The actual facts are quite simple and jolly. In pursuit of wild stock,
men run their horses at top speed for as short a time as may be
contrived; not to make the wild stock run faster and farther, but to
hold up the wild stock. Once checked, they proceed as soberly as may
be to the day's destination; eventually to a market. Horse or steer
comes to market in good shape or bad, as the handling has been
reckless or tender; and the best cowman is he whose herds have been
moved slowest. At exceptional times--riding with or from the sheriff,
to get a doctor, or, for a young man in April, riding a fresh horse
for a known and measured distance, speed is permitted. But the rule is
to ride slowly and sedately, holding swiftness in reserve for need.
Walk, running walk, pace, jog trot--those are the road gaits, to which
horses are carefully trained, giving most mileage with least effort.
Rack and single-foot are tolerated but frowningly.

The mad, glad gallop is reserved for childhood and for emergencies.
Penalties, progressively suitable, are provided for the mad, glad
galloper. He becomes the object of sidelong glances and meaning
smiles; persistent, he becomes the theme of gibe and jest to flay the
skin. If he be such a one as would neither observe nor forecast, one
who will neither learn nor be taught, soon or late he finds himself
set afoot with a give-out horse; say, twenty-five miles from water. It
is not on record that wise or foolish, after one such experience, is
ever partial to the sprightly gallop as a road gait. Of thirst, as of
"eloquent, just and mightie Death," it may be truly said: "Whom none
could advise, thou hast perswaded."

The road wound down to the bottom land for a little space. Then sang
Charlie See:

_Oh, mind you not in yonder town
When the red wine you were fillin',
You drank a health to the ladies round
And slighted Barbara Allan?_

Followed a merry ditty of old days:

_Foot in the stirrup and a hand on the horn,
Best old cowboy ever was born!
Hi, yi-yippy, yippy-hi-yi-yi,
Hi-yi-yippy-yippy-yay!_

_Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,
Shot him in the ear with the handle of the skillet!
Hi, yi-yippy, yippy-hi-yi-yi,
Hi-yi-yippy-yippy-yay!_

That rollicking chorus died away. The wagon road turned up a sandy
draw for a long detour, to cross the high ridges far inland.
Stargazer clambered up the Drunkard's M