The Last of the Plainsmen 



tively, with my mind on what cowboys held as a 

 standard of horsemanship. 



The mount Frank trotted out of the corral for 

 me was a pure white, beautiful mustang, nervous, 

 sensitive, quivering. I watched Frank put on the 

 saddle, and when he called me I did not fail to 

 catch a covert twinkle in his merry brown eyes. 

 Looking away toward Buckskin Mountain, which 

 was coincidentally in the direction of home, I said to 

 myself: &quot;This may be where you get on, but most 

 certainly it is where you get off ! &quot; 



Jones was already riding far beyond the corral, 

 as I could see by a cloud of djist; and I set off after 

 him, with the painful consciousness that I must have 

 looked to Frank and Jim much as Central Park 

 equestrians had often looked to me. Frank shouted 

 after me that he would catch up with us out on the 

 range. I was not in any great hurry to overtake 

 Jones, but evidently my horse s inclinations differed 

 from mine; at any rate, he made the dust fly, and 

 jumped the little sage bushes. 



Jones, who had tarried to inspect one of the pools 

 formed of running water from the corrals 

 greeted me as I came up with this cheerful observa 

 tion: 



&quot; What in thunder did Frank give you that white 

 nag for? The buffalo hate white horses anything 



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