ride on a flop-eared mule; he got tired and lay down and rolled over and
over in the sand. They had some trouble rescuing her before she got
smashed. I told her the mule believed in rolling to help reduce. She
didn't see the joke, but the mule and I did. Grand Canyon life was too
exciting for her, so she left us.

A quaint little person was the rancher's wife who brought fresh eggs and
vegetables to us. She wore scant pajamas instead of skirts, because she
thought it "more genteel," she explained. When a favorite horse or cow
died, she carefully preserved the skull and other portions of the
skeleton for interior-decoration purposes.

Ranger Fisk and I took refuge in her parlor one day from a heavy rain.
Her husband sat there like a graven image. He was never known to say
more than a dozen words a day, but she carried on for the entire family.
As Ranger Fisk said, "She turns her voice on and then goes away and
forgets it's running." She told us all about the last moments of her
skeletons before they were such, until it ceased to be funny. Ranger
Fisk sought to change the conversation by asking her how long she had
been married.

"Ten years; but it seems like fifty," she said. We braved the rain after
that.

Ranger Fisk was born in Sweden. He ran away from home at fourteen and
joined the Merchant Marine, and in that service poked into most of the
queer seaports on the map. He had long since lost track of his kinsfolk,
and although he insisted that he was anxious to marry he carefully kept
away from all marriageable ladies.