wanted to
get back into the harness. He would run alongside the other mules, and
try to get back in his old place. They would just naturally kick him,
and he'd turn and try to wallop 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with his
head hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was plumb sick of
bein' free and wanted to die. The last day he was too stiff to get on
his feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner was
gettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule was sure wabblin'
like a duck, but he come aside his ole place and followed along all day.
We was freightin' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You know that
grade afore you get to the mesa? Well, the ole mule pulled the grade,
sweatin' and puffin' like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess he
was, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and laid down and died.
Mules sure like to work. Now a horse would have fanned it."

Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy to work if it was only
gettin' his grub and exercise. But I've seen a sight of folks too lazy
to do that much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account they got to
git killed afore folks ever knowed they was livin'. Then they's some
folks so high-chinned they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'd
do tol'able well if they would follow a good hoss or a dog around and
learn how to live human. But this ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun's
keepin' right along doin' business."

They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and entered the timberlands,
following a ranger trail through the shadowy silences. At the lower
level, they came upon another mesa through which wound a mountain
stream. And along a stream ran the trail, knee-high in grass on either
side.

Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy reaches just visible
over the tree-tops. Where the mountain stream merged with a deeper
stream the ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks of cattle
and sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a natural pass where the cattlemen
and sheepmen drifted their stock from the hills to the winter
feeding-grounds of the lower country. It was a checking point for the
rangers; the gateway to the hills.

The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled ponies drank eagerly, and
were allowed to graze. The men moved over to the shade of a blue-topped
spruce. As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty whiskey bottle
from the grass, turned the label toward Shoop, and grinned. He