“Hello!” Monty shouted buoyantly, for all he had just finished a twenty-mile ride through desert heat. He waited a minute, got no reply, and dismounted. He pushed open the door and went in, his eyes betraying a shade of anxiety. The cabin was clean, blankets spread smoothly on the bunk. He lifted a square of unbleached cloth that had once been a flour sack which covered sugar, salt, pepper, condensed milk and four tin teaspoons, lately scoured until they almost shone, leaning bowls up in an empty milk can. Also a white enameled bowl two thirds full of dried apples and raisins stewed together. Monty heaved a sigh of relief. The movie star was evidently keeping house just like a human. Monty went out and stood at the corner of the cabin near the horse. There was nothing the matter with his lungs, but the rest of him was tired. He hunted Gary by the simplest means at his command. That is, he cupped his palms around his mouth, curved his spine inward, planted his feet rather far apart, and sent a loud “Hello!” echoing through the cañon. The thin-flanked sorrel threw up its head violently and backed, stepped on the dragging reins and was brought up short. Monty turned, picked up the reins and drawled a reproof before he called again. Four times he shouted and proceeded then to unsaddle. If the movie star were anywhere within Johnnywater Cañon he could not fail to know that he had a caller come to see him. Five minutes later Monty glanced up and stared with his mouth slightly open. Gary was sneaking around the corner of the cabin with raised pitchfork in his hands and a glitter in his eyes. When he saw who it was, Gary lowered the pitchfork and grinned sheepishly. “When you holler hello in this cañon, _smile_!” he paraphrased whimsically, and drew his shirt sleeve across his forehead. “Thought I’d landed that trick Voice at last. Well, darn it, how are you?” “All right,” Monty grinned slowly, “if you just put down that hay fork. What’s the matter? You gittin’ like Waddell?” Gary leaned the pitchfork against the cabin. He pushed his hair back from his forehead with a gesture familiar to audiences the country over. “By heck, I hope not,” he exclaimed brusquely. “I’d given up looking for you, Monty. And that cussed Voice sounded to me like it had slipped. I’ve got used to it up on the hill, but I sure as heck will take a fall out of it if it comes hollering around my humble hang-out. Where’s the Ford?” Monty pulled saddle and blanket together from the back of the sorrel, leaving the wet imprint shining in the sun. The sorrel twitched its hide as the air struck through the moisture coldly.