"No," he replied, "the captain told me that they were perfectly harmless."
"Ugly as sin though," I commented.
It was flat in shape, with its rough skin covered with regular coloring of grey and dark brown. Above the eyes were two little horns and the center edge of its skin had saw-like indentations. Its belly was flat and of a whitish color.
"Now watch him catch this fly," said Jim.
The unsuspecting fly was crawling on Jim's hand. The horned toad was as quiet as immobile stone. Mr. Fly came along within a few inches of the toad. Then out flashed a little narrow wisp of red tongue and the fly disappeared.
"One strike and in," said Jim, proud of his new pet. "You see he is just about the color of the earth so that he can't be seen; all he has to do is to keep still and his game comes to him."
Then Jim slipped the horned toad into his pocket. The sun had now sunk down behind the distant Sierra. Above it glowed a few gold bars of clouds. In the east was a broad band of blue with a crimson veiling above it.
This pomp always accompanies a desert sunrise or sunset.
"The Indians are going to make camp," Jim announced.
It was true, they had stopped near two hills a couple of miles west of the mesa, where there was a growth of a few stunted trees. The braves slid from their ponies and turned them loose to graze, while the squaws busied themselves gathering wood. The children scampered around free as wild colts and playing as children will whether they are Indian or white.