Either the pack starts on a smart
canter ahead, or it turns wildly off into the forest to the
accompaniment of much complaint by the drivers. A pack-horse loose on a
narrow trail is a dangerous matter. With its bulging pack, it worms its
way past anything on the trail, and bad accidents have followed. Here,
however, there was room for us to pass.
Tiny gophers sat up beside the trail and squeaked at us. A coyote
yelped. Bumping over fallen trees, creaking and groaning and swaying,
came the boat-wagon. Mike had found a fishing-line somewhere, and
pretended to cast from the bow.
"Ship ahoy!" he cried, when he saw us, and his instructions to the
driver were purely nautical. "Hard astern!" he yelled, going down a
hill, and instead of "Gee" or "Haw" he shouted "Port" or "Starboard."
An acquaintance of George and Mike has built a boat which is intended to
go up-stream by the force of the water rushing against it and turning a
propeller. We had a spirited discussion about it.
"Because," as one of the men objected, "it's all right until you get to
the head of the stream.
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