about in his mind.

"I'm Grant Wallace," continued the newcomer. "I missed you at the
El Tovar, at Williams and at Flagstaff, where I was one day
behind. Was half a day late at the Little Colorado, saw your
train cross Moncaupie Wash, and missed you because of the
sandstorm there. Saw you from the other side of the Big Colorado
as you rode out from Emmett's along the red wall. And here I am.
We've never met till now, which obviously isn't my fault."

The Colonel and I fell upon Wallace's neck. Frank manifested his
usual alert excitation, and said: "Well, I guess he won't hang
fire on a long cougar chase." And Jim--slow, careful Jim, dropped
a plate with the exclamation: "Shore it do beat hell!" The hounds
sniffed round Wallace, and welcomed him with vigorous tails.

Supper that night, even if we did grind sand with our teeth, was
a joyous occasion. The biscuits were flaky and light; the bacon
fragrant and crisp. I produced a jar of blackberry jam, which by
subtle cunning I had been able to secrete from the Mormons on
that dry desert ride, and it was greeted with acclamations of
pleasure. Wallace, divested of his sand guise, beamed with the
gratification of a hungry man once more in the presence of
friends and food. He made large cavities in Jim's great pot of
potato stew, and caused biscuits to vanish in a way that would
not have shamed a Hindoo magician. The Grand Canyon he dug in my
jar of jam, however, could not have been accomplished by
legerdemain.

Talk became animated on dogs, cougars, horses and buffalo. Jones