there was a larger gathering than I had hoped to meet. Some members of the party took a half-reclining position on bunks built along the sides of the room, others straddled rough wooden chairs, a number of which, when I entered, surrounded a table on which lay a pack of cards. The man who first addressed me continued the conversation during which, while facing me, he stood with feet somewhat apart and his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. The sombre effect of his heavy black mustache, stubby beard, and swarthy complexion was somewhat relieved by the good-natured manner in which he conversed, and by his cordial request that I join with him in a drink from a black bottle that he took from a cupboard, an invitation which was interpreted as being an evidence of his benevolent impulses. The black-haired man seemed to be astounded when I declined to drink his good whiskey. The fact that my newly-found friend and some of his companions carried revolvers in their belts signified but little, because even I, a peaceful traveler, had carried my rifle, as was our usual custom where there was any hope of finding game. "What kind of a gun have you got?" asked the rancher, as he stopped and took it from my hands. "It's a Henry." The men gathered around and one by one carefully examined the rifle. "Sixteen shooters, ain't they?" asked one. "Yes, 32 calibre." While the weapon was commanding the undivided attention of the men in the room, an occasion was afforded me to take a more careful survey of the furnishings, among which were a few guns, saddles, and other trappings for horsemen. I was what might properly be termed, in the parlance of the country, an innocent tenderfoot, and yet an innocent on observing the interior of a home cannot fail to form some impressions concerning the type of people who occupy it. "This stream off here is a branch of Green River, is it not?" I propounded the question partly to get my bearings and partly to hasten the examination of the rifle. "Yes," replied one, without raising his eyes from the gun, "it's Ham's Fork,--but does this gun throw the spent cartridge all right when the hammer comes up?" "Yes, it works all right. Is there much game along the stream?" "Wa'al, there's right smart of game round here sometimes,"--which response was a shibboleth that betrayed the speaker as having come from Indiana. Something, for the first time since we left the Missouri River, brought to my mind the spirit of Whitmore's admonition, "Beware of Ham's Fork."