So Billy Grimm's sign was a pile of empty beer kegs racked up alongside the front door. Sometimes in mild weather he'd have another sign--some wayfarer that had been overtaken just as he got outside and was sleeping it off on the sidewalk. After the first of November all the flies in the state that didn't have anywhere else to go went to Billy's place and wintered there. He was Montana's leading house-fly fancier. He was getting his share of my patronage and I happened to be on the spot when this Bollinger colt decided to stop right where he was and stay there until he froze solid. You know how it is when a hoss goes balky. In less than no time at all the entire leisure class of Triple Falls were assembled, giving advice about how to get that hoss started again. They twisted his ear and they tried stoving in his ribs by kicking him in the side and they pushed against his hind quarters and dragged at the bit, and through it all that wall-eyed, Roman-nosed plug remained just as stationary as an Old Line Republican. Alongside of him, the Rock of Gibraltar would seem downright restless. And then this Samson Goodhue comes bulging into the circle and takes charge. "Stand back, everybody, please," he says, "while I show you how to unbalk a horse. Get me a few pieces of kindling wood, somebody," he says, "and some paper or some straw or something." Various persons hurry off in all directions, eager to obey. In every crowd there are plenty of suckers who'll carry out any kind of orders if somebody who acts executive will give them. So when they've assembled his supplies for him he makes a little pile of 'em on the packed snow right under the cayuse's belly and is preparing to scratch a match and telling Whiz Bollinger to climb back on his seat and take a strong grip on the reins, when Mrs. Oliver J. Doheny, who's among the few ladies present, interferes with the proceedings. Now this here Mrs. Oliver J. Doheny is at that remote period our principal reform element. She's 'specially strong on cruelty to dumb beasts, being heartily against it. It's only been a few weeks before this that a trapper trails down from across the international boundary with one of those big Canada bobcats that he's caught in a trap and he's got it on exhibition in a cage in Hyman Frieder's Climax Clothing Store, when Mrs. Doheny happens along and sees how the thing sort of drags one foot where the trap pinched it and she begins tongue-lashing the Canuck for not having bound up its wounds.