TREES AND MORMON BEARDS 151 



dozing upon the doorstep. A fire in the stove 

 was not quite dead, and soiled dishes on a table 

 indicated that some one had recently eaten and 

 was probably not far away. My horses were 

 quite fagged with their climb over the sandy 

 ridge, and for a moment I was undecided 

 whether or not I should turn them into a near- 

 by corral, throw them hay from a stack of al- 

 falfa, and take possession of the house myself. 

 In Arizona I should have felt quite free to do 

 this, but as yet I had not learned the temper 

 of the people of southern Utah and I therefore 

 remounted and rode on. A little way up the 

 village street I met a horseman and inquired 

 of him: 



"Can I get forage for my horses anywhere 

 here?" 



"There's an outfit just ahead with a load of 

 hay. It's Bishop Sorenson. He'll fix you out," 

 he answered. "Why didn't you stop at my 

 ranch?" 



"Is that your ranch a mile back?" 



"You bet." 



"I stopped, but no one was home but the 

 cat." 



"No, I'm bachin'. You should have gone in 

 and asked no questions. Cat wouldn't ha' said 

 a damn word. Sorry ye' didn't stop." 



