“Oh, no, lady. He’ll take you right along with him.”
There is always one tourist whose tardiness holds up the party, and one morning it chanced I was that one. The guide—it was Bill—handed me my reins and adjusted my stirrups with a with-holding air. As we rode up Gunsight, I heard him humming a little tune. A word now and then whetted my curiosity.
“What are you singing, Bill?” All guides have monosyllabic names, as Ed, Mike, Jack, Cal, and Tex.
Very impersonally Bill repeated the song in a cracked tenor:
“I wrangled my horses, was feelin’ fine,
Couldn’t git my doods up till half past nine.
I didn’t cuss, and I didn’t yell,
But we lit up the trail like a bat out of hell.”
“A very nice song, Bill. Did you compose it yourself?”
“No, ma’am. It’s just a song.”