The turtle, Bill, deserves some notice. He was put in the center of a table at meal time to catch flies, but all that stupid turtle did was to scrape them off his head by drawing it under his shell. He disdained the carnivorous diet. Millions of insects swarmed about the table, where before only thousands had gathered, attracted, doubtless, by Bill. They literally covered our food and all we could safely eat was flapjacks. Holding a fork against the mouth, we could with lips and tongue draw a flapjack in through the tines, by which delicate operation all flies and other insects were scraped off; and in course of time a fairly good meal was conveyed to our stomachs. Of course, one's success depended upon the strength of the flapjacks. Most of them stood the strain.
The afternoon of July 11, we saw Long's Peak, the first spur of the Rocky Mountains, in view. The following evening we rode into Fort Morgan. Journeying on, to escape the heat of the day, we came at midnight to where several trails crossed, and were puzzled which to take.
"Put the responsibility on the donkeys," I finally suggested. "They've great instinct."
"Good idea," commented my valet; "I've often heard of horses taking lost hunters out of the woods." So giving the word, my caravan resumed the march in the darkness, and went into camp about four in the morning. When I arose about noon, I was surprised to find ourselves on the outskirts of a village. I called Coonskin, with a feeling of suspicion dawning in my mind.
"The blasted town looks familiar," said my valet.
About that time a cowboy rode up, and I asked him the name of the town.
"Fort Morgan," he answered. "Have you fellows lost anything?" Coonskin and I eyed each other, then both gazed thoughtfully at the jackasses.
I was provoked about the loss of that night's journey; to think of our following our donkey's ears round an imaginary race-course in the desert, some twenty odd miles, was not conducive to a good temper. Many well-meaning persons had advised me to carry a compass. Some day, some night, they said, I would stray from the trail. I resolved to purchase such an instrument immediately on reaching Denver.
We spent the afternoon enjoying the luxuries of our new awning and camp chairs; I writing my article for the press, Coonskin reading a thrilling dime novel.
"This is life," remarked my napping valet, as he rolled over on his pillow.