BY MAC A'RONY.
And the ass turned out of the way, and went into the field;
and Balaam smote the ass, to turn her into the way.--_Book of
Numbers._
Shortly after reaching Overton, I took Pod with Coonskin and Don
to pay our respects to Towserville, a large dog town so closely
situated to Overton as to inspire a rivalry far more serious than
that existing between Minneapolis and St. Paul. Overtonians
complained of repeated raids made by prairie dogs of Towserville
on their chickens and gardens. On the other hand, the Towser
"villians" repudiated the calumny, then fled in confusion from the
charge of shotguns and rifles.
As our party approached with guns trained for a complimentary
salute, I saw his honor, the Mayor, seated in his hallway. The
roof of his mound towered above the other habitations, and was
undoubtedly the City Hall. Copying after New York, each burrow in
Towserville had a representative in the City Council.
I'm sure we would have been welcomed cordially, had not Don wanted
to be first to shake the Mayor's paw; his honor abruptly excused
himself to avoid a scene, and his fellow townsdogs likewise, with
the result that the above dogtown population rushed in and slammed
the doors in our faces. The Professor was embarrassed. He had no
visiting cards, so decided to leave at each door a sample box of
cathartic pills; and a careful distribution was made.
Next morning as we passed Towserville, his dogcellency, the Mayor,
his alderdogs and towndogs looked regretful of their slight to us,
as each stood at his door or sat with his housekeeper, the owl, on
the roof of his dwelling, nodding and waving at us. Others,
however, were prostrate, either from remorse or Pod's magnanimity.
Sometime about noon, we approached the shallow current of the
Platte, where we were unpacked and fed. We donks were almost
roasted from the sun's scorching rays. Close by was a deep well,
but no bucket in which to draw water. So Coonskin hitched a syrup
can to the rope and drew water for Pod and himself. Soon a drove
of cattle, accompanied by two ranchmen and a boy, came down to the
river to drink with us donks, just to show there was no hard
feeling. The lad laid down to drink from the stream.
"Here, boy, come and have a drink of cold water!" Pod called.
"That ain't fit to drink."
"Fitter'n that well water," answered the lad.
Said Pod: "I'd like to know the reason."
"Well," replied the lad, approaching, "I dropped a dead jackrabbit
in the well a week ago."
Somehow the men had drunk so much of that cool well-water they
hadn't room for dinner; too cool water I guess aint' good for one
when heated. After the dishes were washed, Pod took off everything
but his socks and collar-button, and wrote his newspaper letter,
while Coonskin went prospecting. Pretty soon the latter returned
with a sand turtle and, hitching it up in a rope harness, said he
was going to keep it for a pet. He named it Bill. He said it would
make a fine center-piece for the table; it would keep the Buffalo
gnats and mosquitos and flies off the victuals, and if tied at the
tent door no centipede or tarantula would dare enter. Pod thought
it a good scheme. So, when we packed up, Bill was put in one of my
saddle bags, without my knowing it. All new luggage was generally
tied on to Damfino; I supposed the turtle was.
After going a couple miles, I felt something mysterious crawling
on my back. I looked around, but my master was in the way; so I up
and kicked with all my might, determined to scatter that crawling
thing to the four winds, but, instead, threw Pod completely over
my head. Then I ran pell-mell down the desert trail, kicking and
braying, with that terrible something gnawing my hair and bouncing
and flopping with every jump I made. I ran fast and thought fast,
and that thing stuck fast. Suddenly, I stopped, laid down, and
tried to roll on it. This I couldn't do, on account of the saddle
horn. But while I was still trying, the rest of the party came up,
and solved the mystery by capturing the turtle, Bill; then they
chained him on Damfino, and our outfit moved on peacefully for
several miles, the men talking merrily. Said Pod, "Hitting the
trail on the plains in summer isn't as comfortable as driving a
city ice-wagon.
"Not much," Coonskin returned; "but the donkeys and dog have their
woes, too."
"Verily so," confirmed the Professor. "For instance, there's
Damfino; she thinks she's awfully persecuted. Being a female, she
doesn't have much to say. But how about Mac? Doesn't he do more
kicking than all the rest put together?"
"Oh, well," Coonskin answered, "you see Mac regards himself a
pioneer and all the others mere tenderfeet."
I couldn't help grinning at the simple debate. The fact of the
case was, our caravan had been growing larger with every day's
travel. New articles were continually added. Cheese and I
generally carried the men; but to our saddles were hung guns,
revolvers, cameras, and the lantern, not to mention a bundle of
blankets; all of which, added to the burden of our thoughts, a
nagging whip and a pair of spurs, and a million and one buffalo
gnats, mastodon mosquitos, and other kindergarten birds of prey,
tended to make us lose our mental equilibrium a dozen times a day.
In my case, there was a lump of avoirdupois in the saddle ranging
between 150 and 160 pounds. Sometimes Pod would get out of his
seat and walk a mile or two, to relieve me. With Cheese it was
much the same. But that old spinster, Damfino, bore a burden,
increasing daily. She was large and strong, and couldn't
appreciate fine sentiments, or fine stuffs either, even
complaining of sand in the wind, and coughed and snorted
continually. Her sawbuck saddle corset was laced tightly around
her robust bust, and to this unhealthsome vesture were hung on
both sides large canvas panniers, packed with canned goods,
medicines, salves, ink, cow-bells, vegetables, ham and bacon,
vinegar, old shoes, toilet articles, including currycomb, clothes,
soap, flour, salt, baking-powder, cheese, coffee, tea, kerosine
oil, matches, cooking tools, ammunition, folding kitchen range,
and two dozen et ceteras. On top and lopping over the panniers
were roped the tent and tent-poles, folding beds, canteens,
musical instruments, axe, and axle-grease, five iron picket-pins,
packages of photos (for sale), a tin wash basin, two tin pails,
extra ropes, a half dozen paper pads, and a dozen more et ceteras.
Beneath all that burden, she ambled along without a murmur,
swinging her ears to help her outwalk the rest, except Don, who
kept up a dog-trot.
A ranchman gave Pod some new potatoes one day (half of which I
yanked out of the tent door at night and devoured), and in reply
to his habitual inquiry, "Where'll we stow 'em?" Coonskin said,
"On Damfino, of course." When some canned goods were added to the
list of poisons, my master was puzzled. "Strap 'em on Damfino,"
advised Coonskin. Pod bought some canteens. "Where'll we put
these?" he asked. "Oh, hang 'em on Damfino somewhere," said the
wise "Sancho." One day a large package of chromos came, and the
Professor was discouraged. "How the d--l can we carry these?" he
asked with bewilderment.
"Why," ejaculated the valet chuckling, "right on Damfino." Just
then that silent old maid looked at the men; and I saw blood in
her eye.
Picture if you can our party trailing along the banks of the
Platte that bright June afternoon. A few miles away loomed the
cacti-covered sand-dunes, and between them and the river stared
the desert of glistening alkali, sprinkled with cacti and sage,
where an occasional steer was scratching an existence--and
mosquito bites. We came to a muddy irrigation ditch, where the
water had leaked out. Across it was an alfalfa field, and beyond
that an adobe ranch house. We donks thought the mud in the ditch
was stiff; the green field looked tempting. Damfino whispered that
she would make a bolt for the field, if we would follow; and we
said we would. At once she shied into the ditch, and the next
minute was knee-deep in quicksand, and still sinking. Cheese and I
stood riveted to the trail, while the men just gaped at Damfino
with open mouths. Damfino, thinking she would soon be out of
sight, brayed as she never brayed before.
When Pod got his senses he yelled, "Let's pull her out!"
"What with? Every rope and strap's on Damfino," said the truthful
valet, running around like a head with the chicken cut off.
Coonskin tried to reach a rope and, losing his balance, put a foot
in the quicksand. Then, all excited, he attempted to pull his foot
out, and got them both in. The Professor tried to reach a
bridle-rein to his comrade, and went sprawling across the ditch on
his corduroys and whiskers, his arms elbow-deep in the mire. This
put Don in a panic. Seeing his master sinking, he grabbed his
boots and pulled them off. Then he fastened his teeth in Pod's
trousers, and I expected to see them come off too, but s' help me
Balaam! the dog only pulled off one trouser leg, when Coonskin
managed to free himself by crawling over Pod's corduroy road to
dry land, and saved the day! At once, with a bridle-rein, the
valet roped the Professor's feet and pulled him out, after which
both men fastened the reins to Damfino's pack and tied the other
ends to the saddles of Cheese and myself. Then that she-ass, wet
and gray as a rat, with her burden, was dragged out of the ditch
into the trail. Well, that quicksand pulled all the bad nature out
of her, and she went a long time before she was tempted to leave
the trail again.
The men looked grateful as they wiped the brine from their faces,
and Pod remarked, "That was a narrow escape for all of us. Our
donkey party came within two of going ass-under, sure."