I was not in any great hurry to overtake Jones, but evidently my horse's inclinations differed from mine; at any rate, he made the dust fly, and jumped the little sage bushes.
Jones, who had tarried to inspect one of the pools--formed of running water from the corrals--greeted me as I came up with this cheerful observation.
"What in thunder did Frank give you that white nag for?
The 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.