On these hunting trips I rode a government mule that General Alexander, the post commander at Fort Garland, had given me for the summer's use, and who spoke of him with great praise as an exceptionally good saddle animal. He was said to be twenty-seven years old, and had formerly been used as a messenger mule between Fort Garland and Taos when the mail was brought to the post from the latter point. I suppose he had been gray at one time but now he was white from age, but had been well cared for and although in fine condition, had been retired from actual service. I found him all that he was recommended to be, and with an additional merit that he was not afraid of a gun. I could fire from the saddle and he would not flinch, and because of this exceptional quality, I had a great deal of sport shooting jack-rabbits. They would jump up and run away fifty or a hundred yards and sit up straight, which is their habit, and I would aim in line and a little below the mark and as the mule would inhale it would raise the muzzle of the rifle and by pulling the trigger at the right moment I was sure to see the rabbit tumble over. I never had much chance from the saddle at larger game. The color of the mule was against it, and I was not a good shot with the rifle at moving objects. I became much attached to this mule for his exceptionally easy gait and his fine disposition, however, he played me a bad trick one day for which I have since forgiven him because of my own culpable ignorance. It was getting late and I was out of my usual hunting range when I saw an antelope grazing in one of the many beautiful parks to be found in the mountains. There was a small ravine down the center of this park near which I noticed a clump of willows and figured that if I could approach from behind the willows I could get a good shot. My scheme worked all right and I got up within range and fired. To my great surprise I saw the shot take effect on the hillside beyond and had passed over the antelope's shoulders. This was a puzzle to me for I was sure I had taken good aim, and equally sure that I did not have the "buck-ague." The antelope ran away and stopped and looked back at me when I estimated him to be about two hundred and fifty yards away. I made a careful allowance for the distance and fired at the shoulder and at the report of the gun he dropped in his tracks apparently without a struggle. I thought a little strange of this, for I had aimed just back of the shoulders and supposed he would at least make a jump or two and struggle some after falling. Imagine my surprise when I found his neck broken just back of his ears, a purely accidental shot. I went back to my mule, which by the way I had named "Paddy O'Rooney" but always addressed him by his given name, and I thought I would put the antelope on him without dressing it as it was getting late and I wanted to find a trail down to the valley. I found that Paddy had an altogether different view of the matter, for