Women were present in number sufficient to give continuity to the conversation, in the course of which I glanced round at the berths in the room and finally asked where, in case I should remain for the night, they would put me. To them the problem presented no difficulty. In fact, it was not uncommon on the frontier in early days for several families to be sheltered over night in a single room almost as satisfactorily as is now done in a Pullman sleeper, and with as little disturbance from sonorous slumberers who sometimes unwittingly throw their neighbors into a panic. I was present on one occasion when Costello, the well-known rancher in South Park, on a stormy night entertained forty-six sleepers--men and women--in three rooms. He said he believed he could handle two or three more, but it might make it a little crowded. "Is there another cabin not far away, where the man of the house is likely to be at home?" I asked, when the supper was over. After a little thought one of the women stated that about a mile down the canyon there lived an old fellow, at what was known as the toll gate. "O yes," said another, "you mean the Scotchman." The suggestion afforded an opportunity for retreat. Thanking the women, I paid for my supper and received definite instructions concerning the path, as the darkness of evening had begun to settle on the valley. I reached the other little hut, recognizing it first by the firelight shining through the small window. My approach to the cabin was proclaimed by the deep-toned barking of dogs from within. A "hello" brought the keeper to the door. Driving back the animals, and commanding them to shut up, he gave me an opportunity through the half open door to ask his permission to stay all night with him, which request was granted as a matter of course. Having arranged for some feed for my horse, we entered the hut. The Scotchman, who (I learned later) was well known by many Mormon people, was the sole occupant of the cabin, except that three huge mastiffs shared his company. On entering I took a seat in an uneasy chair before the fire, and the Scotchman, who was uncommunicative and not especially hospitable, soon stretched himself out upon the only bench in the room, wrapped himself up in his blanket, and fell asleep. The dogs, with half-opened eyes directed toward me as they were stretched before the fireplace, had become reconciled to my presence. The flickering firelight, which enabled me to write a few sentences in my note book, also exposed a dirty earth floor not covered at any point with boards. I had no blanket and the prospect for repose was dismal. As a diversion I wandered out into the night toward the place where my horse had been hitched, near which I had noticed a small pile of fresh straw, four or five feet in height. It occurred to me that this pile exactly met my requirements, and compared with it the Scotchman's dirt floor was not to be considered for a moment. The sky was now clear, and