Every morning at eight the riderless horses come galloping down the road to Many Glaciers, urged on by a guide whose feelings, judging by his riding, seem to be at a boiling point. In a half hour the tourists straggle out, some in formal riding clothes, some in very informal ones, and some dressed as they think the West expects every man to dress. The assembled guides with wary glances “take stock” of their day’s “outfit,”--always a gamble. With uncanny instinct they sort the experienced riders from the “doods” and lead each to his appropriate mount. These indifferent looking, lean, swarthy men sit huddled on the corral rail, and exchange quiet monosyllables which would mean nothing to the “dood” if he could overhear. With their tabloid lingo they could talk about you to your face,--though most of them are too well-mannered,--and from their gravely courteous words you would never suspect it. Guides are past masters of overtones. Their wit is seldom gay and robust,--always gently ironic. I saw a very stout lady go through the Great Adventure of mounting, plunging forward violently and throwing her right leg forward over the pommel. It was a masterly effort which her guide watched with impassive face, encouraging her at the finish with a gently whispered, “Fine, lady! And next time I bet you could do it even better by throwing your leg backwards.” He was the same one who soothed a nervous and inexperienced rider who dreaded the terrors of Swiftcurrent Pass. “Now, lady, just hang your reins over the horn, and leave it to the horse.” “Heavens,” she replied, “will he go down that terrible trail all alone?” “Oh, no, lady. He’ll take you right along with him.” There is always one tourist whose tardiness holds up the party, and one morning it chanced I was that one. The guide--it was Bill--handed me my reins and adjusted my stirrups with a with-holding air. As we rode up Gunsight, I heard him humming a little tune. A word now and then whetted my curiosity. “What are you singing, Bill?” All guides have monosyllabic names, as Ed, Mike, Jack, Cal, and Tex. Very impersonally Bill repeated the song in a cracked tenor: “I wrangled my horses, was feelin’ fine, Couldn’t git my doods up till half past nine. I didn’t cuss, and I didn’t yell, But we lit up the trail like a bat out of hell.” “A very nice song, Bill. Did you compose it yourself?” “No, ma’am. It’s just a song.”