One day Cultus Johnny and his sister went across the river to fish.  They cast their nets directly across from the rancherie, beneath an angry-looking, hungry, threatening, overhanging gravel bed.  He and his father and his father’s fathers had fished there time out of memory.  The old men of the village were squatted here and there weaving nets for the fishing season.  Squaws were bringing in bundles of tree branches on their backs for firewood; others were scraping the flesh from raw deer-skins, stretched on frames which leaned against buildings.  Some young fellows, among whom was Hias Peter, were rolling up driftwood from the river.  Children were capering about, laughing and shouting.  Dogs were barking, cats mewing, roosters crowing.  There was nothing but joy, and peace, and harmony.  It was just such a scene as may be witnessed on a bright sunny day at any Indian village in the dry-belt at any time.  Suddenly there was a rush and a roar and a plunge of waters.  The whole mountain across from the rancherie had fallen into the river with one mad roar like thunder, and the water was thrown up upon the village and its helpless inmates.  In a moment the peaceful scene was one of death and torture.  Men, women and children were struggling helplessly in the water and trying in vain to reach the higher benches.  At the next moment the water receded and carried many back struggling into the channel of the river.  Hias Peter found himself, with others, struggling among logs, timbers and debris of every description.  Just before the water receded he saw his wife and heard her yell for help.  He seized her skirt and dragged her to safety, clinging to a friendly sage brush.  For a moment Peter thought that, so far as he was personally concerned, she was scarcely worth saving; but it is very unnatural to allow a fellow being to drown before your eyes and make no attempt to save him.  And perhaps our worst enemy could rely on us for protection under similar circumstances.  But where was Cultus Johnny and his sister all this time?  The whole world lay on top of them, and that is all we know.  They were never seen again.

Mrs. Peter looked across the river and sighed.

Mr. Peter looked across the river and gave a grunt in his own language.

A million tons of earth were holding down Cultus Johnny.

Of the Booby Man

Once upon a time in Ashcroft there lived a “gink” who was very much wrapped up in himself.  At a local social function he took the prize one day for being the most unpopular man in the community; and this caused him to sit up nights, and study himself as others saw him flitting across his unattractive and uneventful stage.  The winning of this prize spoke to him with greater accent than could the exploding of a sixteen-inch German gun, and it sent a quiver through his entire avoirdupois.  It was not only an appalling revelation to him to know that he was