A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



The cool night air was stirring caressingly, and we 

 were both under the spell of it all. The mares had 

 steadied down to normal. We were crossing a 

 prairie near Rice Springs, once a famous roundup 

 ground in the open range days. Mage raised his 

 six-feet-five up in the buggy, looked all around, and, 

 as he sat down, said: "This here's the place; here's 

 where me an' Old Gran'pa won our first ditty." 



The moon had risen high enough to flood a great 

 flat until we could see a mile or more. I saw just a 

 beautiful expanse of curly mesquite grass, blending 

 its vivid green with the soft silver moonlight, but 

 Mage saw great crowds lined on either side of a 

 straight half-mile track ; two riders ; the one on a mid- 

 night black and the other on a speed-mad sorrel, in 

 deadly contest for supremacy. The stillness of the 

 night — which to me was the calm benediction of peace 

 and rest — was broken for him by wild cheers as a 

 boy and a sorrel horse crossed the line, victors. His 

 face was tense, his eyes shone with the fire of strain 

 and excitement, and then slowly he came back to the 

 stillness and to the moonlight, and to me. 



I waited a minute, and asked, "What was it 

 Mage?" He did not answer until we had crossed 

 the flat. Then, with a little short laugh, peculiar to 

 him before telling a story, he began: "As fur as 

 thet's consarn it wus this away — " 



But here let me tell some true things I knew about 

 Old Gran'pa. He was a famous cow pony, originally 



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