If he cannot get grass, he knows how to rustle for the browse of small bushes.Bullet would devour sage-brush, when he could get nothing else; and I have even known him philosophically to fill up on dry pine-needles.There is no nutrition in dry pine-needles, but Bullet got a satisfyingly full belly.On the trail a well-seasoned horse will be always on the forage, snatching here a mouthful, yonder a single spear of grass, and all without breaking the regularity of his gait, or delaying the pack-train behind him.At the end of the day's travel he is that much to the good.
By long observation thus you will construct your ideal of the mountain horse, and in your selection of your animals for an expedition you will search always for that ideal.It is only too apt to be modified by personal idiosyncrasies, and proverbially an ideal is difficult of attainment; but you will, with care, come closer to its realization than one accustomed only to the conventionality of an artificially reared horse would believe possible.
The ideal mountain horse, when you come to pick him out, is of medium size.He should be not smaller than fourteen hands nor larger than fifteen.
He is strongly but not clumsily built, short-coupled, with none of the snipy speedy range of the valley animal.You will select preferably one of wide full forehead, indicating intelligence, low in the withers, so the saddle will not be apt to gall him.His sureness of foot should be beyond question, and of course he must be an expert at foraging.A horse that knows but one or two kinds of feed, and that starves unless he can find just those kinds, is an abomination.He must not jump when you throw all kinds of rattling and terrifying tarpaulins across him, and he must not mind if the pack-ropes fall about his heels.In the day's march he must follow like a dog without the necessity of a lead-rope, nor must he stray far when turned loose at night.
Fortunately, when removed from the reassuring environment of civilization, horses are gregarious.
They hate to be separated from the bunch to which they are accustomed.Occasionally one of us would stop on the trail, for some reason or another, thus dropping behind the pack-train.Instantly the saddle-horse so detained would begin to grow uneasy.Bullet used by all means in his power to try to induce me to proceed.He would nibble me with his lips, paw the ground, dance in a circle, and finally sidle up to me in the position of being mounted, than which he could think of no stronger hint.Then when I had finally remounted, it was hard to hold him in.He would whinny frantically, scramble with enthusiasm up trails steep enough to draw a protest at ordinary times, and rejoin his companions with every symptom of gratification and delight.This gregariousness and alarm at being left alone in a strange country tends to hold them together at night.You are reasonably certain that in the morning, having found one, you will come upon the rest not far away.
The personnel of our own outfit we found most interesting.Although collected from divergent localities they soon became acquainted.In a crowded corral they were always compact in their organization, sticking close together, and resisting as a solid phalanx encroachments on their feed by other and stranger horses.Their internal organization was very amusing.
A certain segregation soon took place.Some became leaders; others by common consent were relegated to the position of subordinates.
The order of precedence on the trail was rigidly preserved by the pack-horses.An attempt by Buckshot to pass Dinkey, for example, the latter always met with a bite or a kick by way of hint.If the gelding still persisted, and tried to pass by a long detour, the mare would rush out at him angrily, her ears back, her eyes flashing, her neck extended.And since Buckshot was by no means inclined always to give in meekly, we had opportunities for plenty of amusement.The two were always skirmishing.
When by a strategic short cut across the angle of a trail Buckshot succeeded in stealing a march on Dinkey, while she was nipping a mouthful, his triumph was beautiful to see.He never held the place for long, however.Dinkey's was the leadership by force of ambition and energetic character, and at the head of the pack-train she normally marched.
Yet there were hours when utter indifference seemed to fall on the militant spirits.They trailed peacefully and amiably in the rear while Lily or Jenny marched with pride in the coveted advance.But the place was theirs only by sufferance.A bite or a kick sent them back to their own positions when the true leaders grew tired of their vacation.
However rigid this order of precedence, the saddle-animals were acknowledged as privileged;--and knew it.They could go where they pleased.Furthermore theirs was the duty of correcting infractions of the trail discipline, such as grazing on the march, or attempting unauthorized short cuts.They appreciated this duty.Bullet always became vastly indignant if one of the pack-horses misbehaved.He would run at the offender angrily, hustle him to his place with savage nips of his teeth, and drop back to his own position with a comical air of virtue.Once in a great while it would happen that on my spurring up from the rear of the column I would be mistaken for one of the pack-horses attempting illegally to get ahead.
Immediately Dinkey or Buckshot would snake his head out crossly to turn me to the rear.It was really ridiculous to see the expression of apology with which they would take it all back, and the ostentatious, nose-elevated indifference in Bullet's very gait as he marched haughtily by.So rigid did all the animals hold this convention that actually in the San Joaquin Valley Dinkey once attempted to head off a Southern Pacific train.She ran at full speed diagonally toward it, her eyes striking fire, her ears back, her teeth snapping in rage because the locomotive would not keep its place behind her ladyship.
