When we reached our old camp in Barber Shop Canyon we were all glad to see Haught’s lost burro waiting for us there.  Not a scratch showed on the shaggy lop-eared little beast.  Haught for once unhobbled a burro and set it free without a parting kick.  Nielsen too had observed this omission on Haught’s part.  Nielsen was a desert man and he knew burros.  He said prospectors were inclined to show affection for burros by sundry cuffs and kicks.  And Nielsen told me a story about Haught.  It seemed the bear hunter was noted for that habit of kicking burros.  Sometimes he was in fun and sometimes, when burros were obstinate, he was in earnest.  Upon one occasion a big burro stayed away from camp quite a long time—­long enough to incur Haught’s displeasure.  He needed the burro and could not find it, and all he could do was to hunt for it.  Upon returning to camp there stood the big gray burro, lazy and fat, just as if he had been perfectly well behaved.  Haught put a halter on the burro, using strong language the while, and then he proceeded to exercise his habit of kicking burros.  He kicked this one until its fat belly gave forth sounds exceedingly like a bass drum.  When Haught had ended his exercise he tied up the burro.  Presently a man came running into Haught’s camp.  He appeared alarmed.  He was wet and panting.  Haught recognized him as a miner from a mine nearby.  “Hey Haught,” panted the miner, “hev you seen—­your gray burro—­thet big one—­with white face?”

“Shore, there he is,” replied Haught.  “Son of a gun jest rustled home.”

The miner appeared immensely relieved.  He looked and looked at the gray burro as if to make sure it was there, in the solid flesh, a really tangible object.  Then he said:  “We was all afeared you’d kick the stuffin’s out of him!...  Not an hour ago he was over at the mine, an’ he ate five sticks of dynamite!  Five sticks!  For Lord’s sake handle him gently!”

Haught turned pale and suddenly sat down.  “Ahuh!” was all he said.  But he had a strange hunted look.  And not for a long time did he ever again kick a burro!

* * * * *

Hunting conditions at Dude Creek had changed greatly to our benefit.  The trappers had pulled up stakes and gone to some other section of the country.  There was not a hunting party within fifteen miles of our camp.  Leaves and acorns were all down; trails were soft and easy to travel; no dust rose on the southern slopes; the days were cold and bright; in every pocket and ravine there was water for the dogs; from any stand we could see into the shaggy thickets where before all we could see was a blaze of color.