I told him to. Merely he thought it disrespectful in
me to ride him without his proper harness. He was
the pet of the camp.

As near as I could make out, he had but one fault.
He was altogether too sensitive about his hind quarters,
and would jump like a rabbit if anything touched
him there.

Wes rode a horse we called Old Slob. Wes, be
it premised, was an interesting companion. He had
done everything,--seal-hunting, abalone-gathering,
boar-hunting, all kinds of shooting, cow-punching
in the rough Coast Ranges, and all other queer and
outlandish and picturesque vocations by which a
man can make a living. He weighed two hundred
and twelve pounds and was the best game shot with
a rifle I ever saw.

As you may imagine, Old Slob was a stocky
individual. He was built from the ground up. His
disposition was quiet, slow, honest. Above all, he
gave the impression of vast, very vast experience.
Never did he hurry his mental processes, although
he was quick enough in his movements if need arose.
He quite declined to worry about anything. Consequently,
in spite of the fact that he carried by far the
heaviest man in the company, he stayed always fat
and in good condition. There was something almost
pathetic in Old Slob's willingness to go on working,