Maybe you think this youngster thought of his soft bed at home or a pot shot from ambush that would leave his skeleton bleaching in a sandy desert sun after it had been stripped of its flesh by wolves; or that he wished someone else had been chosen to guard one side of the overland train of flour, bacon, corn and sugar and its custodians, but that is not so. It was one of the proudest days of his life and I know he will never forget it. He was highly honored by Watson and he appreciated it, for the reason that only two years before he had come to Wyoming a green city boy and was then known in the parlance of the plains as a "tenderfoot," which was a truthful description of any man or boy when he first entered upon the life of the bullwhacker, the then popular master of transportation between civilization and its outposts. He never dreamed of death when he got his orders, because he was young and foolish. Sometimes it is called bravery, but that isn't the right word. It can't be described unless it is called blind or reckless indifference. Perhaps that isn't it; anyway the youngster, as he mounted and galloped away and waited on a neighboring knoll for the outfit to string out along the sandy trail, hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. He wanted an eventful day and he fairly prayed for it. "I hope," he ruminated to himself half aloud, "that I cross a tepee trail, at least, even if I don't get my eye on an Indian." It wasn't long until he began to wonder, for it was still barely daylight, if it wouldn't be possible for a buck of good aim to pick him off, especially if the buck practiced the usual tactics of concealing himself behind a sand-dune or a butte. He wasn't afraid--he didn't know the word--but he wondered. For this reason he kept his pony moving, reasoning that it is easier to hit a stationary target than a swiftly whirling one. But the pony appeared to be a dead one even when a spur was roughly rubbed upon his belly, until, as the train had gotten well out of camp and the teams strung along for a mile, he found his pony to be interested in something, for he insisted on frequent stops and moved his ears back and forward and snorted lightly. Finally it seemed next to impossible to get him to move, and Featherbed was sure the pony had been owned by Indians at some time and was of the trick variety, being trained to a brand of treachery that meant delivery of his mount into the hands of the reds. And while these things were passing through the youngster's brain his only concern was that the train was leaving him, and that he was not guarding it. He heard a coyote's mournful note, but that was a common occurrence, although he wondered if it couldn't be possible that an Indian was doing the howling. It sounded like an imitation.