Next in terror to the unaccustomed is an ascent by lacets up a very steep side hill.The effect is cumulative.Each turn brings you one stage higher, adds definitely one more unit to the test of your hardihood.
This last has not terrified you; how about the next? or the next? or the one after that? There is not the slightest danger.You appreciate this point after you have met head-on some old-timer.After you have speculated frantically how you are to pass him, he solves the problem by calmly turning his horse off the edge and sliding to the next lacet below.
Then you see that with a mountain horse it does not much matter whether you get off such a trail or not.
The real bad places are quite as likely to be on the level as on the slant.The tremendous granite slides, where the cliff has avalanched thousands of tons of loose jagged rock-fragments across the passage, are the worst.There your horse has to be a goat in balance.He must pick his way from the top of one fragment to the other, and if he slips into the interstices he probably breaks a leg.In some parts of the granite country are also smooth rock aprons where footing is especially difficult, and where often a slip on them means a toboggan chute off into space.
I know of one spot where such an apron curves off the shoulder of the mountain.Your horse slides directly down it until his hoofs encounter a little crevice.Checking at this, he turns sharp to the left and so off to the good trail again.If he does not check at the little crevice, he slides on over the curve of the shoulder and lands too far down to bury.
Loose rocks in numbers on a very steep and narrow trail are always an abomination, and a numerous abomination at that.A horse slides, skates, slithers.
It has always seemed to me that luck must count largely in such a place.When the animal treads on a loose round stone--as he does every step of the way--that stone is going to roll under him, and he is going to catch himself as the nature of that stone and the little gods of chance may will.Only furthermore I have noticed that the really good horse keeps his feet, and the poor one tumbles.A judgmatical rider can help a great deal by the delicacy of his riding and the skill with which he uses his reins.Or better still, get off and walk.
Another mean combination, especially on a slant, is six inches of snow over loose stones or small boulders.There you hope for divine favor and flounder ahead.There is one compensation; the snow is soft to fall on.Boggy areas you must be able to gauge the depth of at a glance.And there are places, beautiful to behold, where a horse clambers up the least bit of an ascent, hits his pack against a projection, and is hurled into outer space.You must recognize these, for he will be busy with his feet.
Some of the mountain rivers furnish pleasing afternoons of sport.They are deep and swift, and below the ford are rapids.If there is a fallen tree of any sort across them,--remember the length of California trees, and do not despise the rivers,--you would better unpack, carry your goods across yourself, and swim the pack-horses.If the current is very bad, you can splice riatas, hitch one end to the horse and the other to a tree on the farther side, and start the combination.The animal is bound to swing across somehow.Generally you can drive them over loose.In swimming a horse from the saddle, start him well upstream to allow for the current, and never, never, never attempt to guide him by the bit.The Tenderfoot tried that at Mono Creek and nearly drowned himself and Old Slob.You would better let him alone, as he probably knows more than you do.If you must guide him, do it by hitting the side of his head with the flat of your hand.
Sometimes it is better that you swim.You can perform that feat by clinging to his mane on the downstream side, but it will be easier both for you and him if you hang to his tail.Take my word for it, he will not kick you.
Once in a blue moon you may be able to cross the whole outfit on logs.Such a log bridge spanned Granite Creek near the North Fork of the San Joaquin at an elevation of about seven thousand feet.
It was suspended a good twenty feet above the water, which boiled white in a most disconcerting manner through a gorge of rocks.If anything fell off that log it would be of no further value even to the curiosity seeker.We got over all the horses save Tunemah.He refused to consider it, nor did peaceful argument win.As he was more or less of a fool, we did not take this as a reflection on our judgment, but culled cedar clubs.We beat him until we were ashamed.Then we put a slip-noose about his neck.
The Tenderfoot and I stood on the log and heaved while Wes stood on the shore and pushed.Suddenly it occurred to me that if Tunemah made up his silly mind to come, he would probably do it all at once, in which case the Tenderfoot and I would have about as much show for life as fossil formations.I didn't say anything about it to the Tenderfoot, but I hitched my six-shooter around to the front, resolved to find out how good I was at wing-shooting horses.But Tunemah declared he would die for his convictions.
"All right," said we, "die then," with the embellishment of profanity.So we stripped him naked, and stoned him into the raging stream, where he had one chance in three of coming through alive.He might as well be dead as on the other side of that stream.
He won through, however, and now I believe he'd tackle a tight rope.
Of such is the Trail, of such its wonders, its pleasures, its little comforts, its annoyances, its dangers.
And when you are forced to draw your six-shooter to end mercifully the life of an animal that has served you faithfully, but that has fallen victim to the leg-breaking hazard of the way, then you know a little of its tragedy also.May you never know the greater tragedy when a man's life goes out, and you unable to help! May always your trail lead through fine trees, green grasses, fragrant flowers, and pleasant waters!
