As he drew near to the shed, two animals he had left there a little while before greeted him, each after his own fashion. One was Bonaparte (called Bony, for short) George’s pack mule, and the other was Ranger, his favorite riding nag. These animals, which were among the best of their kind, had been the boy’s almost constant companions, ever since he returned from school and settled down to the business of herding cattle. Bony was small and clean-limbed, sleek as a mole and treacherous as mules generally are. He took unbounded delight in knocking over everything and everybody that came within reach of his hind feet, and when he felt in the humor for doing it, he could kick himself out from under the pack-saddle with the greatest ease. Ranger, on the other hand, did not know how to kick or bite, but he understood the business of cattle-herding, and would answer his master’s whistle as promptly as a well-trained dog. Nothing which his strength or agility could overcome would keep him from George’s side when he heard that whistle. He would jump a fence or swim a river to obey it. When in camp George never confined the animal with a lasso unless it was near the full of the moon and raids were expected from the Mexicans or Indians, for Ranger never thought of straying away. He was as black as midnight, very fleet and enduring, and George had almost as much affection for him as he would have had for a brother, for he was the last gift he had ever received from his father. The animals seemed to be ready for a journey, for Bony carried a loaded pack-saddle on his back, and Ranger was saddled but not bridled. Upon reaching the shed George whistled the mule and led him toward the house, and Ranger, without waiting for the command, followed at his heels. He stopped at the porch, and after fastening the mule’s halter to the horn of the saddle that Ranger wore, he disappeared in the house. When he came out again he carried in his hands a bundle, a rifle and a small leather haversack. The bundle contained his overcoat, gloves, rubber-poncho and blankets; and in the haversack he carried the ammunition for his rifle—a new model Winchester, holding in its magazine sixteen cartridges, all of which could be discharged in as many seconds. He slung the rifle and haversack over his shoulders, tied the bundle behind his saddle and was just slipping the mended bridle over his horse’s head when Ned came out. “Well, you are off for your last trip, are you?” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am off for camp again, but not for the last time, I hope,” returned George, although he felt like making a very different answer. “One must do something to earn his bread and butter, you know, and life in camp suits me better than staying in the house doing nothing.” “What have you got in that pack-saddle?” asked Ned. “Provisions.” “You needn’t have troubled yourself to lay in such a supply, for you won’t need them all.” “Won’t I? Why not?”