“That's quite it,” said I, as he got down on the ground.
“Nothing's broke,” said he, after a searching examination. And he indulged in a true Virginian expletive. “Gentlemen, hush!” he murmured gently, looking at me with his grave eyes; “one time I got pretty near scared. You, Buck,” he continued, “some folks would beat you now till yu'd be uncertain whether yu' was a hawss or a railroad accident. I'd do it myself, only it wouldn't cure yu'.”
I now told him that I supposed he had saved both our lives. But he detested words of direct praise. He made some grumbling rejoinder, and led the horses out of the thicket. Buck, he explained to me, was a good horse, and so was Muggins. Both of them generally meant well, and that was the Judge's reason for sending them to meet me. But these broncos had their off days. Off days might not come very often; but when the humor seized a bronco, he had to have his spree. Buck would now behave himself as a horse should for probably two months. “They are just like humans,” the Virginian concluded.
Several cow-boys arrived on a gallop to find how many pieces of us were left. We returned down the hill; and when we reached my trunk, it was surprising to see the distance that our runaway had covered. My hat was also found, and we continued on our way.
Buck and Muggins were patterns of discretion through the rest of the mountains. I thought when we camped this night that it was strange Buck should be again allowed to graze at large, instead of being tied to a rope while we slept. But this was my ignorance. With the hard work that he was gallantly doing, the horse needed more pasture than a rope's length would permit him to find. Therefore he went free, and in the morning gave us but little trouble in catching him.
We crossed a river in the forenoon, and far to the north of us we saw the Bow Leg Mountains, pale in the bright sun. Sunk Creek flowed from their western side, and our two hundred and sixty-three miles began to grow a small thing in my eyes. Buck and Muggins, I think, knew perfectly that to-morrow would see them home. They recognized this region; and once they turned off at a fork in the road. The Virginian pulled them back rather sharply.
“Want to go back to Balaam's?” he inquired of them. “I thought you had more sense.”
I asked, “Who was Balaam?”
“A maltreater of hawsses,” replied the cow-puncher. “His ranch is on Butte Creek oveh yondeh.” And he pointed to where the diverging road melted into space. “The Judge bought Buck and Muggins from him in the spring.”
“So he maltreats horses?” I repeated.