One name to go. I had been reserving the sobriquet of "Ninety- seven-fifty" for my last-minute purchase. However, he almost got tagged "Methuselah" when he stepped out of the trailer into broad daylight. It seemed that everybody had something derogatory to say.
"Look at that swayback."
"Boy, what a jug head."
"A real ragged runt."
"A horse with curly hair?"

But, with this, the poor thing looked up with a snort and gave us all a go-to-you-know-where look. That did it. Horses rarely exhibit human characteristics, yet up in our mining camp in Alaska we had a sourdough, seventy-three years—young, that could outwork any of the "not dry behind the ears whipper-snappers" on the crew. After an evenings 'snort' I had seen the same bright gleam in Colonel Johnson's (an honorary title) eye. Feeling much relieved, I knew then this horse would make it all the way, and I gave our "Colonel Rags," a hug.

After a month and a half of motor knocking, boot wearing, fingernail biting, pocket book pilfering, boondoggling bureaucrats, and general frazzle, we—almost—were ready to leave.