@ (Wloun^ain (pong 



I spent a few days about Telluride riding 

 Cricket up to a number of mines, taking photo- 

 graphs on the way. Whenever we arrived at 

 an exceptionally steep pitch, either in ascend- 

 ing or in descending, Cricket invited me to get 

 off and walk. Unbidden she would stop. After 

 standing for a few seconds, if I made no move 

 to get off, she turned for a look at me; then if 

 I failed to understand, she laid back her ears 

 and pretended to bite at my feet. 



One day we paused on a point to look down 

 at a steep trail far below. A man was climbing 

 up. A riderless pony was trotting down. Just 

 as they met, the man made a dash to catch the 

 pony. It swerved and struck with both fore 

 feet. He dodged and made another bold, swift 

 grab for the bridle-rein, but narrowly missed. 

 He staggered, and, before he could recover, the 

 pony wheeled and kicked him headlong. With- 

 out looking back, the pony trotted on down the 

 trail as though nothing had happened. For a 

 moment the man lay stunned, then, slowly 

 rising, he went limping up the slope. 



A well-meaning tenderfoot, that afternoon in 



175 



