A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



of a poor, tired little girl. Her soul is on its way to kneel 

 at mercy's feet. Take her, O Lord, into Your arms; wash 

 away the scars and bruises of a child more sinned against 

 than sinning. Teach us Thy mercy; forgive her, and help us, 

 for Jesus' sake." 



Through my own blurred eyes I could see that they were 

 all weeping, and one by one they dropped on their knees to 

 the last man in silent prayer; then, without a word, they 

 filed away. It was a quiet night in camp; every place of 

 business, every saloon, every gambling house, every brothel 

 being closed. 



Another Reed story illustrates so vividly the lone- 

 liness of the mountains in which many men have 

 lived alone, or with a dog, that I am sure it is worth 

 reproduction. During one of our meetings I said, 

 "Fred, don't you get awful lonely sometimes?" 

 "Lonely?" he rephed, "I avoid it all I can, though 

 sometimes it has to be done; but the most terrible 

 experience that I ever had was after my dog Prunes 

 went out. I was camping near the Snake River 

 in Idaho, in charge of a bunch of cattle. My camp 

 was remote, and the only companion I had was a 

 cayuse dog, an ugly brindle, white-eye cur; but he 

 was loyal and true blue. I loved him and he loved 

 me. I called him Prunes, because once, when I went 

 for chuck and left him to guard camp, I was detained 

 by a storm, and he ate all the prunes. He had his 

 choice between salt and prunes, and he took prunes. 

 Anyone who has lived alone, miles from a settlement, 

 will understand why I loved Prunes. He slept with 



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