

 Butte stood out against the southern sky, a 

 striking landmark, and before us lay an expanse 

 of marvelously blended colors — red, green, 

 white, purple, gray — a mighty, shimmering 

 ocean of light and shadow. 



Our course — for a time we followed no defi- 

 nite trail — carried us over undulating upper 

 ridges and across ravines and gulches. Deer 



