“That’s where Uncle Dave lives,” said Fred.
“Oh, I’m wild to see him and his cosy cabin!” she exclaimed.
They galloped away along the road over the old ford.
“Let’s take the trail close to the creek,” he suggested; “perhaps we shall scare up some chickens. I hate the old sage brush trail anyway.”
“Hate the sagebrush!” exclaimed Alta. “Why that’s one of the most interesting things in this wild West. It makes a fine shaggy blanket for this craggy country; and its purple gray color blends wonderfully with the surroundings.”
“That may be true enough,” replied Fred, “judging from an artist’s viewpoint; but it isn’t so pleasant to ride through.”
“Oh, look! look!” cried Alta, changing the subject quickly.
Fred glanced up to see four antelope bounding across the flat not a hundred yards away—a pair of grown ones with their fawns.
Brownie, ever alert to surprises, needed no second touch before she was bounding after them. A mad chase of a few hundred yards and then the unexpected happened. The fawns stopped short, to whirl and gaze on their pursuer, while the old ones, never checking their speed, kept bounding away to safety. Out of rifle reach, they too turned to watch results.
Fred headed his mare straight toward the fawns; he had almost reached them when they sprang away again, but instead of following their anxious parents, they began to run in a circle about Alta. It was a thrilling sight for her to watch Fred make his wild chase after the bounding balls of tan and white. The fawns, springing on slender legs, kept easily out of reach. Seeing that he could not catch them, Fred stopped and raised his shotgun, but he dropped it quickly, without firing, and returned to his companion. The beautiful little creatures, finding themselves unpursued, soon stopped again to turn and gaze curiously. As they did so, their mother’s plaintive bleat must have struck their sensitive ears, for they suddenly whirled and leaped away toward her to safety.