The Mountains

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Mountains

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In an emergency the Western horse is not apt to
lose his head. When a pack-horse falls down, he lies
still without struggle until eased of his pack and told
to get up. If he slips off an edge, he tries to double
his fore legs under him and slide. Should he find
himself in a tight place, he waits patiently for you to
help him, and then proceeds gingerly. A friend of
mine rode a horse named Blue. One day, the trail
being slippery with rain, he slid and fell. My friend
managed a successful jump, but Blue tumbled about
thirty feet to the bed of the canon. Fortunately he
was not injured. After some difficulty my friend
managed to force his way through the chaparral to
where Blue stood. Then it was fine to see them.
My friend would go ahead a few feet, picking a route.
When he had made his decision, he called Blue. Blue
came that far, and no farther. Several times the little
horse balanced painfully and unsteadily like a goat,
all four feet on a boulder, waiting for his signal to
advance. In this manner they regained the trail, and
proceeded as though nothing had happened. Instances
could be multiplied indefinitely.

A good animal adapts himself quickly. He is
capable of learning by experience. In a country
entirely new to him he soon discovers the best method
of getting about, where the feed grows, where he can
find water. He is accustomed to foraging for himself.
You do not need to show him his pasturage.
If there is anything to eat anywhere in the district he
will find it. Little tufts of bunch-grass growing
concealed under the edges of the brush, he will search out.
If he cannot get grass, he knows how to rustle for the
browse of small bushes. Bullet would devour sage-
brush, when he could get nothing else; and I have
even known him philosophically to fill up on dry
pine-needles. There is no nutrition in dry pine-
needles, but Bullet got a satisfyingly full belly. On the
trail a well-seasoned horse will be always on the forage,
snatching here a mouthful, yonder a single spear of
grass, and all without breaking the regularity of his
gait, or delaying the pack-train behind him. At the
end of the day's travel he is that much to the good.

By long observation thus you will construct your
ideal of the mountain horse, and in your selection
of your animals for an expedition you will search
always for that ideal. It is only too apt to be
modified by personal idiosyncrasies, and proverbially an
ideal is difficult of attainment; but you will, with
care, come closer to its realization than one accustomed
only to the conventionality of an artificially
reared horse would believe possible.

The ideal mountain horse, when you come to pick
him out, is of medium size. He should be not
smaller than fourteen hands nor larger than fifteen.
He is strongly but not clumsily built, short-coupled,
with none of the snipy speedy range of the valley
animal. You will select preferably one of wide full
forehead, indicating intelligence, low in the withers,
so the saddle will not be apt to gall him. His sureness
of foot should be beyond question, and of course
he must be an expert at foraging. A horse that knows
but one or two kinds of feed, and that starves unless
he can find just those kinds, is an abomination. He
must not jump when you throw all kinds of rattling
and terrifying tarpaulins across him, and he must not
mind if the pack-ropes fall about his heels. In the
day's march he must follow like a dog without the
necessity of a lead-rope, nor must he stray far when
turned loose at night.

Fortunately, when removed from the reassuring
environment of civilization, horses are gregarious.
They hate to be separated from the bunch to which
they are accustomed. Occasionally one of us would
stop on the trail, for some reason or another, thus
dropping behind the pack-train. Instantly the saddle-
horse so detained would begin to grow uneasy. Bullet
used by all means in his power to try to induce me
to proceed. He would nibble me with his lips, paw
the ground, dance in a circle, and finally sidle up to
me in the position of being mounted, than which he
could think of no stronger hint. Then when I had
finally remounted, it was hard to hold him in. He
would whinny frantically, scramble with enthusiasm
up trails steep enough to draw a protest at ordinary
times, and rejoin his companions with every symptom
of gratification and delight. This gregariousness and
alarm at being left alone in a strange country tends to
hold them together at night. You are reasonably
certain that in the morning, having found one, you will
come upon the rest not far away.

The personnel of our own outfit we found most
interesting. Although collected from divergent
localities they soon became acquainted. In a crowded
corral they were always compact in their organization,
sticking close together, and resisting as a solid phalanx
encroachments on their feed by other and stranger
horses. Their internal organization was very amusing.
A certain segregation soon took place. Some became
leaders; others by common consent were relegated to
the position of subordinates.

The order of precedence on the trail was rigidly
preserved by the pack-horses. An attempt by Buckshot
to pass Dinkey, for example, the latter always
met with a bite or a kick by way of hint. If the
gelding still persisted, and tried to pass by a long
detour, the mare would rush out at him angrily, her
ears back, her eyes flashing, her neck extended. And
since Buckshot was by no means inclined always to
give in meekly, we had opportunities for plenty
of amusement. The two were always skirmishing.
When by a strategic short cut across the angle of
a trail Buckshot succeeded in stealing a march on
Dinkey, while she was nipping a mouthful, his triumph
was beautiful to see. He never held the place
for long, however. Dinkey's was the leadership by
force of ambition and energetic character, and at the
head of the pack-train she normally marched.

Yet there were hours when utter indifference
seemed to fall on the militant spirits. They trailed
peacefully and amiably in the rear while Lily or Jenny
marched with pride in the coveted advance. But the
place was theirs only by sufferance. A bite or a kick
sent them back to their own positions when the true
leaders grew tired of their vacation.

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 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 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,
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
look--and 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 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 others--and
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 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 to Wes. Her
chief characteristic was her devotion to Dinkey. She
worshiped Dinkey, and seconded her enthusiastically.
Without near the originality of Dinkey, she was yet
a very good and sure pack-horse. The deceiving
part about Jenny was her eye. It was baleful with
the spirit of evil,--snaky and black, and with green
sideways gleams in it. Catching the flash of it, you
would forever after avoid getting in range of her
heels or teeth. But it was all a delusion. Jenny's
disposition was mild and harmless.

The third member of the pack-outfit we bought at
an auction sale in rather a peculiar manner. About
sixty head of Arizona horses of the C. A. Bar outfit
were being sold. Toward the close of the afternoon
they brought out a well-built stocky buckskin of
first-rate appearance except that his left flank was
ornamented with five different brands. The auctioneer
called attention to him.

"Here is a first-rate all-round horse," said he.
"He is sound; will ride, work, or pack; perfectly
broken, mild, and gentle. He would make a first-rate
family horse, for he has a kind disposition."

The official rider put a saddle on him to give him
a demonstrating turn around the track. Then that
mild, gentle, perfectly broken family horse of kind
disposition gave about as pretty an exhibition of
barbed-wire bucking as you would want to see. Even
the auctioneer had to join in the wild shriek of delight
that went up from the crowd. He could not get a
bid, and I bought the animal in later very cheaply.

As I had suspected, the trouble turned out to be
merely exuberance or nervousness before a crowd.
He bucked once with me under the saddle; and twice
subsequently under a pack,--that was all. Buckshot
was the best pack-horse we had. Bar an occasional
saunter into the brush when he got tired of the trail,
we had no fault to find with him. He carried a heavy
pack, was as sure-footed as Bullet, as sagacious on
the trail as Dinkey, and he always attended strictly
to his own business. Moreover he knew that business
thoroughly, knew what should be expected of him,
accomplished it well and quietly. His disposition
was dignified but lovable. As long as you treated
him well, he was as gentle as you could ask. But
once let Buckshot get it into his head that he was
being imposed on, or once let him see that your
temper had betrayed you into striking him when
he thought he did not deserve it, and he cut loose
vigorously and emphatically with his heels. He
declined to be abused.

There remains but Lily. I don't know just how
to do justice to Lily--the "Lily maid." We named
her that because she looked it. Her color was a pure
white, her eye was virginal and silly, her long bang
strayed in wanton carelessness across her face and
eyes, her expression was foolish, and her legs were
long and rangy. She had the general appearance of
an overgrown school-girl too big for short dresses and
too young for long gowns;--a school-girl named
Flossie, or Mamie, or Lily. So we named her that.

At first hers was the attitude of the timid and
shrinking tenderfoot. She stood in awe of her
companions; she appreciated her lack of experience.
Humbly she took the rear; slavishly she copied the
other horses; closely she clung to camp. Then in a
few weeks, like most tenderfeet, she came to think
that her short experience had taught her everything
there was to know. She put on airs. She became
too cocky and conceited for words.

Everything she did was exaggerated, overdone.
She assumed her pack with an air that plainly said,
"Just see what a good horse am I!" She started out
three seconds before the others in a manner intended
to shame their procrastinating ways. Invariably she
was the last to rest, and the first to start on again.
She climbed over-vigorously, with the manner of
conscious rectitude. "Acts like she was trying to
get her wages raised," said Wes.

In this manner she wore herself down. If
permitted she would have climbed until winded, and
then would probably have fallen off somewhere for
lack of strength. Where the other horses watched the
movements of those ahead, in order that when a halt
for rest was called they might stop at an easy place on
the trail, Lily would climb on until jammed against
the animal immediately preceding her. Thus often
she found herself forced to cling desperately to
extremely bad footing until the others were ready to
proceed. Altogether she was a precious nuisance, that
acted busily but without thinking.

Two virtues she did possess. She was a glutton
for work; and she could fall far and hard without
injuring herself. This was lucky, for she was always
falling. Several times we went down to her fully
expecting to find her dead or so crippled that she would
have to be shot. The loss of a little skin was her only
injury. She got to be quite philosophic about it. On
losing her balance she would tumble peaceably, and
then would lie back with an air of luxury, her eyes
closed, while we worked to free her. When we had
loosened the pack, Wes would twist her tail. Thereupon
she would open one eye inquiringly as though
to say, "Hullo! Done already?" Then leisurely
she would arise and shake herself.

IV

ON HOW TO GO ABOUT IT

One truth you must learn to accept, believe as
a tenet of your faith, and act upon always. It
is that your entire welfare depends on the condition
of your horses. They must, as a consequence, receive
always your first consideration. As long as they have
rest and food, you are sure of getting along; as soon
as they fail, you are reduced to difficulties. So
absolute is this truth that it has passed into an idiom.
When a Westerner wants to tell you that he lacks
a thing, he informs you he is "afoot" for it. "Give
me a fill for my pipe," he begs; "I'm plumb afoot
for tobacco."

Consequently you think last of your own comfort.
In casting about for a place to spend the night, you
look out for good feed. That assured, all else is of
slight importance; you make the best of whatever
camping facilities may happen to be attached. If
necessary you will sleep on granite or in a marsh,
walk a mile for firewood or water, if only your
animals are well provided for. And on the trail you
often will work twice as hard as they merely to save
them a little. In whatever I may tell you regarding
practical expedients, keep this always in mind.

As to the little details of your daily routine in the
mountains, many are worth setting down, however
trivial they may seem. They mark the difference
between the greenhorn and the old-timer; but, more
important, they mark also the difference between the
right and the wrong, the efficient and the inefficient
ways of doing things.

In the morning the cook for the day is the first man
afoot, usually about half past four. He blows on his
fingers, casts malevolent glances at the sleepers, finally
builds his fire and starts his meal. Then he takes
fiendish delight in kicking out the others. They do not
run with glad shouts to plunge into the nearest pool,
as most camping fiction would have us believe. Not
they. The glad shout and nearest pool can wait until
noon when the sun is warm. They, too, blow on their
fingers and curse the cook for getting them up so
early. All eat breakfast and feel better.

Now the cook smokes in lordly ease. One of the
other men washes the dishes, while his companion
goes forth to drive in the horses. Washing dishes is
bad enough, but fumbling with frozen fingers at stubborn
hobble-buckles is worse. At camp the horses are caught,
and each is tied near his own saddle and pack.

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