When Emett essayed to lead the horse which carried these, the animal stood straight up and began to show some of his primal desert instincts. It certainly was good luck that we unbuckled the packsaddle straps before he left the vicinity. In about three jumps he had separated himself from the panniers, which were then placed upon the back of another horse. This one, a fine looking beast, and amiable under surroundings where his life and health were considered even a little, immediately disclaimed any intention of entering the forest.
"They scent the lions," said Jones. "I was afraid of it; never had but one nag that would pack lions."
"Maybe we can't pack them at all," replied Emett dubiously. "It's certainly new to me."
"We've got to," Jones asserted; "try the sorrel."
For the first time in a serviceable and honorable life, according to Emett, the sorrel broke his halter and kicked like a plantation mule.
"It's a matter of fright. Try the stallion. He doesn't look afraid," said Jones, who never knew when he was beaten.