Another night of alternate tranquillity and turmoil.  But morning came, by and by.  It was another glad awakening to fresh breezes, vast expanses of level greensward, bright sunlight, an impressive solitude utterly without visible human beings or human habitations, and an atmosphere of such amazing magnifying properties that trees that seemed close at hand were more than three mile away.  We resumed undress uniform, climbed a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side, shouted occasionally at our frantic mules, merely to see them lay their ears back and scamper faster, tied our hats on to keep our hair from blowing away, and leveled an outlook over the world-wide carpet about us for things new and strange to gaze at.  Even at this day it thrills me through and through to think of the life, the gladness and the wild sense of freedom that used to make the blood dance in my veins on those fine overland mornings!

Along about an hour after breakfast we saw the first prairie-dog villages, the first antelope, and the first wolf.  If I remember rightly, this latter was the regular cayote (pronounced ky-o-te) of the farther deserts.  And if it was, he was not a pretty creature or respectable either, for I got well acquainted with his race afterward, and can speak with confidence.  The cayote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking skeleton, with a gray wolf-skin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth.  He has a general slinking expression all over.  The cayote is a living, breathing allegory of Want.  He is always hungry.

He is always poor, out of luck and friendless.  The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede.  He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it.  And he is so homely!—­so scrawny, and ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful.  When he sees you he lifts his lip and lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns a little out of the course he was pursuing, depresses his head a bit, and strikes a long, soft-footed trot through the sage-brush, glancing over his shoulder at you, from time to time, till he is about out of easy pistol range, and then he stops and takes a deliberate survey of you; he will trot fifty yards and stop again—­another fifty and stop again; and finally the gray of his gliding body blends with the gray of the sage-brush, and he disappears.  All this is when you make no demonstration against him; but if you do, he develops a livelier interest in his journey, and instantly electrifies his heels and puts such a deal of real estate between himself and your weapon, that by the time you have raised the hammer you see that you need a minie rifle, and by the time you have got him in