A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



Hank did was to come and look at the space with a 

 lighted match or two and tell our driver to stand on 

 our upturned wagon and whistle. Then, with the 

 aid of a little starlight, he drove his four-horse team 

 and freight wagon around us, death yawning a thou- 

 sand feet below, and only inches to spare. It was 

 a chance, but Hank had the guts to take it. 



When I first saw "Joe" Bradley we were all lined 

 up at the old Florence House Bar, drinking near- 

 beer, or what was then perhaps nearer than now. 

 I say we, but Joe took a cigar. He was a small 

 man, both short and slight, and if one were looking 

 for protection Joe would be one's last likely choice. 

 We chatted together quite a while. He was mild- 

 spoken and unassuming; there was a sort of gentle- 

 ness about him, particularly in his eyes, which gave 

 one the impression that he was just an every-day, 

 modest good fellow. As we walked away, my friend 

 said: "I am glad you met Joe. He is the 'nerviest' 

 man in Montana. He runs a train into the Coeur 

 D'Alene district, with a tough gang all along the 

 run, and they all eat out of his hand." 



A few days later I had occasion to go up into the 

 Coeur D'Alene country on Joe's train, which made 

 the round trip daily. It was through that wonder- 

 ful St. Regis River country, wilder than nature itself, 

 where the trout leap in the white waters, and hide 

 in dark pools. As we came Into the wilder parts 

 the only stations were mining camps. There had 



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