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Show 194 Aunt Fernnie so established this reputation with the squaw that when they met and passed on the street, the squaw looked after and said spitefully: "Old Pick-um-up-chips!" We rode literally into the sunset, through gates of sandstone made gold by its rays, and before dark we were in Three Creek, coming in from between two peaks toward the east, past the Ranger Station, instead of from the south as we usually came. Papa and I were too tired to keep the fire going all night so we slept without taking our clothes off, each rolled in a camp quilt. The yearlings were famished next morning when we let them out of the snowy pasture, and rushed for the mahogany bushes, from which they had to be beaten, one by one, if we were to get them down the canyon before dark. They managed to get something in their stomachs in passing, and by the time we got to the south end of the valley and the big bulwark of Trail Mountain they were tracking better and were easier to manage. We didn't go the long way, around the road, this time, neither did we follow the trail Uncle Will and I had gone, eastward the way Papa and I had come in. Papa headed them up the steep side of Trail mountain and over a hogsback. The country was rough most of the way, and if he wasn't glad to have a capable helper to chase the critters, leaping sagebrush and washes to keep them in line he should have been. I knew we were traveling on table-land and wondered how we were |
