my ear, I jumped as though the devil had got me, splashing the hatful
over Mrs. Trevor. At that her eyes opened, staring straight at my face,
but she made out a sort of smile when she saw it was only me.

"Jesse!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Seen my husband?"

"No, ma'am."

"I don't know what's come over him," she moaned, clenching her teeth;
"he fired at me."

"That gun I traded to him?"

"Four shots."

"You was running away when your colt shied at the bear?"

"My ankle! Jesse, it hurts so dreadfully. Yes the left."

My knife ripped her riding-boot clear. The old red bandana from my neck
made her a wet bandage, and the boot top served for a splint. There was
no call to tell her the foot was broken, and the fainting fits eased my
job. Between whiles she would tell me to hurry, knowing that the return
of that damned colt would show Trevor which way she'd run. I had no
weapon, so if Trevor happened along with the .45 revolver it wouldn't be
healthy.

I couldn't leave the loads of ore on my ponies, and if I got Mrs. Trevor
mounted with her foot hanging down, she'd lose time swooning. So I
unloaded all the ponies except Jones, and turned them loose, keeping
Jones and Swift, who has a big heart for travel. Next I filled one of
the rawhide panniers with brush, and lashed it across Jones' neck for a
back rest. A wad of pine brush made a seat between Jones' panniers where
I mostly carry my grub. Hoisting Mrs. Trevor on to the mare's back was a
pretty mean job, but worst of all I had to lash her down. Taking my
thirty-eight-foot rope I threw a single-hand diamond, hitching the lady
good and hard to mare and cargo. Her head and shoulders was over Jones'
neck, her limbs stretched out above his rump, where I had made them fast
with a sling rope. I've packed mining machinery, wheels, and once a
piano, but I never heard tell of any one packing a lady. For chafing
gear to keep the ropes from scorching, I had to use my coat, shirt, and
undershirt, so that when I mounted Swift to lead off, I'd only boots and
overalls, and Mrs. Trevor could see I was blushing down to my belt.
Shocked? Nothing! Great ladies doesn't shock like common people. No, in
spite of the pain-racking and the fear-haunting, she laughed, and it
done me good. She said I looked like Mr. Pollo Belvideary, a dago she'd
met up with in Italy. Dagos are swine, but the way she spoke made me
proud.

Jones leads good, which was well for me riding bareback, for we didn't
s