“There are those rascals,” cried Juarez, pointing with an excited hand.
“I see them,” said Jim.
“Brethren,” remarked the mule in the lead, to his long-eared comrades, “here come our masters to head us off. Let us run.” He wig-wagged this piece of news with his long ears and a waggle of his short tail. They understood perfectly and acted in unison. They did not trot, but started at a swift, sharp lope down the trail. It was fortunate for the packs that the boys were old mountaineers and knew how to make them secure else they would have been jostled into the ravine below.
The boys cut loose at full gallop down the ravine, utterly reckless of what might be ahead of them. They tore through the brush, crushing down every obstacle in their way, determined to head those mules or die in the attempt. They were mad through and through, and, for one, I can sympathize with them. They won the race by about twenty feet. Caliente with one last leap was in the trail.
The mules saw that they were intercepted and came to a halt, and looked at Jim and Juarez with quiet unconcern, mingled with a slight surprise at being so rudely interrupted in their little jaunt.
“You blasted, long-eared, rat-tailed beggars, get back where you belong,” yelled Jim; “you hustle.”
“Give me a rock, I’ll help ’em,” cried Juarez.
He reached from the saddle and picked up a number of fragments of broken granite, and Jim did the same. Then they began to pepper those mules with carefully aimed stones, sometimes striking their haunches and sometimes their ears, keeping them at a steady jog trot up the grade.