They have a way of taking their revenge, neat and bloodless, but your head comes off in their hand just the same. Bill had a honeymoon couple going to Sperry, and taking a dislike to the groom, whom he thought “too fresh,” he placed him at the tail of the queue, and the bride, who was pretty, behind himself. The sight of Bill chatting gaily with his bride of a day, and his bride chatting gaily with Bill, became more than the groom could bear, and in spite of resentful glances from those he edged past on the narrow trail, he worked his way patiently up to a position behind the bride, only to receive a cold glare from Bill, and the words, “Against the rules of the Park to change places in line, Mister.” Bill was not usually so punctilious about Park rules, but the groom did not know this, and suffered Bill to dismount and lead his horse back to the rear, after which he returned to his conversation with the pretty bride. This play continued throughout the day with no change of expression or loss of patience on the part of Bill. Glacier Park is no place to go on a honeymoon. At Glacier, society has no distinctions, but it has three divisions,--excluding, of course, the Blackfeet Indians to whom the Park originally belonged. They are the “doods,” the guides, and the “hash-slingers.” Each guide, as he slants lop-sidedly over a mile deep cut-bank keeps a pleased eye on some lithe figure in the neatest of boots and Norfolk coats, whom he has picked for his “dood girl.” He favors her with a drink from his canteen, long anecdotes about his “hoss,” or if he is hard hit and she is a good rider, with offers of a ride on his “top-hoss.” But when he has helped his tourists dismount, limping and sore at the foot of a twenty mile descent, he gallops his string of “empties” to the corral, and in half an hour is seen roping some dainty maiden in Swiss costume,--playing his tinkling notes on the Eternal Triangle. When they do cast an eye in your direction it is something to remember. There was Tex,--or was his name Sam?--who took us up to Iceberg. He never looked back at us, nor showed any of the kittenishness common to the male at such moments, but every five minutes issued a solitary sentence, impersonal and, like a jigsaw puzzle, meaningless until put together. “I never had no girl.” We turned three switchbacks. “Don’t suppose no girl would ever look at me.” Five minutes passed. He looked over the ears of his roan top-horse. “I got a little hoss home I gentled. She was a wild hoss, and only me could ride her. But I rode her good.” He stopped to lengthen a tourist’s stirrups, and mounted again. “I got a silver-mounted bridle cost $500 when it was new. I bought it cheap. Has one of those here monograms on it, J. W. and two silver hearts.” “Are they your initials?” “No, ma’am. They stood for something else--George Washington maybe.” A pause. “I taught that little pony of mine to do tricks.”