They were very brief, those rests. All too soon,
Pete would bring Angel to me, and I would vault into the
saddle--extremely figurative, this--and we would fall into line, Pete
swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the Optimist bouncing
freely, Joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies
of the trip, the Big Boy with long legs that almost touched the ground,
the Middle Boy with eyes roving for adventure, the Little Boy deadly
serious and hoping for a bear. And somewhere in the rear, where he could
watch all responsibilities and supply the smokers with matches, the
Head.
That second day, we crossed Dutch Ridge and approached the Flathead.
What I have called here the Flathead is known locally as the North Fork.
The pack-outfit had started first. Long before we caught up with them,
we heard the bells on the lead horses ringing faintly.
Passing a pack-outfit on the trail is a difficult matter. The wise
little horses, traveling free and looked after only by a wrangler or
two, do not like to be passed. One of two things happens when the
saddle-outfit tries to pass the pack.
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