Sitting on a wagon tongue, and applying liniment to an abraded shin, might have been seen Pythagoras, M. D., whose daily life, since leaving Topeka, had been a series of struggles with the brute he rode. His belief in the transition of souls into horses was growing upon him. He felt that he was combating the spirit of a deceased prize-fighter, which used its hoofs as fists, landing blows right and left. Doctor David called these "spiritual manifestations." A favorite habit of the animal was what is known as brushing flies from the ear with the hind foot, and often, as the owner was about to mount, this species of front kick would upset him. The equine's disposition, it must be said, had not been improved by the immense saddle-bags with which the Doctor had surmounted him when on the march. Originally, these contained a small amount of medicine, but this had all been ground to powder under the weight of sundry stones and bones, gathered in the furtherance of the great theory of development.
As the sun got well up in the heavens, staying in camp became monotonous, and we hobbled off in different directions, to examine the surroundings. Our Mexicans climbed to the plains above, taking their rusty muskets along to kill buffalo. Our guide went down to the hunting camp below us, intending to return to Hays with the officers, home duties requiring his attention. One of our hostlers, familiar with the country, was to be our pilot in future.
Back of our camp lay the castellated rocks which had attracted our notice the previous evening, and over which Daub, our artist, now became intensely enthusiastic. He wandered back and forth in front of them, his soul in his eyes, and these upturned to the bluffs. And thus we left him.
"Genius is struggling hard for utterance there," said the Professor impressively. "That young man will make his mark; see if he doesn't." Alas, how little we thought he would do it so soon.
An hour later, returning that way, we descried our artist high up on the face of the rocks, perched on a jutting fragment, and clinging to a stunted cedar with one hand, while with the other he plied his brush. Fully forty feet intervened between him and the earth.
"What devotion!" cried the Professor.
"Beautiful spirit," said Mr. Colon, "how soon it commences to climb."
"That young man will develop," said Dr. Pythagoras.
A few feet more, and the artist and his work were fully revealed. He had developed. A cry of agony came from the Professor's lips; for there in large yellow lines, half blotting out a beautiful stone, our eyes beheld the diabolical letters, S O Z.
He never finished the word. The Professor seized a rifle, and brought it to a level with the artist's paint pot. "Come down, you rascal!" he cried. "How dare you deface one of nature's castles with a patent name?" Would he have fired? I think he would. But the man of genius caught his eye, and comprehending the situation, cried, with face whiter than the chalk before him, "O, don't!"