RUSTLINGS IN THE ROCKIES. 23 



like a man hunting for a match-box in a dark room. His hat 

 flew east, and his gun flew west, and his field-glass flew over 

 the cuckoo's nest. And when he had got as high as the pony 

 wanted him to go, he turned and went down into the weeds 

 head first just as a big green bull-frog goes down into the 

 water off of a high bank. 



Sawyer picked himself up, we all got around him, deployed 

 and skirmished until we found his hat, gun and field-glass, 

 made an inventory of him and found he was all there, and 

 then the next thing was to catch the pony. 



I mounted my black charger and started after him. He 

 headed for a large herd of Indian ponies that were grazing in 

 the valley half a mile above us. My pony could easily out- 

 ran him, even although handicapped with my weight, and I 

 soon headed him off, but he was too smart to let me get 

 within reach of his bridle, and would shy off every time I 

 came alongside of him. I didn't like to run my pony 

 unnecessarily, so I returned to the wagon and told Allen to 

 take a rope and lasso him. He took one of the picket ropes, 

 got onto my pony and started. By this time the bay was in 

 the midst of the Indian herd. Allen soon singled him out, 

 but the rope was too wet and heavy to throw. It would not 

 spread, and the only way of getting the fugitive was to run 

 him down. Over the prairies, through brush, across the creek 

 and back again, out onto the prairie through a large dog 

 town, where we momentarily expected to see either horse 

 thrown three times his length by stepping into a dog hole. 

 The poor little black kept neck and neck with the bay, and 

 Allen laid the coils of that heavy rope across the little imp's 

 back, with such force at every jump that he carried the marks 

 of it for several days afterward. The race lasted for half an 

 hour, and then the little rogue came shambling up to the 



