Petaluma Valley. Here, in 1776, Captain Quiros came up Petaluma Creek
from San Pablo Bay in quest of an outlet to Bodega Bay on the coast. And
here, later, the Russians, with Alaskan hunters, carried skin boats
across from Fort Ross to poach for sea-otters on the Spanish preserve of
San Francisco Bay. Here, too, still later, General Vallejo built a fort,
which still stands--one of the finest examples of Spanish adobe that
remain to us. And here, at the old fort, to bring the chronicle up to
date, our horses proceeded to make peculiarly personal history with
astonishing success and dispatch. King, our peerless, polo-pony leader,
went lame. So hopelessly lame did he go that no expert, then and
afterward, could determine whether the lameness was in his frogs, hoofs,
legs, shoulders, or head. Maid picked up a nail and began to limp.
Milda, figuring the day already sufficiently spent and maniacal with
manger-gluttony, began to rabbit-jump. All that held her was the bale-
rope. And the Outlaw, game to the last, exceeded all previous
exhibitions of skin-removing, paint-marring, and horse-eating.

At Petaluma we rested over while King was returned to the ranch and
Prince sent to us. Now Prince had proved himself an excellent wheeler,
yet he had to go into the lead and let the Outlaw retain his old place.
There is an axiom that a good wheeler is a poor leader. I object to the
last adjective. A good wheeler makes an infinitely worse kind of a
leader than that. I know . . . now. I ought to know. Since that day I
have driven Prince a few hundred miles in the lead. He is neither any
better nor any worse than the first mile he ran in the lead; and his
worst is even extremely worse than what you are thinking. Not that he is
vicious. He is merely a good-natured rogue who shakes hands for sugar,
steps on your toes out of sheer excessive friendliness, and just goes on
loving you in your harshest moments.