The freight company used many pack and draught animals. One day one of its mules died. The mozo in charge of the corrals dragged the carcass to the superintendent's office. That individual cursed twice; once at the mule for dying, and once at the mozo for being a fool. At nightfall another mule died. This time the mozo, mindful of his berating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent to see the sad remains.
"Bury it," ordered the superintendent, disgustedly. Two mules at $350—quite a loss.
But next morning another had died; fairly an epidemic among mules. This carcass also was ordered buried. And at noon a fourth. The superintendent, on his way to view the defunct, ran across John Gates.
"Look here, John," queried he, "do you know anything about mules?"
"Considerable," admitted Gates.
"Well, come see if you can tell me what's killing ours off."
They contemplated the latest victim of the epidemic.
"Seems to be something that swells them up," ventured the superintendent after a while.
John Gates said nothing for some time. Then suddenly he snatched his pistol and levelled it at the shrinking mozo.
"Produce those three mules!" he roared, "mucho pronto, too!" To the bewildered superintendent he explained. "Don't you see? this is the same old original mule. He ain't never been buried at all. They've been stealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over and over as proof!"