here is snow to make
water for them?"

"I am what I say I am," he said. "I am not herding now because sorrow
has drove me to dig wells. It is sorrow for horses. Have you not seen
their bones every mile or so along this road? Them's markers. Every
pile of bones marks where man's most faithful friend has laid down at
last: most of 'em died in the harness and for want of water.

"I killed a horse once. I was trying to have a good time. I had been
out with sheep for months and hadn't seen any one but my pardner. We
planned to have a rippin' good time when we took the sheep in off the
summer range and drew our pay. You don't know how people-hungry a man
gets livin' out. So my pardner and me layed out to have one spree. We
had a neat little bunch of money, but when we got to town we felt lost
as sheep. We didn't know nobody but the bartender. We kept taking a
drink now and then just so as to have him to talk to. Finally, he told
us there was going to be a dance that night, so we asked around and
found we could get tickets for two dollars each. Sam said he'd like to
go. We bought tickets.

"Somehow or another they knew us for sheep-herders, and every once in
a while somebody would _baa-baa_ at us. We had a couple of dances, but
after that we couldn't get a pardner. After midnight things begun to
get pretty noisy. Sam and me was settin' wonderin' if we were havin' a
good time, when a fellow stepped on Sam's foot and said _baa_. I rose
up and was goin' to smash him, but Sam collared me and said, 'Let's
get away from here, Olaf, before trouble breaks out.' It sounded as if
every man in the house and some of the women were _baa_-ing.

"We were pretty near the door when a man put his hand to his nose and
_baa_-ed. I knocked him down, and before you could bat your eye
everybody was fightin'. We couldn't get out, so we backed into a
corner; and every man my fist hit rested on the floor till somebody
helped him away. A fellow hit me on the head with a chair and I didn't
know how I finished or got out.

"The first thing I remember after that was feeling the greasewood
thorns tearing my flesh and my clothes next day. We were away out on
the desert not far from North Pilot butte. Poor Sam couldn't speak. I
got him off poor old Pinto, and took off the saddle for a pillow for
him. I hung the saddle-blanket on a greasewood so as to shade his
face; then I got on my own poor horse, poor old Billy, and started to
hunt help. I rode and ro