Ranger West and Ranger Fisk conducted those tourists out of the Park,
and they had to leave without seeing the Canyon.

"Ve drove here from New York to see this Canyon," one complained, and
made wide gestures with both hands.

"It wouldn't do you any good to see it," Ranger West told him grimly.
"You'd probably push somebody over the edge to have a little fun."

I was sure the Chief would take Tar Baby away after that. But I guess he
thought if the horse hadn't killed me with such a good chance as he had,
I was safe. He never said another word about selling him.

Several Indians were camped around in the woods near the Park, and we
visited them quite often. An Indian has as many angles in his makeup as
a centipede has legs. Just about the time you think you have one
characteristically placed, you put your finger down and he isn't there.
Charge one with dishonesty, and the next week he will ride a hundred
miles to deliver a bracelet you paid for months before. Decide he is
cruel and inhuman, and he will spend the night in heart-breaking labor,
carrying an injured white man to safety.

I suggested hiring a certain Navajo to cut some wood, and was told that
he was too lazy to eat what he wanted. In a few days this same brave
came to Headquarters with the pelt of a cougar. He had followed the
animal sixty miles, tracking it in the snow on foot without a dog to
help him. We knew where he took the trail and where it ended. He killed
the big cat, skinned it, and carried the pelt back to the Canyon. You
won't find many white men with that much grit! A tourist from New York