e 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.