have looked to Owen Wister a few years have wrought a most remarkable change. The rattlesnake is still evident along with the coyote, but the sagebrush is fast disappearing. In its stead is to be found sections of summerfallow and waving grain. The homeseeker is pushing steadily and unrestrainedly on toward the Columbia. In a single day's journey overland I would not be in the least surprised to see a railroad here or a new town springing up there. Such is the history of the Great West-the West we like to think of or read about, the gray expanse of sagebrush and coulees are fast disappearing, and marred here and there or entirely obliterated by the wheat fields of the newly arrived homesteader.

II

A little siding where a crew of men were unloading a new threshing rig, near by a new elevator built in expectation of a bumper wheat crop, and a half dozen new stores huddled together bespoke the optimism of those who had followed the wheeltracks in the sand and volcanic ash a year or two ago, and drove their tent stakes and plowed well their furrows. A young man of perhaps thirty summers is superintending the unloading of the threshing outfit, and under the broad brim of his felt hat is to be seen the tan of the sun mellowed into a deep brown by the cool wind that ever blows up out of the mysterious, lonesome land. He, too, like the rest of them, has not lived long enough in the new country to call it his own, having located in the center of the Indian country over on the Coeur d'Alene Reservation two years previous. The seriousness of his blue eyes, the square jaw and the rugged features foretell in him a comprehensive intent of purpose and a reckoning of things vital. His two years among the Indians of the great lonesome land have not come amiss, and his knowledge thereof has not been gained in vain.

Gibson Sterling was a man who

Louis Roller

voiced the sentiments of this new country-a man who was willing to stake his all, and if he lost so much the better, it only fanned the more his flame of ambition and revealed his ultimate goal more distinctly from the obscure.

III

A long streak of dust was rising up out of the coulee. The sun was just emerging up from the sagebrush hills. to the east, and its rays slanted with a gaudy splendor on the new red separator and the brass and copper trimmings of the engine, which was emitting a regular chickety-chick and creeping along in the early coolness of the morning toward the new wheat fields out on the flats.

Gibson Sterling felt an exuberant thrill permeating his being that kept time to the rhythmical exhaust of the engine, and as he opened up the throttle a little more here or closed it there, or deftly handled the steering wheel to avoid a boulder or round a bend,

he could not help but entertain the pleasantest of thoughts, and smiled to himself as he pictured the quarter section that was soon to be his over

in the Indian country. His nearest neighbor, old Hopalong Rattlesnake, a most peculiar breed of savage who with his prized buffalo horn could lure the rattlesnake from his lair—a snake charmer, but an honest Injun whose. peculiar antics had pleasantly helped while away the lonesome hours and tedious monotony of homesteading out in the lonesome land where a section was bounded by an invisible line that followed a newly driven stake or a freshly made blaze. Coming up to where the road merged on to the flat, Gibson turned the engine sharply to the left and entered a field of recently cut wheat. The breath of harvest time was in the fragrant breeze and the wheat straw glistened with a freshness that was pleasing to behold. Nature was giving forth a bountiful harvest to the hard working homesteader and the great sweeps of territory that sloped off gradually toward the Columbia was slowly coming into its own.

Here where the tumble weed had been accustomed to roll unhindered all day long, it now found occasionally a barbed wire fence to obstruct its natural course or banged up against the side of a new shack. The coyote who had been wont to travel the great arid waste without heed or hindrance in his aimless wanderlust now instinctively took unto himself certain precautions heretofore deemed unnecessary.

The separator set with its long red tail to the leeward, the engine backed off to a respective distance, the belt was thrown on, and a signal from the oiler to the engineer set the droning separator into motion. Two loads of bundles now drew up one on either side, the spike pitchers climbed up and soon the sack sewers and jiggers were busily engaged while the cyclone. stacker was piling the bright, shining straw in a half circle at the rear.

Gibson, standing on the deck of the engine, absorbed it all in a satisfying gaze. A good run without any bad

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luck, and he could pay for the outfit and prove up on his homestead and have a neat little sum left over out of the profits. He watched the strawpile looming up, and saw with satisfaction the pile of sacks growing larger. The owner of the wheat walked up and pleasantly commented on the yield, while Gibson beamed with satisfaction. Everything was going to his heart's satisfaction, and the big loads of bundles were coming in from the field and the empty wagons were going out after more. He assured himself he was lucky in possessing a good crew to start with and best of all a new machine.

Just then the field boss came riding in on a gallop and said one of the men had been bitten by a rattler. He also conveyed to Gibson the startling information the dangerous reptiles were so numerous the pitchers had been almost thrown into a panic and each wheat shock had from one to a dozen under it. The homesteader admitted the rattlers were numerous out in the sagebrush, but had not thought they would prove such a menace in the wheatfields, but they were there apparently, and in large numbers; furthermore, a man does not relish the thought of being bitten by a poisonous rattlesnake when it means sure death if not properly attended to.

At noon, when the field men came in, they unanimously informed Gibson they had quit and would not go back to work again under any consideration. And Gibson could not blame them; it was really too much to ask a man to expose himself to the lurking danger in the wheat stubble. Here was a problem which was stunning to Gibson, and a pang of remorse seized him as he saw his fond hopes fade away in thin air. It was of no use to send to Spokane for a new crew of pitchers. Gibson was too much of a man to ask anybody else do what he himself would not attempt. He studied the situation from all angles, and could arrive at no definite conclusions. He was simply up against it. He would lose his machine and possibly

his homestead also, as he had gone in debt to acquire the threshing outfit, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that the threshing was all off, or to make a hundred mile move over into the Palouse away from the rattlesnake infested region.

The poor homesteader begged him to stay and not leave, as they could not possibly get another machine in there. Gibson could not help but consider his pleadings in the face of a hundred mile pull overland and possibly only a very short run after he arrived there. Try as he could he could conceive of no way in which to overcome the rattlers. That night he dared not lie down in clear comfortable straw, as is the custom of harvest hands all through the West, for fear of the dread reptiles. He sat and pondered the question over and over, and considered different plans and schemes, only to reject them all as useless or impracticable.

The homesteaders of the surrounding neighborhood had called on him and offered to double the price per sack for threshing if he would only remain with them. This was indeed a great incentive to reach a solution of the question. All at once he thought of something that brought back his hopes with the speed of a bullet. Was it possible, could it be practicable? Yes, snakes were susceptible to charms. He would do it. Old Hopalong Rattlesnake and his buffalo horn could undoubtedly help in dispensing with the peril. He decided at once to leave for the Indian country early in the morning. Old Hopalong, why had he not thought of him before?

IV

Early morning, an hour before sunup-and the sun rises early in the sage brush country during the summer months-found Gibson astride a pinto. saddle pony and headed for the Coeur d'Alene Reservation. A cross-country ride was very exhilarating at this time of the morning before the breeze had begun to stir the cool, fragrant atmosphere, and while the dew faintly

An all day jog through the hot sun brought Gibson out of the nauseating aridness and rattlesnake infested region up into the cooler altitude of the Reservation and the calm of the scattered pine trees and luxuriant bunchgrass which grew here in abundance. He was not long in seeking out Hopalong's tepee, and found the old siwash at home. After relating his predicament, Hopalong gave a grunt of comprehension and said: “Lots um rattlesnakes; no count um, me catch um, skookum alright." "Will you go back to the Big Bend with me in the morning, Hopalong? I will pay you well," said Gibson, and Hopalong gave a grunting nod of assent.

The next morning after a cool, refreshing night's sleep under the pine trees, the only pleasant and satisfying night's rest Gibson had experienced for some time, they headed for the sagebrush, Gibson ahead and Hopalong following on his cayuse. "Medicine man buffalo horn," said Hopalong, "me fix um rattlesnake; you run um threshing machine, no have trouble." All day they journeyed thus, Gibson pushing enthusiastically ahead and the Indian stolidly following, showing only a morbid interest occasionally when spoken to. He rode bending forward, and his cayuse ambled aimlessly along with its head listlessly drooping. Once in a while it bit off a mouthful of the unapposite sage leaves or stopped at an occasional bunch of grass, when Hopalong would mutter under his breath, and the cayuse would prick up its ears and jog nonchalently on. Evidently neither cayuse or rider relished being abroad in the hot, simmering prairie, and portrayed marked unresemblance to the other rider who was pushing energetically ahead.

Arriving at their destination late that night, Gibson was utterly exhausted, and climbed into a bundle wagon and slept until late next day. When he awoke the next morning the sun had been up an hour, likewise Hopalong, who was suspiciously inspecting the threshing machine. "Good morning, Hopalong," said Gibson, feeling relieved after a good night's rest. "What do you think of the outfit?" "Skookum paleface," replied Hopalong, eyeing the engine furtively; "Injun no catch um high up fire. Great Spirit no like Injun any more. Great Spirit catch um white man's wheat and thresh um. Injun no good any more." "What about the rattlesnakes?" Gibson anxiously inquired. "To-night," replied Hopalong, "when sun go down me catch um."

That night the crew all assembled, speculatively anxious to see what Hopalong was going to do. Some of the homesteaders had gathered around hoping against hope that this strange Indian could do something to alleviate their predicament. But they entertained grave fears of doubt as to his power to help them in this particular instance.

No sooner had the bright harvest moon risen and flooded the broad expanse with its silvery rays than Hopalong got out his old buffalo horn and sent forth a weird, enchanting strain, barbaric in its moving cadences that carried on the still night air for miles. He continued for about ten minutes a droning, muffled tone, now shrill and now barely audible. Presently, just as some of the crew began to have misgivings, there was a faintly audible

29

commotion all about. The wheat stubble began to jerk and oscillate in the moonlight, and those assembled perceived snakes-hundreds of them and thousands, slipping through the wheat stubble in a vivid effectual stream, as if they were following old Lucifer himself.

Hopalong marched ahead of the reptiles in a triumphant stride, winding the unmusical buffalo horn now wild and shrill, and now deep and dolorous. Snakes, and nothing but snakes, passed in endless stream all in one direction long after Hopalong had disappeared over a distant hill. The tone of the weird buffalo horn continued growing fainter and fainter, until finally it died out altogether.

The next morning the crew was up bright and early, and the threshing machine was humming merrily away again. Not a rattler was to be seen. The only evidence of reptiles was the rumpled up wheat stubble and the millions of criss-crossing and tangled trails in the sand and volcanic ash, while a certain lake two miles distant at the foot of a high bluff was literally alive with rattlesnakes.

Gibson Sterling stood upon the deck of the engine and mentally prospected on what his profits would amount to at twice the price originally agreed upon. A lone Indian rode off through the sagebrush toward the rising sun, t glancing now and then at the long slopes of wheat fields on either side, seeing nothing spectacular in what he had accomplished the night before in Owen Wister's land of the God awful Big Bend.