CHAPTER IX


We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats. It is
about three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in every
direction. I did not one bit fancy the cañons, the mesquite patches, and
the open ground of the usual route.

I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal he rode was a
hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shed
winter coat. The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He had
shortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his
pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He had thrust his
derby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coat
tightly. In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch,
attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was just
about due. Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening was
falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swell
and draw imminent out of unguessed distances. I could not help wondering
what these gods of the desert could be thinking of us.

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoods
that marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to the
point to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was going
to think of us. The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that
moment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No man could
continue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch without