In spite of the fact that
we had starved our horses the day before, in order to keep them grazing
near camp that night, they had wandered. Eleven were missing, and eleven
remained missing. Up the mountain-slopes and through the woods the
wranglers rode like madmen, only to come in on dejected horses with
failure written large all over them. One half of the saddlers were gone;
my Angel had taken wings and flown away.
We sat dejectedly on the bank and fished those dead waters. We wrangled
among ourselves. Around us was the forest, thick and close save for the
tiny clearing, perhaps forty feet by forty feet. There was no open
space, no place to walk, nothing to do but sit and wait.
At last, some of us in the saddle and some afoot, we started. It looked
as though the walkers might have a long hike. But sometime about midday
there was a sound of wild cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up
with the truants. They had been far up on the mountain-side.
It is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out
about such a trip as this. Of Kintla itself, I have no very vivid
memories.
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