He is the first up in the morning and the last in
bed. He has to dry his dishes on anything that comes handy, and then
pack all of his grub on an unreliable horse and start off for the next
eating-ground.
So, knowing all this, and also that we were about a thousand miles from
the nearest employment-office and several days' hard riding from a
settlement, we went to Bill with tribute. We praised his specialties. We
gave him a college lad, turned guide for the summer, to assist him. We
gathered up our own dishes. We inquired for his bruise. But gloom
hung over him like a cloud.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY FRED H. KISER, PORTLAND, OREGON
_A mountain lake in Glacier National Park_]
And he _could_ cook. Well--
We had made a forced trip that day, and the last five miles were
agonizing. In vain we sat sideways on our horses, threw a leg over the
pommel, got off, and walked and led them. Bowman Lake, our objective
point, seemed to recede.
Very few people have ever seen Bowman Lake. Yet I believe it is one of
the most beautiful lakes in this country. It is not large, perhaps only
twelve miles long and from a mile to two miles in width.
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