buffalo hate white horses--anything white. They're liable to
stampede off the range, or chase you into the canyon."

I replied grimly that, as it was certain something was going to
happen, the particular circumstance might as well come off
quickly.

We rode over the rolling plain with a cool, bracing breeze in our
faces. The sky was dull and mottled with a beautiful cloud effect
that presaged wind. As we trotted along Jones pointed out to me
and descanted upon the nutritive value of three different kinds
of grass, one of which he called the Buffalo Pea, noteworthy for
a beautiful blue blossom. Soon we passed out of sight of the
cabin, and could see only the billowy plain, the red tips of the
stony wall, and the black-fringed crest of Buckskin. After riding
a while we made out some cattle, a few of which were on the
range, browsing in the lee of a ridge. No sooner had I marked
them than Jones let out another Comanche yell.

"Wolf!" he yelled; and spurring his big bay, he was off like the
wind.

A single glance showed me several cows running as if bewildered,
and near them a big white wolf pulling down a calf. Another white
wolf stood not far off. My horse jumped as if he had been shot;
and the realization darted upon me that here was where the
certain something began. Spot--the mustang had one black spot in
his pure white--snorted like I imagined a blooded horse might,
under dire insult. Jones's bay had gotten about a hundred paces
the start. I lived to learn that Spot hated to be left behind;