THE CANON AND ITS GRIZZLIES 163 



mento a couple of years later, and he was sound 

 and well, his scalp all there, but the hair on that 

 patch had died and looked like dead grass. 



No man as old as Jim Bethel would tell a lie, 

 and I accept these stories as the gospel truth. 

 The first time I stopped in Jim's joint — a log cabin 

 with sanded floor and a pine bar — I saw on the 

 shelf two bottles of Mumm's Extra Dry. I never 

 found out how they got there. I asked Jim what 

 it was. He said it was some kind of fizzy stuff- 

 that was in the joint when he bought it. I asked 

 him its price. He allowed it ought to be worth 

 fifty cents a bottle, and so I bought those two 

 bottles for fifty cents apiece, up there in the hills, 

 where the freight alone was worth that much. 

 Now that Jim is dead, I have sometimes regretted 

 the advantage I took of him. I think it is the 

 only trade I ever made, of which I got the 

 better end. 



Two of our party (I keep their names a secret) 

 went out in the woods near the Cafion Hotel on a 

 bear hunt. Not to kill; just to hunt. You can 

 not go a half-mile anywhere thereabouts without 



