“Massachusetts! What do you see in a God-forsaken hole like this to tempt you from such a state? I wish I could go there,--or anywhere away from this place.” Everywhere we heard the same refrain. Three years of killing drought had scorched the treeless plains to a cinder. The wheat, promise and hope of Alberta, had failed, and immigrants who had gone there expecting to return to the old country in a few years with a fortune, were so completely ruined they could neither go back nor forward, but saw dismal years of stagnation before them. There are more cheerful places than Alberta in which to face bankruptcy. So near the border, this part of Canada is half American,--American with a cockney accent. But it is newer and rawer than our own west by a decade or two, with less taste apparent, less prosperity, more squalid shiftlessness. The section through which we drove had been mainly conquered by the Mormons, driven into Canada when the United States was most inhospitable to their sect. They in turn have converted many of the immigrants from the old country. The church or tithe lands make sharp contrast in their prosperity, their thousands of sleek, blooded cattle and irrigated fields to the forlorn little settlements of individuals. As every Mormon pays a tenth of all he has to his church it is easy to understand this contrast. In our six months of travel we had driven over the reservations of the Papago, Pima and Maricopa, the Apache, Hopi, Havasupai, Navajo, Ute, Piute, Pueblo, Shoshone, Blackfeet and Flatheads. We were now on the Blood Indian reservation, though we saw few inhabitants. Those we saw were red-skinned and tall, resembling the other Northern tribes. The country grew less inhabited. We met no other cars and few people. Fifty miles north of Browning, our last town, we came to a lumber camp, and seven miles further our car quietly ceased to move, and rested in peace on a hillside. Since its wetting in Nambe creek, the ignition had been prone to such sudden stops and starts. From past experience we knew that the ignition system must be completely taken apart, exposing its innermost parts to the daylight. All I knew about it was summed up in my brother’s parting advice, “Never monkey with your ignition.” All Toby knew was that Bill of Santa Fé had taken it apart, done something to it, put it together again, and it ran. So we decided to follow Bill’s procedure as far as we could, and began by taking it apart. That went very well until we discovered some covetous person had removed all the tiny tools used in operating on this part of the engine, leaving us only a monkey wrench and a large pair of pincers. Toby nearly stood on her head trying to unscrew very little screws with the big wrench, and progressed but slowly, as she had to change her entire position with each quarter turn.