Our horses
began now to walk with drooping heads and slow, tired steps, so we
divided the load among them all and walked ourselves. The water, when
reached proved so salt the horses would not drink it, and as Doty had
told us the most water was over the mountain ahead of us, we still
followed their trail which went up a very rocky canon in which it was
hard work for the horses to travel. The horses were all very gentle now
and needed some urging to make them go. Roger's fat horse no longer
tried to unseat its rider or its pack, but seemed to be the most
downhearted of the train. The little mule was the liveliest, sharpest
witted animal of the whole. She had probably traveled on the desert
before and knew better how to get along. She had learned to crop every
spear of grass she came to, and every bit of sage brush that offered a
green leaf was given a nip. She would sometimes leave the trail and go
out to one side to get a little bunch of dry grass, and come back and
take her place again as if she knew her duty. The other animals never
tried to do this. The mule was evidently better versed in the art of
getting a living than the horses.
Above the rough bed of the canon the bottom was gravelly and narrow, and
the walls on each side nearly perpendicular. Our horses now poked slowly
along and as we passed the steep wall of the canon the white animal left
the trail and walked with full force, head first, against the solid
rock. She seemed to be blind, and though we went quickly to her and took
off the load she carried, she had stopped breathing by the time we had
it done.
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