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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 him to a pulp without
persuading him。 He was one of the type already mentioned that knows
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but two or three kinds of feed。 As time went on he became thinner and
thinner。 The other horses prospered； but Tunemah failed。 He actually
did not know enough to take care of himself； and could not learn。 Finally；
when about two months out； we traded him at a cow…camp for a little
buckskin called Monache。
So much for the saddle…horses。 The pack…animals were four。
A study of Dinkey's character and an experience of her characteristics
always left me with mingled feelings。 At times I was inclined to think
her perfection： at other times thirty cents would have been esteemed by me
as a liberal offer for her。 To enumerate her good points： she was an
excellent weight… carrier； took good care of her pack that it never scraped
nor bumped； knew all about trails； the possibilities of short cuts； the best
way of easing herself downhill； kept fat and healthy in districts where
grew next to no feed at all； was past…mistress in the picking of routes
through a trailless country。 Her endurance was marvelous； her
intelligence equally so。 In fact too great intelligence perhaps accounted
for most of her defects。 She thought too much for herself； she made up
opinions about people； she speculated on just how far each member of the
party； man or beast； would stand imposition； and tried conclusions with
each to test the accuracy of her speculations； she obstinately insisted on
her own way in going up and down hill；a way well enough for Dinkey；
perhaps； but hazardous to the other less skillful animals who naturally
would follow her lead。 If she did condescend to do things according to
your ideas； it was with a mental reservation。 You caught her sardonic eye
fixed on you contemptuously。 You felt at once that she knew another
method； a much better method； with which yours compared most
unfavorably。 〃I'd like to kick you in the stomach；〃 Wes used to say； 〃you
know too much for a horse！〃
If one of the horses bucked under the pack； Dinkey deliberately tried
to stampede the othersand generally succeeded。 She invariably led
them off whenever she could escape her picket…rope。 In case of trouble
of any sort； instead of standing still sensibly； she pretended to be subject to
wild…eyed panics。 It was all pretense； for when you DID yield to
temptation and light into her with the toe of your boot； she subsided into
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common sense。 The spirit of malevolent mischief was hers。
Her performances when she was being packed were ridiculously
histrionic。 As soon as the saddle was cinched； she spread her legs apart；
bracing them firmly as though about to receive the weight of an iron safe。
Then as each article of the pack was thrown across her back； she flinched
and uttered the most heart…rending groans。 We used sometimes to amuse
ourselves by adding merely an empty sack； or other article quite without
weight。 The groans and tremblings of the braced legs were quite as
pitiful as though we had piled on a sack of flour。 Dinkey； I had forgotten
to state； was a white horse； and belonged to Wes。
Jenny also was white and belonged