the world. Here, Johnny, our guide,
felt moved to speech, and we hearkened to his words and hungered for
more, for Johnny knows the ranges of the Northwest as a city dweller
knows his own little side street. In the fall of the year Johnny comes
down to the canyon and serves as a guide a while; and then, when he gets
so he just can't stand associating with tourists any longer, he packs
his war bags and journeys back to the Northern Range and enjoys the
company of cows a spell. Cows are not exactly exciting, but they don't
ask fool questions.

A highly competent young person is Johnny and a cow-puncher of parts.
Most of the canyon guides are cow-punchers--accomplished ones, too, and
of high standing in the profession. With a touch of reverence Johnny
pointed out to us Sam Scovel, the greatest bronco buster of his time,
now engaged in piloting tourists.

"Can he ride?" echoed Johnny in answer to our question. "Scovel could
ride an earthquake if she stood still long enough for him to mount! He
rode Steamboat--not Young Steamboat, but Old Steamboat! He rode Rocking
Chair, and he's the only man that ever did that and was not called on in
a couple of days to attend his own funeral."

We went on and on at a lazy mule trot, hearing the unwritten annals of
the range from one who had seen them enacted at first hand. Pretty soon
we passed a herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty hides,
feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and just before sunset we
slid down the last declivity out upon the plateau and came to a camp as
was a camp!

This was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey vengeance! Here were
three tents, or rather three canvas houses, with wooden half walls; and
they were spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows in them
and doors and matched wooden floors. . . . The mess tent was provided
with a table with a clean cloth to go over it, and there were china
dishes and china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. . . . Bill was
in charge of the camp--a dark, rangy, good-looking leading man of a
cowboy, wearing his blue shirt and his red neckerchief with an air.

That Johnny certainly could cook! Served on china dishes upon a
cloth-covered table, we had mounds of fried steaks and shoals of fried
bacon; and a bushel, more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green
peas and sliced peaches out of cans; and sour-dough biscuits as light as
kisses and much more filling; and fresh butter and fres