132 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
fact remained, however, that during this trying time 
Wetherby played the réle of Little Sunshine with 
something approaching success, and if not inva- 
riably blessed therefor, at least did not receive more 
than his proportionate share of abuse and vilifica- 
tion. 
We finished the Animas watershed in less than two 
weeks, then crossed the divide north and camped 
in the canyon of the Seco. The work here was prac- 
tically a repetition of what we had just been through, 
with the pleasant added interest of rattlesnakes. 
During the earlier part of the season we had oc- 
casionally run across a snake, but it was an event 
when it occurred, a matter to be recounted at night 
in all its details. We were thrown into mortal ter- 
ror by the angry song of a diamondback. Our 
course through brush, over rocks, or in fact in any 
locality where snakes might be expected, was 
marked by great circumspection. And if the dry 
‘‘p-r-r-r-r-’? for which we momently waited did ac- 
tually sound, our excitement was real and prolonged. 
In the Animas, snakes were an everyday occur- 
rence. And while at first we went in fear and trem- 
bling, later on we grew used to them—to a certain 
extent—and did not mind so much. 
I have always thought that Bert was responsible 
for the greater part of our initial terror. As soon 
as it was evident that snakes were out he thought 
up a set of appropriate yarns. The first one came 
the evening after the discovery of a small rattler 
