“S’pose you’ll wait some minute,” said Moise, after a time, coming up plastered with mud from head to foot. “Those horse, she’ll want for rest a little while.”
“Feel down along his hind leg if you can, Moise,” said Uncle Dick; “that’s the one that seems helpless.”
Moise obediently kneeled in the mud and reached his arm along down the cayuse’s legs.
“Those legs, she always there,” said he, arising. “Maybe those horse, she’ll just fool us.” Then he began to exhort the helpless animal. “Advance donc, sacré cochon diable cheval! En avant la—whoop!”
Moise continued his shouts, and, to the surprise of all, the disabled horse began to flounder once more; and as they all lifted at his pack and pushed him forward he gave a series of plunges and finally reached firm ground.
“So,” said Moise, calmly, “thass all right. She was French horse, thass all—you’ll been spoke English on him, and he wasn’t understood it.”
Uncle Dick, grimed as he was from head to foot, could not help laughing at Moise’s explanation. Then they all stood and laughed at one another, for they, as well as the saddles and packs, were black with muck.
“I told you, young men,” said Uncle Dick, “that we wouldn’t make a clean camp to-night. You see now why we have covers on the packs, don’t you, and why we roll everything in canvas? Well, anyhow, we’re across that one, and I hope there’s nothing any worse ahead, although you never can tell.”
The pack-horses seemed to have very short memories of their troubles, for when the line of march was again resumed they went on peacefully enough, even the claybank bringing up the rear as though nothing had happened to him.