He bucked me off so quickly that I never even got settled on
his back. Then he gazed at me with sorrow, while, laughing
irrepressibly at this unusual assertion of independent ideas, I picked
myself out of a wild-rose bush. He did not attempt to run away from
me, but stood to be saddled, and plunged boldly into the swift water
where I told him to. Merely he thought it disrespectful in me to ride
him without his proper harness. He was the pet of the camp.

As near as I could make out, he had but one fault. He was altogether
too sensitive about his hind quarters, and would jump like a rabbit if
anything touched him there.

Wes rode a horse we called Old Slob. Wes, be it premised, was an
interesting companion. He had done everything,--seal-hunting,
abalone-gathering, boar-hunting, all kinds of shooting, cow-punching in
the rough Coast Ranges, and all other queer and outlandish and
picturesque vocations by which a man can make a living. He weighed two
hundred and twelve pounds and was the best game shot with a rifle I
ever saw.

As you may imagine, Old Slob was a stocky individual. He was built
from the ground up. His disposition was quiet, slow, honest. Above
all, he gave the impression of vast, very vast experience. Never did he
hurry his mental processes, although he was quick enough in his
movements if need arose. He quite declined to worry about anything.
Consequently, in spite of the fact that he carried by far the heaviest
man in the company, he stayed always fat and in good condition. There
was something almost pathetic in Old Slob's willingness to go on
working, even when more work seemed like an imposition. You could not
fail to fall in love with his mild inquiring gentle eyes, and his utter
trust in the goodness of human nature. His only fault was an excess of
caution. Old Slob was very very experienced. He knew all about
trails, and he declined to be hurried over what he considered a bad
place. Wes used sometimes to disagree with him as to what constituted
a bad place. "Some day you're going to take a tumble, you old fool,"
Wes used to address him, "if you go on fiddling down steep rocks with
your little old monkey work. Why don't you step out?" Only Old Slob
never did take a tumble. He was willing to do anything for you, even
to the assuming of a pack. This is considered by a saddle-animal
distinctly as a come-down.

The Tenderfoot, by the irony of fate, drew a tenderfoot horse. Tunemah