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Updated: June 21, 2025
Sorry and Jim will ride for the Quirt, I suppose, as long as they can crawl into a saddle, but there are younger men now to ride the Skyline Meadow range. Some one asked about Yellowjacket, having, I suppose, a sneaking regard for his infirmities. He hasn't been peeled yet or he hadn't, the last I heard of him.
Lorraine had no sooner left the ranch out of sight behind her than she pretended that she was lost. Yellowjacket had thereupon walked a few rods farther and stopped, patiently indifferent to the location of his oats box. Lorraine had waited until his head began to droop lower and lower, and his switching at flies had become purely automatic.
But she could not stop; Yellowjacket had his ears laid back flat on his senseless head, and the bit clamped tight in his teeth. She heard the crash repeated in diminuendo farther down in the canyon. There was no longer the rattle of the wagon coming down the trail, the sharp staccato of pounding hoofs.
Yellowjacket, she noticed, kept circumspectly to the centre of the trail and eyed the canyon with frank disfavour. She did not know at just what moment she became aware of trouble behind her. It may have been Yellowjacket, turning his head sidewise and abruptly quickening his pace that warned her.
When the fence was done, maybe he could rustle her another horse and then he had added that he didn't see what ailed Yellowjacket, for all the riding she was likely to do.
Lorraine heard them as she rode old Yellowjacket puffing up the grade, following the wagon marks, and knew that she was nearing the end of her journey, for which Yellowjacket, she supposed, would be thankful.
Yellowjacket was going to sleep without making any effort to find the way home. But since Lorraine had not told her father anything about it, his injunction could not have anything to do with the unreliability of the horse.
Yellow jacket, she noticed, kept circumspectly to the center of the trail and eyed the canyon with frank disfavor. She did not know at just what moment she became aware of trouble behind her. It may have been Yellowjacket, turning his head sidewise and abruptly quickening his pace that warned her.
Lorraine, following instinct rather than thought, pulled Yellowjacket into the first opening that presented itself. This was a narrow, rather precipitous gully that seamed the slope just beyond the bend. The bushes there whipped her head and shoulders cruelly as the horse forged in among them, but they trapped him effectually where the gully narrowed to a point.
When the fence was done, maybe he could rustle her another horse, and then he had added that he didn't see what ailed Yellowjacket, for all the riding she was likely to do.
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