We had checked up on the stock and were following the trail homeward. Ranger

West rode in front on Black Dixie. Ordinarily he would have been humming like

an overgrown bumblebee, or talking to Dixie, who he said was the only female

he knew he would tell secrets to. But we had ridden far that day, and the heat radiated from the great ore rocks was almost beyond endurance. Now and then

we could catch a glimpse of the river directly at the foot of the ledge our trail followed, and the water looked invitingly cool. All at once Dixie stopped so suddenly that Ranger West almost took a header. A man's hat was lying in the trail. Dismounting, the men looked for tracks. A quite legible story was written there for them to read. Some tenderfoot, thirst-crazed, had stumbled along that trail since we had passed that way a couple of hours earlier. Putting our horses to a lope we rode on until we came to his empty canteen; and a little farther on to a discarded coat and shirt. The tracks in the sand wavered like those of a drunken man.

"We'll find his shoes next," the Chief called to Ranger West; "and then pretty soon the end of the trail for him. Can't go far barefoot in this hot sand."

"Say," Ranger West shouted, "White Mountain, Poison Spring is just around the bend. We'll find the poor devil flattened out there sure. You ride slow, Margie, and we'll hurry along."

I didn't say anything, but I hurried along too. This spring he spoke of was strongly impregnated with arsenic. Even the wild burros shunned it; but I hardly dared to hope this desperate man would pass by it. The men rode over the expected shoes without stopping, but I got off of Tar Baby and got them. I began to think I would stay a little way behind. I felt rather weak and sick. Rounding the turn I could see there was nothing at the spring, and in the distance a stumbling figure was weaving along. The men were nearing him, so I spurred to

a run. Every now and then the man would fall, lie prone for a minute, then struggle to his feet and go on. Suddenly my heart stood still. The figure left the trail and headed straight for the edge of the precipice. The river had made itself heard at last.

Ranger West turned Dixie from the trail and rode straight across the plateau to where the man had disappeared behind a big boulder. The Chief followed West,

but I rode the trail and kept my eyes resolutely ahead of me. I knew I couldn't

endure seeing the man jump to certain death when we were at his heels with water and life.

When I looked up again Ranger West had his rope in his hand widening the loop.

White Mountain was with him. They were ten or fifteen feet from the man, who

was lying on his stomach peering down at the water. As the poor fellow raised

himself for the plunge, with a quick flirt of his wrist the ranger tossed the rope across the intervening space, and as the noose settled around the man's arms White Mountain and the ranger dragged him back from death.

He lay stunned for a space, then twisted himself over, and mumbled through swollen, bleeding lips: "Is that really water down there?"

They helped him back into the trail and gave him a swallow from a canteen. It

took both the men to manage him, for with the first taste of water he went raving crazy. He fought and cursed them, and cried like a baby because he couldn't hold the canteen in his own hands. They laid him in the shade of our horses and poured a few drops down his throat at intervals until a degree of sanity returned.

He was then placed on the Chief's horse, and the Chief and Ranger West took turns, one riding Dixie while the other helped the man stay in the saddle. We found later he was a German chemist looking for mineral deposits in the Canyon.

Each morning a daily report of the previous day's doings is posted in Ranger Headquarters. I was curious to know what Ranger West's contribution would be

for that day. This is what he said:

"Patrolled Tonto Trail looking for lost horses. Accompanied Chief Ranger and wife. Brought in lost tenderfoot. Nothing to report."

And that was that.

The Chief decided to drive out to Desert View the afternoon following our Canyon experience, and he said I could go if I liked; he said he couldn't promise any excitement, but the lupine was beautiful in Long Jim Canyon, and I might enjoy it.

"Thank God for a chance to be peaceful. I'm fed up on melodrama," I murmured,

and I climbed into that old Ford with a breath of relief.

We had such a beautiful drive. I waded waist-high in the fragrant lupine, and even took a nap on pine needles while White Mountain located the bench mark

he was seeking. When he came back to me he said we had better start home. He

saw a cloud that looked as if it might rain.

Before we reached the Ford, the rain came down; then more rain came, and then

there was a cloudburst. By that time we were well down toward the middle of Long Jim Canyon. This canyon acts just like a big ditch when rain falls. We had

to keep going, and behind us a wall of water raced and foamed and reached out

for us. It carried big logs with it, and maybe that water didn't make some time on the down grade.

"Hang on, hold everything!" the Chief yelled in my ear, and we were off on as mad a race as John Gilpin ever rode. Henry would be proud of his offspring if he knew how one could run when it had a flood behind it.

"Peaceful! Quiet!! Restful!!!" I hissed at the Chief, between bumps. Driving was rather hazardous, because the water before us had carried trees and débris into the road almost blocking it at places. Now and then we almost squashed a dead

cow the flood had deposited in our path.

I hoped the gasoline would hold out. I prayed that the tires would last. And I mentally estimated the endurance power of springs and axles. Everything was jake, to use a cowboy expression, and we reached the mouth of the Canyon where both we and the flood could spread out.

"Whew!" said the Chief, wiping his face. I didn't say anything.

I can't remember that anything disastrous happened for two or three days after the flood. Life assumed an even tenor, and I yawned occasionally from sheer ennui.

To break the monotony I made a salad. That was momentous! Salads meant something in our young lives out there. One of the rangers on leave had returned and brought me a fine head of lettuce—an entirely rash way of saying it with flowers. One last can of shrimp reposed on the shelf. It almost had cobwebs on

it, we had cherished it so long, saving it for some grand spree. The time had arrived. That salad looked tempting as I sliced the rosy pimiento on top and piled it in the blue and white bowl. The ranger who contributed the lettuce was an

invited guest, and he stood on one foot, then on the other, while the dressing was mixed. Even White Mountain hovered over it anxiously.

Just then came a knock! A very famous "bugologist" had come to call on us. Of course the Chief invited him to dinner, while the ranger and I looked glumly at

each other. Maybe there wouldn't be plenty of salad for four!

Our guest was deep in his favorite sport, telling us all about the bugs that killed the beautiful yellow pines at the Canyon.

"Have some butter, Professor, and try this salad," invited White Mountain.

"Thanks, it looks enticing," answered our distinguished guest, and he placed the bowl with all its contents on his plate. Bite by bite the salad disappeared, while he discoursed on the proper method of killing the Yellow Pine Beetle.

"Why aren't you folks eating some of this delicious salad? You deprive yourself of a treat when you refuse to eat salads. The human body requires the elements

found in fresh, leafy plants, etc., etc."