damned if there's goin' to be any cussin', either." I don't believe they
needed any warning, for during the months I lived near their tents and
ate with them they never "forgot."

Many of them no doubt had come from homes as good as mine, and more than
one had college degrees. As they became accustomed to having me around
they shed their reserve along with their coats and became just what they
really were, a bunch of grown-up boys in search of adventure.

A week later it seemed perfectly natural to sit down to luncheon with
platters of steak, bowls of vegetables, mounds of potatoes, and pots of
steaming black coffee; but just then it was a radical change from my
usual glass of milk and thin sandwich lunch. The food was served on long
pine tables, flanked by backless benches. Blue and white enamel dishes,
steel knives and forks, and of course no napkins, made up the service.
We drank coffee from tin cups, cooling and diluting it with condensed
milk poured from the original can. I soon learned that "Shoot the cow!"
meant nothing more deadly than "Pass the milk, please!"

The rangers ate at a table apart from the other men. The Chief sat at
the head of the table, and my plate was at his right. Several rangers
rose to greet me when I came in.

"I'm glad you came," said one of them. "We are apt to grow careless
without someone to keep the rough edges polished for us." That was
Ranger Charley Fisk, the most loyal, faithful friend one could wish for.
He was never too tired nor too busy to add a shelf here or build a
cabinet there in my tiny cabin for me. But all that I had to learn
later. There was Frank, Ranger Winess; he and the Chief had been
together many years in Yellowstone; and Ranger West, and Ranger Peck.