t unto the
laughter of my good advisers. I christen thee _Atom_!"

The bottle broke--directly above that bucket.

And now before us lay the impossible as plainly pointed out, not only by
local talent, but by no less a man that the august captain of a
government snag-boat. Several weeks before the launching, an event had
taken place at Benton. The first steamboat for sixteen years tied up
there one evening. She was a government snag-boat. Now a government
snag-boat may be defined as a boat maintained by the government for the
sole purpose of sailing the river _and dodging snags_. This particular
snag-boat, I learned afterward in the course of a long cruise behind
her, holds the snag-boat record. I consider her pilot a truly remarkable
man. He seemed to have dodged them all.

All Benton turned out to view the big red and white government steamer.
There was something almost pathetic about the public demonstration when
you thought of the good old steamboat days. During her one day's visit
to the town, I met the captain.

[Illustration: A ROUND-UP OUTFIT ON THE MARCH.]

[Illustration: JOE.]

[Illustration: MONTANA SHEEP.]

[Illustration: A MONTANA WOOL-FREIGHTER.]

He was very stiff and proud. He awed me. I stood before him fumbling my
hat. Said I to myself: "The personage before me is more than a snag-boat
captain. This is none other than the gentleman who invented the Missouri
River. No doubt even now he carries the patent in his pocket!"

"Going down river in a power canoe, eh?" he growled, regarding me
critically. "Well, you'll never get down!"

"That so?" croaked I, endeavoring to swallow my Adam's apple.

"No, you won't!"

"Why?" ventured I timidly, almost pleadingly; "isn't there--uh--isn't
there--uh--_water enough_?"

"Water enough--yes!" growled the personage who invented the longest
river in the world and therefore knew what he was talking about. "Plenty
of water--_but you won't find it_!"

Now as the _Atom_ slid into the stream, I thought of the captain's
words. Since that time the river had fallen three feet. We drew eighteen
inches.

Sixty-five days after that oraculous utterance of the captain, the Kid
and I, half stripped, sun-burned, sweating at the oars, were forging
slowly against a head wind at the mouth of the Cheyenne, sixteen hundred
miles below the head of navigation. A big white and red steamer was
creeping up stream over the shallow crossing of the Cheyenne's bar,
sounding every f