Such incidents, happening almost daily, began to give us a reckless faith in our luck, or our guardian angels, or the special Providence said to look after certain types of people, whichever you may choose to call it. Ministering angels of the first calibre had perfected their system to give instant service day or night. They thought nothing of letting us run dry of gasoline on a road where all morning we had not passed a single car, and sending us within five minutes a truck carrying a barrel of the useful fluid. They delighted in letting us drive a bit too fast down a narrow canyon, where a blowout from our ragged tires would have mingled our bones forever with the “old lady’s,” arriving scatheless at the bottom simultaneously with a blowout which dragged us, standing, across the road. Once a Ford, driven by inexpert and slightly befuddled Elks, crashed into us on a narrow bridge, with no results beyond a bent canteen. When we broke four spring leaves at dusk in a lonesome hamlet, they placed across the street an expert German blacksmith of the old school, who did not object to night hours, and who forged us new springs which finally outwore the car. By happy mistake, they took us down pleasant by-paths less fortunate tourists who went by Bluebook never knew. Altogether, they were a firm of remarkable reliability, and if I knew their address I should publish it. But they preferred to do good anonymously. I think it was they who directed us through the Shoshone reservation on the very day of the year when the tribe held its important ceremony, the Sun Dance. We reached Fort Hall, the Shoshone agency, one morning, and were told casually of a dance being held on the reservation, not a mile out of our way. When we reached it a magnificent Indian, the first we had seen who could be called a red man, (for the Southern Indians are brown and ochre colored), barred our path on horseback. He knew his cerise sateen shirt was becoming, even without the purple necktie he wore. It gave him confidence to demand an entrance fee of $2.00--an entirely impromptu idea inspired by our eagerness. The more I see of Lo the Poor Indian the more I am convinced that he is poor only for lack of opportunity to exercise his talents. However, the dance was worth the money,--far more than some other barefoot dances I have seen.