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208
Animal Heroes
·
Ernest Thompson Seton
125
Such
a
town
is
a
place
to
get
out
of,
as
soon
as
possible,
so
thought
the
traveller
who
found
himself
laid
over
here
for
two
days
in
late
winter.
He
asked
after
the
sights
of
the
place.
A
white
Muskrat
stuffed
in
a
case
"down
to
the
saloon";
old
Baccy
Bullin,
who
had
been
scalped
by
the
Indians
forty
years
ago;
and
a
pipe
once
smoked
by
Kit
Carson,
proved
unattractive,
so
he
turned
toward
the
prairie,
still
white
with
snow.
A
mark
among
the
numerous
Dog
tracks
caught
his
eye:
it
was
the
track
of
a
large
Jack-rabbit.
He
asked
a
passer-by
if
there
were
any
Rabbits
in
town.
"No,
I
reckon
not.
I
never
seen
none,"
was
the
answer.
A
mill-hand
gave
the
same
reply,
but
a
small
boy
with
a
bundle
of
newspapers
said:
"You
bet
there
is;
there's
lots
of
them
out
there
on
the
prairie,
and
they
come
in
town
a-plenty.
Why,
there's
a
big,
big
feller
lives
right
round
Si
Kalb's
melon-patch--oh,
an
awful
big
feller,
and
just
as
black
and
as
white
as
checkers!"
and
thus
he
sent
the
stranger
eastward
on
his
walk.
The
"big,
big,
awful
big
one"
was
the
Little
Warhorse
himself.
He
didn't
live
in
Kalb's
melon-patch;
he
was
there
only
at
odd
times.
He
was
not
there
now;
he
was
in
his
west-fronting
form
or
bed,
because
a
raw
east
wind
was
setting
in.
It
was
due
east
of
Madison
Avenue,
and
as
the
stranger
plodded
that
way
the
Rabbit
watched
him.
As
long
as
the
man
kept
the
road
the
Jack
was
quiet,
but
the
road
turned
shortly
to
the
north,
and
the
man
by
chance
left
it
and
came
straight
on.
Then
the
Jack
saw
trouble
ahead.
The
moment
the
man
left
the
beaten
track,
he
bounded
from
his
form,
and
wheeling,
he
sailed
across
the
prairie
due
east.
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