394 WALL STREET AND THE WILDS 



help thinking what a mess my brains would make 

 on the walls of the tunnel if I happened to bite 

 a bit too hard. One becomes a fatalist regarding 

 dynamite in a mining camp. There is no other 

 way to preserve his peace of mind. As I was 

 leaving the camp one morning to ride over the 

 divide to the Iowa Basin, Tim, the superintend- 

 ent, asked me if I would take some stuff over to 

 the Iowa mine. He then proceeded to tie a 

 forty pound package to the cantle of my saddle. 



"What you got there, Tim?" I asked. 



"Giant," was the reply. 



I was riding Bay Billy, who had an obsession 

 that any black stump was likely to prove a black 

 bear and was given to executing a buck jump 

 whenever he met one too suddenly. On such 

 occasions I went up with the pony but returning 

 landed anywhere from pommel to cantle. Dur- 

 ing the ride I meditated upon the possible result 

 of my landing like a pile driver upon that mass of 

 dynamite. 



A few mornings later I was wakened by a 

 dynamite explosion that shook the cabin. 



