ve them from their own regular duties
the rest of the time. For weeks they did the work of three times their
actual number, and did it cheerfully. It finally became necessary to
import Indians from the Navajo Reservation to help with the labor around
the car yard and the boiler yard. These could hardly be described as
having a mechanical turn of mind, but they were fairly willing workers,
and with careful supervision they managed to keep steam up and the
wheels turning. The shop foreman, however, was threatened with apoplexy
a dozen times a day during their term of service.

When it seemed that we just couldn't endure any more, some boss
somewhere pulled a string and train service was resumed. This brought in
a mass of tourists, and the rangers were on the alert again to keep them
out of messes.

One day as the Chief and I were looking at some picturegraphs near the
head of Bright Angel Trail we saw a simple old couple wandering
childlike down the trail.

"You mustn't go far down the trail," advised White Mountain. "It's very
hot today, and you would not be able to make the return trip. It's lots
harder coming back, you know."

The old folks smiled and nodded, and we went on home. About midnight the
phone rang, and the Chief groaned before he answered it. A troubled
voice came over the wire.

"My father and mother went down the trail to the river and haven't come
back. I want the rangers to go and find them," said their son.

"In the morning," replied the Chief.

"Right _now_!" ordered the voice.

"I, myself, told your father and mother not to go down there. They went
anyway. They are probably sitting on a rock resting, and if so they are
safe. If they are not on the trail the rangers could not find them, and
I have no right to ask my men to endanger their lives by going on such a
wild-goose chase."

The son, a middle-aged man, acted like a spoiled child. He threatened
and blustered and raved until the Chief hung up the receiver. At dawn
the rangers went after the two old babes in the wood and found them
creeping slowly up the trail.

"Ma give out," puffed the husband.

"Pa was real tuckered hisself," explained Ma. "But we had a nice time
and we'll know to do what we're told next time." She was a game old
sport. Son was speedily squelched by Ma's firm hand, and the adventure
ended. Ma confessed to me that she had sat through the night in deadly
fear of snakes, catamounts, and other "varmints," but, with a