Toward the pin-point of glow--the distant
camp-fire which was our beacon light--the boat moved to the long, tired
sweep of the oars; around us the black forest, the mountains overhead
glowing and pink, as if lighted from within. And then, at last, the
grating of our little boat on the sand--and night.
During the day, our horses were kept in a rope corral. Sometimes they
were quiet; sometimes a spirit of mutiny seemed to possess the entire
thirty-one. There is in such a string always one bad horse that, with
ears back and teeth showing, keeps the entire bunch milling. When such a
horse begins to stir up trouble, the wrangler tries to rope him and get
him out. Mad excitement follows as the noose whips through the air. But
they stay in the corral. So curious is the equine mind that it seldom
realizes that it could duck and go under the rope, or chew it through,
or, for that matter, strain against it and break it.
At night, we turned the horses loose. Almost always in the morning, some
were missing, and had to be rounded up. The greater part, however,
stayed close to the bell-mare.
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