he shared his beans and sour dough with a diminutive burro, which bore
his master's pack during the long search through the trackless desert
for the elusive gold. For us it would be suicide to leave the blazed
trail. The chances are that the circling buzzard and hungry coyotes will
be the only mourners present at his funeral.

Now and then we passed a twisted, warped old juniper that was doubtless
digging for a foothold while Christ walked on earth. The Chief said
these old junipers vie with the Sequoias in age. Nothing else broke the
monotony of the heat and sand, until we came to the first water hole.

It was dry now, for the summer rains were long overdue, and bogged
firmly in the red adobe mud was a gaunt long-horned cow. The Chief was
too tender-hearted to shoot her and drive on, as he knew he should.
Instead he stopped the car and got out to see if he could possibly
"extract" her. Failing to frighten her into pulling herself out, he
goaded her into a frenzy by throwing sharp stinging rocks at her. One
landed on her tender flank and she tossed her horns and struggled. The
Chief stooped, with his back to her, for another rock, just as she
pulled out.

"Look out. She's coming for you!" I yelled.

Straight at her rescuer she charged with an angry rumble. Round and
round a stunted piñon they raced, hot and angry. I was too helpless with
mirth to be of any aid, and the Chief's gun was in the car. Still, an
angry range cow on the prod is no joke, and it began to look serious. At
last the impromptu marathon ended by the Chief making an extra sprint
and rolling into the Ford just as her sharp horns raked him fore and
aft.