"Is this the Ranger place perched on top o' th' warld? Y'r workmen in the white tent told me A'd find a short trail here-by t' th' next Valley. 'Tis y'r Missionary Williams A'm seekin'; A thought if A'd push on, push on, an' cat-er-corner y'r mountain here, A'd strike y'r River by moonlight! So A have! So A have! But it's Satan's own waste o' windfall 'mong these big trees! Such a leg-breakin' trail A have na' beaten since A peddled Texas tickler done up in Gospel hymn books filled wi' whiskey--" "Well--I'll--be--hanged," slowly ejaculated Mr. Bat Brydges. "Come far?" he asked aloud, fumbling his brain for a clue. The old man, emerging from the timbers, took off his hat and swabbed the sweat from his brow. Then he righted the saddle on his broncho. "Eh, woman, do A scare y'?" This to Calamity, just turning down the Ridge trail with a dun gray blanket filled with odds and ends on her shoulders, when the padded thud of the pack horse coming through the heavy timber was followed by the stalwart form of the newcomer. Face and form were frontiersman; vesture, clerical; but Old Calamity trotted back to the Range cabin. "Come far, did y' ask? More or less, more or less. A've come farther on unholier missions. We'd call it a nice bit snow-shoe run in the old days. Two months since A left Saskatchewan! We've taken our time, Bessie an' me--" caressing the mare with resounding slaps. "We're not so young as we were, Bessie an' me, when we sarved Satan hot-foot back an' forth these same trails till by the Grace o' God we broke halter from Hell for holier trail--" "Better loosen up and berth here for to-night," suggested the Ranger. "The Ridge trail is steep going, down grade, after dark for a stranger--" "Stranger?" The old man trumpeted a laugh that would have done credit to a megaphone. "Stranger, my kiddie boy? A've known these Rocky Mountain States when, if ye owned these pairts an' had a homestead in Hell, y'd rent y'r residence here and take up quiet life the other place! A knew these trails before y' were born, from Mexico to MacKenzie River, wherever men had a thirst. A've travelled these trails wi' cook stoves packed full o' Scotch dew, an' the Mounted Police hangin' t' m' tail till A scuttled the Boundary. Good days--rip roaring days for the makin' of strong men! We were none o' y'r cold blooded reptile calculatin' kind! May we fight valiant for God now as we wrestled for the Devil then! Oh, to be young again an' not spill life in wassail! to give the blows for right instead of wrong! Man, what a view y' have here--what a view! Minds me of the days A was bridge building in the Rockies--" "Then you've been in these mountains before?" asked Brydges; but the old frontiersman refused to take the bait and rambled on in his reverie.