'cause he looks on it as a sign that Jerry's gettin' cold.

"But thar comes a day when I loses both Tom an' Jerry. It's about second
drink time one August mornin' an' me an' my eight mules goes scamperin'
through a little Mexican plaza called Tramperos on our way to the
Canadian. Over by a 'doby stands a old fleabitten gray mare; she's shore
hideous.

"Now if mules has one overmasterin' deloosion it's a gray mare; she's the
religion an' the goddess of the mules. This knowledge is common; if
you-all is ever out to create a upheaval in the bosom of a mule the
handiest, quickest lever is a old gray mare. The gov'ment takes
advantage of this aberration of the mules. Thar's trains of pack mules
freightin' to the gov'ment posts in the Rockies. They figgers on three
hundred pounds to the mule an' the freight is packed in panniers. The
gov'ment freighters not bein' equal to the manifold mysteries of a
diamond-hitch, don't use no reg'lar shore-enough pack saddle but takes
refooge with their ignorance in panniers.

"Speakin' gen'ral, thar's mebby two hundred mules in one of these
gov'ment pack trains. An' in the lead, followed, waited on an'
worshipped by the mules, is a aged gray mare. She don't pack nothin' but
her virchoo an' a little bell, which last is hung 'round her neck. This
old mare, with nothin' but her character an' that bell to encumber her,
goes fa'rly flyin' light. But go as fast an' as far as she pleases, them
long-y'eared locoed worshippers of her's won't let her outen their
raptured sight. The last one of 'em, panniers, freight an' all, would go
surgin' to the topmost pinnacle of the Rockies if she leads the way.

"An' at that this gray mare don't like mules none; she abhors their