went into the hermit business, and that was
ten years ago. Sitting cross-legged on a flat rock like a little gnome,
with his puckered eyes squinting off at space, Shorty told us how once
upon a time he came near losing Toby.

"Me and Toby," he said, "was over to Flagstaff, and that was several
years ago. There was a saloon man over there owned a bulldog and he
wanted that his bulldog and Toby should fight. Toby can lick mighty nigh
any dog alive; but I didn't want that Toby should fight. But this here
saloon man wouldn't listen. He sicked his bulldog on to Toby and in
about a minute Toby was taking that bulldog all apart.

"This here saloon man he got mad then--he got awful mad. He wanted to
kill Toby and he pulled out his pistol. I begged him mighty hard please
not to shoot Toby--I did so! I stood in front of Toby to protect him and
I begged that man not to do it. Then some other fellows made him put up
his gun, and me and Toby came on away from there." His voice trailed
off. "I certainly would 'a' hated to lose Toby. We set a heap of store
by one another--don't we, dog?" And Toby testified that it was
so--testified with wriggling body and licking tongue and dancing eyes
and a madly wagging stump tail.

As we mounted and jogged away we looked back, and the pair of
them--Shorty and Toby--were sitting there side by side in perfect
harmony and perfect content; and I could not help wondering, in a
country where we sometimes hang a man for killing a man, what would
have been adequate punishment for a brute who would kill Toby and leave
Shorty without his partner! In another minute, though, we had rounded a
jagged sandstone shoulder and they were out of sight.

About that time Johnny, our guide, felt moved to speech, and we
hearkened to his words and hungered for more, for Johnny knows the
ranges of the Northwest as a city dweller knows his own little side
street. In the fall of the year Johnny comes down to the Canon and
serves as a guide a while; and then, when he gets so he just can't stand
associating with tourists any longer, he packs his warbags and journeys
back to the Northern Range and enjoys the company of cows a spell. Cows
are not exactly exciting, but they don't ask fool questions.

A highly competent young person is Johnny and a cowpuncher of parts.
Most of the Canon guides are cowpunchers--accomplished ones, too, and of
high standing in the profession. With a touch of reverence Johnny
pointed out to us S