arp bed at night, and in the daytime led our long and
winding procession. Indomitable spirit that he was, he traveled three
miles to our one, saved us from the furious onslaughts of many a marmot
and mountain-squirrel, and, in the absence of fresh meat, ate his salt
pork and scraps with the zest of a hungry traveler.

Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Fred. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Fred,
because, like Joe, that was a part of their name. I will be frank about
Mrs. Fred. I was worried about her before I knew her. I was accustomed
to roughing it; but how about another woman? Would she be putting up her
hair in curlers every night, and whimpering when, as sometimes happens,
the slow gait of her horse became intolerable? Little did I know Mrs.
Fred. She was a natural wanderer, a follower of the trail, a fine and
sound and sporting traveling companion. And I like to think that she is
typical of the women of that Western country which bred her, feminine to
the core, but strong and sweet still.

Both the Freds were great additions. Was it not after Mr. Fred that we
trailed on that famous game-hunt of ours, of which a spirited account is
coming later? Was it not Mr. Fred who, night after night, took the
junior Rineharts away from an anxious mother into the depths of the
forest or the bleakness of mountain-slopes, there to lie, armed to the
teeth, and wait for the first bears to start out for breakfast?

Now you have us, I think, except the men of the outfit, and they deserve
space I cannot give them. They were a splendid lot, and it was by their
incessant labor that we got over.

Try to see us, then, filing along through deep valleys, climbing cliffs,
stumbling, struggling, not talking much, a long line of horses and
riders. First, far ahead, Mr. Hilligoss. Then the riders, led by "Silent
Lawrie," with me just behind him, because of photographs. Then, at the
head of the pack-horses, Dan Devore. Then the long line of pack-ponies,
sturdy and willing, and piled high with our food, our bedding, and our
tents. And here, there, and everywhere, Joe, with the moving-picture
camera.

We were determined, this time, to have no repetition of the Glacier Park
fiasco, where Bill, our cook, had deserted us at a bad time--although it
is always a bad time when the cook leaves. So now we had two cooks.
Much as I love the mountains and the woods, the purple of evening
valleys, the faint pink of sunrise on snow-covered peaks, the most
really thrill