That afternoon I drove with my camp things out of town in a “buggy,”--very different from the Eastern vehicle which bears this name,--and the next afternoon between Dinwiddie and Red Creek, on a waste stretch high above the river, who should join me but McDonough. He was riding down the mountain apparently from nowhere, and my pleasure at seeing him was keen. His words were few and halting, as they had been the year before, and in his pleasant, round face the blue eyes twinkled, screwed up and as perplexed as ever. I abstained from more than glancing at the fine sorrel that he rode, lest I should seem to be hinting. “Water pretty low for this season,” he said. “Was there not much snow?” “Next to none, and went early.” I turned from my direct course and camped at his cabin on North Fork. “What’s your hurry?” he said next morning, when I was preparing to go. There was no hurry; those days had no hurry in them, and I bless their memory for it. I sat on a stump, smoking a “Missouri meerschaum,” and unfolding to him my plans. To the geography of my route he listened intently--very intently. “So you’re going to keep over the other side the mountains?” he said. “Even to Idaho,” I answered, “and home that way.” “Not back this way?” “Not this year.” He thought a little while. “You’re settled as to that?” “Quite.” He rose, and put some wood into the stove in his cabin; then he returned to me where I sat on the stump. “Sure you’re quite settled you’ll keep on the west side of the Divide?” “Goodness!” I laughed, “why should I lie to you?” Again he pondered in silence, and I could not imagine what he had in his mind. What had my being east or being west of the mountains to do with him? He now jerked his head toward the corral. “Like him?” he inquired gruffly. It was the sorrel horse that he meant, and I perceived that it was standing saddled. I said nothing. The fellow’s embarrassment embarrassed me. “Like him?” he repeated. “Looks good to me,” I replied, adopting his gruffness. He rose and brought the horse to me. “Get on.” “Hulloa! You’ve got my saddle on him.” “Get on. He ain’t the one that bruck my leg.” I obeyed. Thus was the gift offered and accepted. I rode the horse down and up the level river bottom. “How shall I get him back to you?” I asked. McDonough’s face fell. “He’ll be all right in the East,” he protested. I smiled. “No, my good friend. Not that. Let me send him back with the outfit.” We compromised on this, and caught trout for the rest of the day, also shooting some young sage chickens. The sorrel proved a fine animal. Again McDonough delayed my departure. “I can broil those chickens fine,” he said, “and--and you’ll not be back this way.”