Trail and Camp-Fire 



water in the creek bed — one so deep that I 

 made it my swimming-bath. 



The first day that I was able to make a 

 hunt I rode out with my foreman, Sylvane 

 Ferris. I was mounted on Muley. Twelve 

 years before, when Muley was my favorite 

 cutting pony on the round-up, he never 

 seemed to tire or lose his dash, but Muley 

 was now sixteen years old, and on ordinary 

 occasions he liked to go as soberly as possi- 

 ble ; yet the good old pony still had the fire 

 latent in his blood, and at the sight of 

 game — or, indeed, of cattle or horses — he 

 seemed to regain for the time being all the 

 headlong courage of his vigorous and supple 

 youth. 



On the morning in question it was two or 



three hours before Sylvane and I saw any 



game. Our two ponies went steadily forward 



at a single foot or shack, as the cow-punchers 



term what Easterners call "a fox trot." Most 



of the time we were passing over immense 



grassy flats, where the mat of short curled 



blades lay brown and parched under the 



bright sunlight. Occasionally we came to 



ranges of low barren hills, which sent off 



gently rounded spurs into the plain. 



206 



