The Native Genius pointed up the trail. Toward us came Eagle Ribs, titular head of the resident group of members of the Blackfeet Confederacy, now under special retainers by the hotel management to furnish touches of true Western color to the adjacent landscape. The chief was in civilian garb; he was eating peanut brittle from a small paper bag. "You'll observe that old Ribs has shucked his dance clothes," said my friend, "which means the official morning reception is over and the latest batch of sight-seers from all points East have scattered off or something. I guess it'll be safe for us to go back." We fell into step; the path was wide enough for two going abreast. "So you never heard anything more of the Good Samaritan?" I prompted, being greedy for the last tidbitty bite of this narrative. "Nope. I judge somebody who couldn't appreciate his talents must have beefed him. But I'm reasonably certain he left descendants to carry on the family inheritance. One of 'em is in this vicinity now, I think." "You're referring to what's-his-name who started the second fire last night--aren't you?" I asked. "Not him. If he'd had a single drop of the real Good Sam blood in him his fire would be raging yet and my camp would be only a recent site. "No, the one I've got in mind is the party with the saxophone. Did you get some faint feeble notion of the nature of the tune he was trying to force out of that reluctant horn of his? Well, it would be just like Good Sam's grandson to practice up on some such an air as that--and then play it as a serenade at midnight under the window of a sick friend." HOW TO CHOKE A CAT WITHOUT USING BUTTER [Decoration] This writer has always contended that the ability to make a great individual fortune is not necessarily an ability based on superior intelligence--that in the case of the average multi-millionaire it merely is a sort of sublimated instinct, in a way like the instinct of a rat-terrier for smelling out hidden rats. The ordinary dull-nosed dog goes past a wainscoting and never suspects a thing; then your terrier comes along and he takes one whiff at the bottom of that baseboard and immediately starts pawing for his prey. He knows. It's his nature to know. Yet in other regards he may be rather an uninteresting creature, one without special gifts. And so it is with many of our outstanding dollar-wizards, or at least so it would appear to those on the outside looking in. They differ from the commonplace run of mortals only in their ken for detecting opportunities to derive dividends from quarters which we cannot discern. Peel off their financial ratings from them and they'd be as the rest of us are--or even more so.