the mountains(山脉)-第5部分
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However rigid this order of precedence； the saddle… animals were
acknowledged as privileged；and knew it。 They could go where they
pleased。 Furthermore theirs was the duty of correcting infractions of the
trail discipline； such as grazing on the march； or attempting unauthorized
short cuts。 They appreciated this duty。 Bullet always became vastly
indignant if one of the pack…horses misbehaved。 He would run at the
offender angrily； hustle him to his place with savage nips of his teeth； and
drop back to his own position with a comical air of virtue。 Once in a
great while it would happen that on my spurring up from the rear of the
column I would be mistaken for one of the pack…horses attempting
illegally to get ahead。 Immediately Dinkey or Buckshot would snake his
head out crossly to turn me to the rear。 It was really ridiculous to see the
expression of apology with which they would take it all back； and the
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ostentatious； nose…elevated indifference in Bullet's very gait as he marched
haughtily by。 So rigid did all the animals hold this convention that
actually in the San Joaquin Valley Dinkey once attempted to head off a
Southern Pacific train。 She ran at full speed diagonally toward it； her
eyes striking fire； her ears back； her teeth snapping in rage because the
locomotive would not keep its place behind her ladyship。
Let me make you acquainted with our outfit。
I rode； as you have gathered； an Arizona pony named Bullet。 He was
a handsome fellow with a chestnut brown coat； long mane and tail； and a
beautiful pair of brown eyes。 Wes always called him 〃Baby。〃 He was
in fact the youngster of the party； with all the engaging qualities of youth。
I never saw a horse more willing。 He wanted to do what you wanted him
to； it pleased him； and gave him a warm consciousness of virtue which the
least observant could not fail to remark。 When leading he walked
industriously ahead； setting the pace； when driving；that is； closing up the
rear；he attended strictly to business。 Not for the most luscious bunch of
grass that ever grew would he pause even for an instant。 Yet in his off
hours； when I rode irresponsibly somewhere in the middle； he was a great
hand to forage。 Few choice morsels escaped him。 He confided
absolutely in his rider in the matter of bad country； and would tackle
anything I would put him at。 It seemed that he trusted me not to put him
at anything that would hurt him。 This was an invaluable trait when an
example had to be set to the reluctance of the other horses。 He was a
great swimmer。 Probably the most winning quality of his nature was his
extreme friendliness。 He was always wandering into camp to be petted；
nibbling me over with his lips； begging to have his forehead rubbed；
thrusting his nose under an elbow； and otherwise telling how much he
thought of us。 Whoever broke him did a good job。 I never rode a
better…reined horse。 A mere indication of the bridle…hand turned him to
right or left； and a mere raising of the hand without the slightest pressure
on the bit stopped him short。 And how well he understood cow…work！
Turn him loose after the bunch； and he would do the rest。 All I had to do
was to stick to him。 That in itself was no mean task； for he turned like a
flash； and was quick as a cat on his feet。 At night I always let him go
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foot free。 He would be there in the morning； and I could always walk
directly up to him with the bridle in plain sight in my hand。 Even at a
feedless camp we once made where we had shot a couple of deer； he did
not attempt to wander off in search of pasture； as would most horses。 He
nosed around unsuccessfully until pitch dark； then came into camp； and
with great philosophy stood tail to the fire until morning。 I could always
jump off anywhere for a shot； without even the necessity of 〃tying him to
the ground；〃 by throwing the reins over his head。 He would wait for me；
although he was never overfond of firearms。
Nevertheless Bullet had his own sense of dignity。 He was literally as
gentle as a kitten； but he drew a line。 I shall never forget how once；
being possessed of a desire to find out whether we could swim our outfit
across a certain stretch of the Merced River； I climbed him bareback。 He
bucked me off so quickly that I never even got settled on his back。 Then
he gazed at me with sorrow； while； laughing irrepressibly at this unusual
assertion of independent ideas； I picked myself out of a wild…rose bush。
He did not attempt to run away from me； but stood to be saddled； and
plunged boldly into the swift water where I told him to。 Merely he
thought it disrespectful in me to ride him without his proper harness。 He
was the pet of the camp。
As near as I could make out； he had but one fault。 He was altogether
too sensitive about his hind quarters； and would jump like a rabbit if
anything touched him there。
Wes rode a horse we called Old Slob。 Wes； be it premised； was an
interesting companion。 He had done everything；seal…hunting； abalone…
gathering； boar…hunting； all kinds of shooting； cow…punching in the rough
Coast Ranges； and all other queer and outlandish and picturesque
vocations by which a man can make a living。 He weighed two hundred
and twelve pounds and was the best game shot with a rifle I ever saw。
As you may imagine； Old Slob was a stocky individual。 He was built
from the ground up。 His disposition was quiet； slow； honest。 Above all；
he gave the impression of vast； very vast experience。 Never did he hurry
his mental processes； although he was quick enough in his movements if
need arose。 He quite declined to worry about anything。 Consequently；
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in spite of the fact that he carried by far the heaviest man in the company；
he stayed always fat and in good condition。 There was something almost
pathetic in Old Slob's willingness to go on working； even when more work
seemed like an imposition。 You could not fail to fall in love with his
mild inquiring gentle eyes； and his utter trust in the goodness of human
nature。 His only fault was an excess of caution。 Old Slob was very
very experienced。 He knew all about trails； and he declined to be hurried
over what he considered a bad place。 Wes used sometimes to disagree
with him as to what constituted a bad place。 〃Some day you're going to
take a tumble； you old fool；〃 Wes used to address him； 〃if you go on
fiddling down steep rocks with your little old monkey work。 Why don't
you step out？〃 Only Old Slob never did take a tumble。 He was willing
to do anything for you； even to the assuming of a pack。 This is
considered by a saddle…animal distinctly as a come…down。
The Tenderfoot； by the irony of fate； drew a tenderfoot horse。
Tunemah was a big fool gray that was constitutionally rattle…brained。 He
meant well enough； but he didn't know anything。 When he came to a bad
place in the trail； he took one good lookand rushed it。 Constantly we
expected him to come to grief。 It wore on the Tenderfoot's nerves。
Tunemah was always trying to wander off the trail； trying fool routes of
his own invention。 If he were sent ahead to set the pace； he lagged and
loitered and constantly looked back； worried lest he get too far in advance
and so lose the bunch。 If put at the rear； he fretted against the bit； trying
to push on at a senseless speed。 In spite of his extreme anxiety to stay
with the train； he would once in a blue moon get a strange idea of
wandering off solitary through the mountains； passing good feed； good
water； good shelter。 We would find him； after a greater or less period of
difficult tracking； perched in a silly fashion on some elevation。 Heaven
knows what his idea was： it certainly was neither search for feed； escape；
return whence he came； nor desire for exercise。 When we came up with
him； he would gaze mildly at us from a foolish vacant eye and follow us
peaceably back to camp。 Like most weak and silly people； he had
occasional stubborn fits when you could beat
