Cairns remained with the Pack-train after that until the Rains.  Never did a boy have more to write about in three months.  Every phase and angle of that service, now half-forgotten, unfolded for his eyes.  And the impossible theme running through it all, was the carabao—­the great horned sponge that pulls vastly like an elephant and dies easily like a rabbit—­when the water is out....  They make no noise about their dying, these mountains of flesh, merely droop farther and farther forward against the yoke, when their skins crack from dryness; the whites of their eyes become wider and wider—­until they lay their tongues upon the sand.  The Chinese call them “cow-cows” and understand them better than the Tagals, as they understand better the rice and the paddies.

Once Thirteen was yanked out of Healy’s hand—­as no volley of native shots had ever disordered.  The mules were in a gorge trotting into the town of Indang.  Natives in the high places about, were waiting for the Train to debouch upon the river-bank—­so as to take a few shots at the outfit.  Every one expected this, but just as the Train broke out of the gorge into the open, at the edge of the river-bed—­there was a great sucking transfiguration from the shallows, a hideous sort of giving birth from the mud.

It was just a soaked carabao rising from his deep wallow in the stream, but that she-devil, the gray bell-mare, tried to climb the cliffs about it.  The mules felt her panic, as if an electrode ran from her to the quick of every hide of them.  When the fragments of the Train were finally gathered together in Indang, they formed an undone, hysterical mess.  The packers were too tired to eat, but sat around dazed, softly cursing, and smoking cigarettes; as they did one day after a big fight, in which one of their number, Jimmy the Tough, was shot through the brain.  For days the mules were nervous over the delicate condition of the bell.

Study of Andrew Bedient and weeks in which he learned, past the waver of a doubt, that his friend was knit with a glistening and imperishable fabric of courage, brought David Cairns to that high astonishing point, where he could say impatiently, “Rot!”—­as his former ideals of manhood rose to mind.  It was good for him to get this so young....  One morning something went wrong with Benton, the farrier.  He had been silent for days.  Bedient had sensed some trouble in the little man’s heart, and had often left Cairns to ride with him.  Then came the evening when the farrier was missed.  It was in the mountains near Naig.  At length, just as the sun went down, the Train saw him gain a high cliff—­and stand there for a moment against the red sky.  Bedient reached over and gripped Cairns’ arm.  Turning, the latter saw that his friend’s eyes were closed.  The remarkable thing was that not one of the packers called to Benton—­but all observed the lean tough little figure of one of the neatest men that ever lived afield—­regarded in silence the hard handsome profile.  Finally Benton drew out his pistol and looked at it, as if to see that the oil had kept out the dust from the hard day on the trail.  Then he looked into the muzzle and fired—­going over the cliff, as he had intended, and burying himself.