He says it means, "Eating-house woman chasing—Jesse galloping—home dead finish."

And some of it is worse!

I dare not accuse my dear man of being narrow-minded. I have no doubt that he is quite justified in his intense antipathy to niggers, dagos, and chinks—indeed, he will not allow my Chinese servant on the ranch. But if I wished to uncork a choice vintage of stories, I alluded to his prejudice against the word "grizzly" as applied to his pet bear.

"Now that's whar yo're dead wrong." He threw a log of cedar upon our camp altar, making fresh incense to the wild gods. "The landlord's a silver-tip, fat as butter. Down in the low country, whar feed is mean, and Britishers around, the b'ars is poor, and called grizzlies. I'd be shamed to have a grizzly on my ranch. Come to think, though, Kate, the landlord was a sure-enough grizzly three years back. He'd had misfortunes."

"Tell me." As he stirred the fire, gathering his thoughts, I watched the cedar sparks, a very torchlight procession of fairies flowing upward into the darkness overhead.

"Wall, you see, he and the landlady was always around same as you and me, but not together. No. Being respectable b'ars they'd feed at opposite ends of the pasture."

"But don't the married couples live together?"

"None. They feels it ain't quite modest to make a show of their marriage. You see, Kate, after all, these b'ars is not like us but sort of foreigners. Mother gets kind of secluded when there's cubs, 'cause father's so careless and eats 'em."

"How disgusting!"

"I dunno. Time I speak of, their three young lady b'ars was married somewheres up in the black pines, whar it takes say fifty square miles to feed one silver-tip—and no tourists to help out in times of famine. That country was gettin' over-stocked, with a high protective tariff agin caÑon b'ars.

"And here's the landlady down on our ranch, chuck full of fiscal theories. 'B'ars is good,' says she, 'the more cubs the merrier,' says she, 'let's be fruitful and multiply.' And it's only a two b'ar ranch. Thar ain't no England handy whar she can dump spare cubs.

"So the landlord gets provident and eats the cubs. Naturally thar's a sort of coolness arises over that, so that she's feeding north, while he's around south. Then the salmon season happens. There's only two fishing rocks in our reach, the same being close together. The landlord, he fishes at the back-water rock. The landlady fishes at the rapids rock. They has to pretend they've not been introjuiced.

"There's been heavy rains, and up on the edge of the bench I seen a new crack opening across Apex Rock. I'd have put up a danger notice, only these people thinks it's for scratching their backs on. There's the crack getting wider, and the landlady fishing right underneath, and me hollerin,' but she's too full of pride to care about my worries. So I thinks maybe if I just drop her a hint she'll begin to set up and take notice. I run home for my rifle, posts myself at big pine, takes a steady bead, and lets fly, knocking a salmon out of the lady's mouth. Then I remembers that the shock of a gunshot is enough to loose the end of Apex Rock. It does, and while the scenery is being rearranged, the landlady sets up, wondering what's the trouble. When the dust clears, Apex Rock up here is reduced to a stump; down thar by the rapids the fishing rock's extended with additions; the landlord's a widower, running for all he's worth; and the landlady is no more—not enough left of her to warrant funeral obsequies."

"Why is the landlord called Eph?"

"Christian name. Most b'ars is Ephraim, but he's Ephrata which means 'be open.' I tried to get him to be open with me instead of stealing chickens. That's when the bad year come."

"Were you in difficulties?"

"Eph was. Them canneries down to salt water, had fished the Fraser out, and the hatchery didn't get to its work until the fourth year, when the new spawn come back to their home river. Yes, and the sarvis berries failed. I dunno why, but the silver-tips of this districk ain't partial to the same kinds of feed as they practises in Montana and Idaho. Down south they'll lunch on grubs, ants, or dog-tooth violets, but Eph ain't an original thinker. He runs to application, and shies at new ideas. He'd vote conservative. So when the salmon and berries went back on him, he sort of petered out. He come to the cabin and said, plain as talk, he was nigh quitting business."

"But, Jesse! A starving gr—I mean b'ar. Weren't you afraid even then?"

"Why for? My pardner attends to his business, and don't interfere with my hawss ranch. He owns the grubs, berries, salmon, wild honey and fixings. I owns the grass, stock, chickens, and garden sass. When we disagreed about them cabbages, I shot holes in his ears until he allowed they was mine. His ears is still sort of untidy. As to his eating Sarah, wall, I warned her not to tempt poor Eph too much."

"Sarah?"

"Jones' foal. Being a fool runs in her family. Wall, Sarah died, and cabbages was gettin' seldom, and Eph was losing confidence in my aim, although I told him I'm tough as sea beef."

"He did attack you then?"

"Not exactly. His acts might have been misunderstood, though. Seemed to me it was time to survey the pasture, and see how much in the way of grub could be spared to a poor widower. These people eats meat, but they like it butchered for 'em, and ripened. Down at the south end, I spared Eph a family of wolverines, one at a time, to make the rations hold out. He began to get encouraged. Then this place was just humming with rattlesnakes, so Eph and me just went around together so long as the hunting was worth the trouble. I doubt if there's any left."

At that I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Then Eph gets sassy, wanting squir'ls and chipmunks. Now thar I was firm. Every striped varmint of 'em may rob my oat sacks, every squir'l may set up and cuss me all day, but they won't get hurt. They scold and swear, but every lil' devil among them knows I like being insulted. Though they has enemies—foxes, mink, skunk, weasel, I fed that lot to Eph, saving the foxes. Tell you, Kate, the landlord began to get so proud he wouldn't know me."

"Your great eagles, Jesse; they kill squirrels, too."

"That's a fact. If I shot the eagles, them squir'ls would get too joyful. Eagles acks as a sort of religion to squir'ls, or they'd forget their prayers. The next proposition was cougars."

"Oh, I'm glad you killed them. At the old ranch I was so terrified I'd lie awake all night."

"And you a musician! Now that's curious. You like lil' small cats, only one foot from top to tip, although I own they're songsters for their size. But a nine foot cougar, with a ten-thousand cat-power voice, composing along as he goes, why he's full of music. Now I was goin' to propose a cougar opera troupe. They'd knock the stuffing out of that Wagner, anyway."

"Not for me, dear. You see, there's trade rivalry. I wish you had shot them."

"I'm sort of sorry. Many's the time, camped on your bench land, which I own is a good place for cougars, I'd set up half the night to listen. They'd come purring so close I could see their eyes glint. Seemed to me they sat round on their tails and purred because they liked a camp whar there was no gun-smell. They sang love songs, big war songs, and all kinds of music. Fancy you bein' scared!

"Kill them? They're hard to see as ghosts, and every time you fire they just get absent. That ain't the reason though, for if the landlord wanted cat's meat, I'd like to see the fight."

"They'd never dare to fight that giant bear!"

"I dunno. Eph ain't lost no cougars. He treats them as total strangers.

"But the real reason I fed no mountain-lions to Eph is mostly connected with sheep. Cougars does a right smart business in sheep, 'specially Surly Brown's. Sheep is meaner's snakes, sheepmen is meaner'n sheep, and if the herders disagrees with the cougars, give me the cougars. Sheepmen is dirt."

There spoke the unregenerate cow-boy!

"But, Jesse dear, are you sure that Eph won't expect me to be 'spared' next time he's hungry?"

"Why, no. He was raised respectable, and there's a proper etiquette for b'ars on meeting a lady. It's sort of first dance-movements:—'general slide, pass the cloak-room, and whar's my little home?'"

* * * * * *

Jesse's Note

N. B.—Kate and me agrees that the next chapter has to be cut out, being dull. It's all about the barn-raising after we got home to the ranch. The neighbors put us up a fine big cabin connecting to the old one by a covered porch of cedar shakes. That's where the fire-wood lives, the water-butt, the grind-stone, which Kate says is exactly like my singing voice, likewise the ax and saw.

Of course our house-raising was a celebration, with a dance, camp-fire, water-butt full of punch, and headaches. I bet five dollars I was the only semaphore signaler in our district, and lost it to Iron Dale, who learned signaling five years ago during the Riel rebellion. Cap Taylor put up a signal system for our use, of fires by night or big smokes by day. One means a celebration, two means help, and three means war. The women beat the men at tug-of-war, but that was due to the widow's wooden leg being a rallying point for the battle. Eph being holed up for the winter, I got more popular.

After the celebration we settled for the winter, and I put all the ponies except Jones and the sleigh team down in the caÑon pasture. That made the ranch sort of lonesome, but we're short of hay on account of the wedding-trip. We're broke.