Each fired as often as his rifle permitted, and if we did not hit either doe, we at least scared them well for the next sportsmen.
Shorthorns explained that if his first cartridge had not snapped, he would have pierced the upper right-hand corner of the first doe’s heart, and the sixth rib and left lung of the second doe. If you don’t understand how this could have been, draw a plan, or let Shorthorns draw it for you in the sand, and it will at once assume the perspicuity of all hunting stories.
It was late when we found our animals and ate lunch, and when we returned to camp our record consisted still of one wounded buck and four black spots. Mr. X. had hunted quail near the ranch and killed more than a hundred, many others having been wounded and lost. We regretted our soaring ambition for large game, which had deprived us of much real sport.
Early next morning, with Shorthorns’ deer, Mr. X.’s quail, some ancient elk horns picked up by one of the men, and a small allowance of bacon and hard bread, we commenced our return drive.
Only one incident of importance marked our progress homeward. This was on Sunday, and assumed the form of a sick mule: one more variety of experience for us.
Every driver of large teams has a favorite animal upon whom he vents all his anger or affection. The pet of our ambulance team was a large black wheeler which the driver called “Bill.” No matter which mule lagged, the crack of the whip was accompanied by vigorous advice to Bill, and the driver’s sentences and oaths were liberally punctuated by blows upon poor Bill’s hide. Bill stood this seventeen days and then, without warning, dropped in harness.
Having thus asserted his independence, he swelled up, not with pride alone, but with wind also, and though we took him from harness, jumped on his ribs, rolled him and rode him, and performed other kind offices dear to a sick mule, Bill lay on his back, kicked his heels in the air and looked unhappy. So I undertook to lead his muleship to camp—ten miles ahead. A teamster followed, lashing Bill into a trot to prevent him from lying down, while I, giving the mule the road, stepped along the side over cactus and mesquite bushes. He would stop to roll occasionally. On one such roll the soldier tried to help Bill, and grasped his off forefoot with great familiarity. In a second the man was seen flying over cactus stalks, propelled by a kick in the shin. He rode after that, and no longer rolls sick mules.
After a while we decided to give Bill a dose. Mr. X. emptied a bottle of choice pickles and mixed a drench of salt and water. Then came the circus. As there were no trees in the vicinity we were obliged to administer the drench on the ground. One man held the halter-strap, another knelt on Bill’s shoulder to hold him down, a third held the bottle, and a fourth held the mule’s tongue and opened his mouth. At the critical moment, when Bill’s cavernous mouth opened, we had to dash the bottle’s contents into it, hold his nose, finger his throat, look out for his heels, hang on to the halter-strap and seek safety in flight. This dose was repeated many times, once or twice successfully, while its possible sameness was relieved by acrobatic exercises by a soldier on the mule’s ribs. At times we moved him a short distance towards camp.
Then, as evening approached, we tied a rope to the strap, started Bill by twisting his ears or threatening as a dose, and passed the rope to Mr. X. in the ambulance. The buckskins were whipped into a canter and Bill towed along to camp. As I rode on the step to catch the rope should the mule drop, Mr. X. looked through the rear window and gave bulletins of his symptoms.
In camp Bill was tenderly wrapped in canvas and fed on gunpowder, salt and soap, with a little grain to prevent the formation of extravagant tastes.