This swearing and lashing went on until the heavily-loaded
prairie-schooner, swaying, swinging, and swerving to the edge of
the cut, and back again to the perpendicular wall of the
mountain, would finally reach the top, and pass on around the
bend; then another would do the same. Each teamster had his own
particular variety of oaths, each mule had a feminine name, and
this brought the swearing down to a sort of personal basis. I
remonstrated with Jack, but he said: teamsters always swore; "the
mules wouldn't even stir to go up a hill, if they weren't sworn
at like that."

By the time we had crossed the great Mogollon mesa, I had become
accustomed to those dreadful oaths, and learned to admire the
skill, persistency and endurance shown by those rough teamsters.
I actually got so far as to believe what Jack had told me about
the swearing being necessary, for I saw impossible feats
performed by the combination.

When near camp, and over the difficult places, we drove on ahead
and waited for the wagons to come in. It was sometimes late
evening before tents could be pitched and supper cooked. And oh!
to see the poor jaded animals when the wagons reached camp! I
could forget my own discomfort and even hunger, when I looked at
their sad faces.

One night the teamsters reported that a six-mule team had rolled
down the steep side of a mountain. I did not ask what became of
the poor faithful mules; I do not know, to this day. In my pity
and real distress over the fate of these patient brutes, I forgot