The rain was over.
The horses provided endless excitement. Whether at night being driven
off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into
the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. Getting
them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. As soon as a few
were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives escaped and
shot through the camp. There were times when the air seemed full of
flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language.
On the last day at Bowman Lake, we realized that although the weather
had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. He was polite enough--he had
always been polite to the party. But he packed in a dejected manner.
There was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry
jam in sacking.
The breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. The tents are taken
down at dawn almost over one's head. Blankets are rolled and strapped;
the pack-ponies groan and try to roll their packs off.
Bill Shea quotes a friend of his as contending that the way to keep a
pack-pony cinched is to put his pack on him, throw the diamond hitch,
cinch him as tight as possible, and then take him to a drinking-place
and fill him up with water.
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