“Good-bye, sir,” Joe answered, as the lean Ranger swung into his saddle, called to his packhorse as if it were a dog, and disappeared down the trail to the west, the faithful packhorse plodding on behind.
The other party were a long time about their meal, and Joe climbed part way up the peak to the south, getting above the last timber, which consisted of tiny, twisted trees not over two feet high, and some of them growing along the very ground. Up here he found beautiful, tiny Alpine flowers in the rock crannies, he started up what looked like a big black and gray woodchuck, and which he later learned was a whistling marmot, and he came upon a bird, something like a partridge, but the same gray color as the rocks. This bird was followed by six little fluffy chicks, which went scuttering away with shrill little peeps into the maze of stones, and ten feet away couldn’t be seen, so like the stones were they.
“That’s protective coloring,” Joe thought. “Wonder why they are colored that way?”
He was later to learn that this was a ptarmigan hen and her chicks, the largest bird which lives above timber in these mountains. No doubt it is colored like the rocks to protect it from the eye of foxes, eagles, and other foes.
Joe didn’t dare climb any higher, though he longed to get to the top, which now rose steep above him. He felt perfectly well, too, and the climbing didn’t make him cough. But he saw the party was packing up again, so he hurried down and cinched up another notch in his saddle to make sure it did not slip on the descent. He mounted and fell in behind the procession, which immediately began winding its way down the steep switchbacks. Joe, from the rear, could look almost directly down on the head of the leader, a hundred feet below him. One or two of the women were screaming, and now and then a stone, loosened by a house’s hoof, would go bounding down the slope with a terrifying rattle. But the horses, carefully putting one foot ahead of the other, were as calm and sure as if they were on level going, and nothing at all happened, of course.
Once on the comparatively level trail below, the leading guide broke into a trot, and the whole cavalcade came bouncing on behind. Joe bounced at first as much as anybody, but by dint of much trial, he got into the swing a little, and began to ride more comfortably. When they were on the level trail in the woods at last, a mile from the lake, the leader gave a yell, touched his spurs, and leaped out at a gallop. All the other horses, without waiting for any command, started in to gallop also, including Popgun. Joe yelled with the rest, jammed his cap on hard, hung to the horn of his saddle to keep aboard, and felt the wind rush against his face. Still galloping and shouting, the cavalcade dashed past the Ranger’s cabin, and on toward the tepee camp.
Joe hoped Spider would be around to see. He wanted to stop his horse at the tepees, but whether he could or not was another question. Popgun didn’t appear to have any intention of stopping till the rest did.
As they dashed in sight of the camp, he saw Spider standing by the trail. Joe yelled, “Hi—Tom!” and began to tug at the reins. Popgun came down to a trot obediently—and also suddenly, very nearly sending Joe out over his head. Another tug, and a “Whoa!” brought him up short, though his ears were pricked up, and his eyes were following the galloping cavalcade now disappearing toward the hotel.
“Well—what are you doing?” exclaimed the astonished Tom.
“I’m a regular cowboy now, eh, what? Allow me to introduce Popgun, my gallant broncho. We’ve been on top of the Great Divide, we have, and seen the water going toward the Pacific, and, gee I know where there’s a game trail we can climb to, and I’m goin’ to have this horse to ride for three or four days, and feed him, and—and all.”