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 gav