The Press., 1892-10-13

"A fine horse that gray of yours,'' said I.
 "Yes; splendid fellow--stanch and true. He will go till he dies"
 ''In tip top condition too. What do you call him?'
 Pumps"
 "Why Pumps2 Why not Pistons? or Cranks? or Walking Beams? or some part of the steam engine that does the going directly2''
 "You have got the wrong C lew. l named him after our old dancing mas ter. Pumps, the horse, has 8 favorite amble, precisely like that skipping walk that Pumps, the man, used to set us for model-a mincing gait that prejudiced me until saw what a stride he kept for the time when stride was wanting"
 Here is my black gentleman. What do you think of him?"
 Don Fulano trotted up and licked a handful of corn from my hand. Corn was four dollars a bushel. The profits of the tFoolonner" mine did not allow of such luxuries. But old Gerrian had presented me with sack of it.
 Fulano crunched his corn, snorted his thanks and then snuffed questioningly, and afterward approvingly, about the stranger.
 ''Soul and body of Bucephalus!" said Brent. ''There is quadruped that is a horse."
 "Isn't he?" said I, thrilling with pride for him.
 gro look at such fellow is a romance. He is the most beautiful thing I ever saw"
 "No exceptions?'
 "Not one."
 "Womani lovely womanr I cried, with mock enthusiasm.
 "If had ever seen woman to com pare with that horse, after her kind, l should not be here."
 "Where then?"
 Wherever she was. Living for her Dying for her."
 Tomorrow it was. Having a comrade, I need not wait for the mail riders. Lucky that did not. They came only three days after us. But on the Hum bolt the Indians met them and obliged them to dof the tops of their heads, as mark of respect to Indian civilization.
 We started, two men and-seven an imals. Each of us had pack mule and roadster pony, with spare one, in Case accident should befall either of his wjry brethren.
 Pumps and Fulano, as good friends as their masters, trotted along without hur- den. We rode them rarely. Only often enough to remind them how saddle feels, and that dangling legs are not frightful. They must be fresh, if we should ever have to run for it. We might. Indians might cast fanciful glances atAthe tops of our heads. The other horses might give out. So Pumps, with his fantastic dancing step that would not crush grasshopper, and Fulano, grander, prouder, and still un- tamable to any one but me. went on waiting for their time of action.
 l skip the first thousand miles of our journey. Not that it was not exciting, but it might be anybody's journey. Myriads have made it. It is an old story.
 l will not even delay to describe Utah, not even for it's watermelons' sake, though that tricolor dainty greatly glad dened our dry jaws, as we followed the valley from Box Elder, the northern most settlement, to the city of the great Salt Lake.
 In few days of repose we had ex- hausted Mormon civilization and, horses and men fresh and in brave heart, we rode out of the modern Mecca one glori- ous day of early October through the bare defiles of the Wasatqh mountains, wall of Utah on the east. We passed Echo canyon and the other straight gates and rough ways through which the Lat ter-day Saints win an entrance to their Zion.
 We met them in throngs, hard at work at such winning. The summer emigra- tion of Mormons was beginning to come in. No one would have admitted their claim to saintship from their appearance. If they had no better passport than their garb, "Avaunt! Procul este profaniv' would have cried any trustworthy jani- tor of Zion. Saints, if I know them. are