He never rides on one, a Apache don't, but he'll camp an' build a fire an' eat a corral full of ponies if you'll furnish 'em, an' lick his lips in thankfulness tharfore.

But bein' afoot won't hinder 'em from keepin' up with my caravan, for in the mountains the snow is to the waggon beds an' the best we can do, is wriggle along the trail like a hurt snake at a gait which wouldn't tire a papoose.
"'We've been pushin' on our windin' uphill way for mighty likely half a day, an' I'm beginnin'-- so dooms slows is our progress--to despair of gettin' out on top the mesa before dark, when to put a coat of paint on the gen'ral trouble the lead waggon breaks down.

I turns out in the snow with the rest, an' we-all puts in a heated an' highly profane half-hour restorin' the waggon to health.

At last we're onder headway ag'in, an' I wades back through the snow to my amb'lance.
"'As I arrives at the r'ar of my offishul waggon, it occurs to me that I'll fill a pipe an' smoke some by virchoo of my nerves, the same bein' torn and frayed with the many exasperations of the day.

I gives my driver the word to wait a bit, an' searchin' forth my tobacco outfit loads an' lights my pipe.