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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

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<h3>CHAPTER XLI. Nearly drowned in the Rockies</h3> TOC BY MAC A'RONY. <div class="poembox"> And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water.<cite>—The Fair God.</cite> </div> When, at the conclusion of Pod's Aspen lecture, he gave the signal for our outfit to "move on," I breathed a sigh of relief. I abhor crowds; I despise shoemakers. They say that an ingrown nail is painful; an inpounded nail is worse. Pod said he wouldn't care if I had lockjaw; for then I'd have to keep my mouth shut. "You ordered Bridget to call us at eight in the morning, didn't you?" Pod asked of his valet, when we were a mile out of town. "I did that," Coonskin replied. Who could Bridget be? Surely the turtle, Bill, hadn't changed his name. I'd hate to have him pull me out of bed. "Have the men got a woman stowed away in their luggage?" queried Cheese; "I hear 'em talking of some biddy." "It's scandalous!" exclaimed Miss Damfino, and Miss Skates said she thought so, too. These words were hardly spoken when, about eight o'clock, we were strolling peacefully down the trail along the high bank of Roaring Fork River in the darkness, something with a shrill voice suddenly began to scream and kick up a terrible racket in one of my saddle bags, electrifying my whole being. Was Pod bewitched? Or was some demon upon me? I asked both questions at once, and not waiting for an answer, ran through the darkness blind with terror. Ears back, tail out straight, and legs spinning, I failed to see the trail, or hear my master's "Whoas!" I only thought the devil was after me, and flew through the air like a meteor. Soon the trail turned to the right, but I kept on straight ahead, and suddenly tumbled, tail over ears, down the steep bank into the rushing river, my master still holding on to reins and saddle horn. How deep I dived I can't say. The dampness poured into my ears and mouth and drowned my thoughts, and just when I had begun to think of my past life, I came to the surface with that demon still yelling and clinging to the saddle or to Pod. Then a terrific jerk on my bit brought me to my senses, and I swam to the nearest shore. It was a long, hard pull. Pod clung to me as though I were a life buoy, and when I climbed on to the bank out of breath, the screaming demon chased me half way up to the trail. Pod's mouth was a flame of fire, but aimed more at Coonskin than at me. Reckon he thought me too wet to burn. The whole outfit, including dog and turtle, awaited us with bated breath. "We've found out who Bridget is," said Cheese, laughing. "To the devil with Bridget!" I retorted. "What in the name of Balaam was that after us?" "The new alarm clock, you fool," replied Cheese. I was too full for utterance—too full of water. The Professor was a sight, even in the darkness. Never saw him so mad. "Didn't you know that if at six o'clock you set the alarm for eight in the morning, it would ring at eight in the evening?" he vociferated, wildly gesticulating at his scared and speechless attendant. Cautiously through the darkness we proceeded for a couple of miles, Pod walking to prevent taking cold, he said. Then we were steered to an old cedar stump, where we camped. Bridget's alarming voice had made a fearful impression upon me. Several times on the way to camp I imagined a demon was after me, and shied into the sage. Why, I've seen roosters and hens chase all over a half acre lot and jump a fence after losing their heads, simply from nervousness. The cedar stump was set ablaze, and as soon as Pod had pitched the tent, he began walking around it dressed in his only suit of clothes, trying to get thoroughly dry. He was not in a good mood to talk with, so I kept aloof. Next morning the valley and the mountains hemming it in revealed a beautiful and bountiful nature. Although alfalfa seemed to be the chief crop, fields of wheat and oats waved in the breeze. It was August; the harvest had hardly begun. The vendure on the mountains was not less lavish in its rare autumnal tintings than were the internal colorings of the hills with metals—copper, lead, silver and gold. Now the trail would hug the river so closely I could hear the roaring flood, and again the current would sink beyond reach of ear or eye, suddenly to burst upon us later. The sun grew hotter with every hour's travel; the trail became more dusty; the prickly sage looked more browned and withered. One evening, under the screen of darkness, the men pitched camp conveniently near to an alfalfa field, hay-stack, and potato cellar. The sage, while much seared by the sun, was yet too young and green to burn, so when Coonskin dropped two large boards in front of the tent Pod was elated. The fellow said he had unroofed a tater cellar. In view of the shady deed, Pod kindled the fire on the shady side of the tent and proceeded to cook the supper. We hadn't time to make our escape next morning before we heard the rattle of a wagon approaching. Presently a team of horses, driven by a short, morose-looking, black-whiskered farmer, stopped right in front of camp. Instinct told me he was the owner of the property we had "squatted on" and intended to make trouble. Pod was seldom embarrassed, but when so he appealed to Coonskin's wit and gall for the desired relief. The man climbed out of the wagon and walked toward the tent, until he saw Don, and stopped short. Coonskin winked slyly at Pod and me under his hat-brim, and said to our caller, "Walk right in, sir, and make yourself miserable; the dog won't hurt you;" then Pod said a "Good morning" sweet and juicy. The stranger's sharp eyes surveyed the remaining board and the cremation ashes of the departed, and nodded sourly. I was now saddled, and Coonskin was buckling on his belt with revolvers and hunting knife. Said he to our guest, "This traveling round the world on a bet ain't what it's cracked up to be." "Reckon not," returned the stranger. And he asked, "Big bet." "N-o-o, only fifteen thousand dollars." The stranger grunted, as he mentally appraised the value of his lumber, and then regarded the men as if he wanted to put a price on their heads. "Wouldn't been so bad," Coonskin resumed, "If one of our original party hadn't got scalped by Esquimaux when crossing the Arabian Desert." "I want ter know!" the stranger exclaimed. "How did it happen?" As he spoke, he sat down near the board and whittled a stick, now and then eyeing Coonskin with overdue interest. "Well, you see," the valet began, "we were trailing on the desert at night, because the sun in India is so hot, when he suddenly hailed what we took to be a caravan. But instead of one outfit, there were three, all of 'em enemies of each and tother—Hottentots, Spaniards, and Solomon Islanders, all at lagerheads. Say, weren't we in a nice mess!" "'Pears so," the farmer ejaculated, with wrapt phiz. "At once all tried to capture us," Coonskin continued, "but pretty soon fell to fighting among themselves; and that'e how we escaped. But Jack got shot." Coonskin looked as if he had lost his last friend. "Poor Jack," muttered Prof., shaking his head sorrowfully. I saw plainly the story had touched the stranger's heart. "Purty sad, wasn't it boys?" he commented. "Didn't ye have no shootin' irons along?" he asked. "Should say we did—a whole battery," said the valet. "We shot several of the black demons (here waxing excited as he recalled the harrowing spectacle), but what was a thousand of them compared with one Jack!" And Coonskin tickled me in the ribs. "Ner a hundred Jacks," returned the farmer absentmindedly, and looking thoughtful. Then Pod said it was time to be going, and offered to pay the farmer for the board he had much enjoyed; but the latter said he "didn't want no pay," and, after offering Pod and Coonskin his plug of tobacco, clambered into his wagon and drove off. Then we made for Glenwood Springs. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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