n behalf of the men of my occupation.
Sterling honesty was their chief virtue. A drover with an established
reputation could enter any trail town a month in advance of the
arrival of his cattle, and any merchant or banker would extend him
credit on his spoken word. When the trail passed and the romance of
the West was over, these same men were in demand as directors of
banks or custodians of trust funds. They were simple as truth itself,
possessing a rugged sense of justice that seemed to guide and direct
their lives. On one occasion a few years ago, I unexpectedly dropped
down from my Double Mountain ranch to an old cow town on the railroad.
It was our regular business point, and I kept a small bank account
there for current ranch expenses. As it happened, I needed some money,
but on reaching the village found the banks closed, as it was Labor
Day. Casually meeting an old cowman who was a director in the bank
with which I did business, I pretended to take him to task over my
disappointment, and wound up my arraignment by asking, "What kind of a
jim-crow bank are you running, anyhow?"

"Well, now, Reed," said he in apology, "I really don't know why the
bank should close to-day, but there must be some reason for it. I
don't pay much attention to those things, but there's our cashier and
bookkeeper,--you know Hank and Bill,--the boys in charge of the bank.
Well, they get together every once in a while and close her up for
a day. I don't know why they do it, but those old boys have read
history, and you can just gamble your last cow that there's good
reasons for closing."

The fraternal bond between rangemen recalls the sad end of one of my
old trail bosses. The foreman in question was a faithful man, working
for the firm during its existence and afterwards in my employ. I would
have trusted my fortune to his keeping, my family thought the world
of him, and many was the time that he risked his life to protect my
interests. When my wife overlooks the shortcomings of a man, it is
safe to say there is something redeemable in him, even though the
offense is drinking. At idle times and with convivial company, this
man would drink to excess, and when he was in his cups a spirit of
harmless mischief was rampant in him, alternating with uncontrollable
flashes of anger. Though he was usually as innocent as a kitten, it
was a deadly insult to refuse drinking with him, and one day he shot a
circle of holes around a stranger's feet