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who is incapable ever of adjusting himself to the demands of the wild life。
Sometimes a man is merely green； inexperienced。 But give him a chance
and he soon picks up the game。 That is your greenhorn； not your
tenderfoot。 Down near Monache meadows we came across an individual
leading an old pack…mare up the trail。 The first thing； he asked us to tell
him where he was。 We did so。 Then we noticed that he carried his gun
muzzle…up in his hip…pocket； which seemed to be a nice way to shoot a
hole in your hand； but a poor way to make your weapon accessible。 He
unpacked near us； and promptly turned the mare into a bog…hole because
it looked green。 Then he stood around the rest of the evening and
talked deprecating talk of a garrulous nature。
〃Which way did you come？〃 asked Wes。
The stranger gave us a hazy account of misnamed canons； by which
we gathered that he had come directly over the rough divide below us。
〃But if you wanted to get to Monache； why didn't you go around to the
eastward through that pass； there； and save yourself all the climb？ It
must have been pretty rough through there。〃
〃Yes； perhaps so；〃 he hesitated。 〃StillI got lots of timeI can take
all summer； if I want to and I'd rather stick to a straight linethen you
know where you AREif you get off the straight line； you're likely to get
lost； you know。〃
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We knew well enough what ailed him； of course。 He was a
tenderfoot； of the sort that always； to its dying day； unhobbles its horses
before putting their halters on。 Yet that man for thirty…two years had
lived almost constantly in the wild countries。 He had traveled more
miles with a pack…train than we shall ever dream of traveling； and hardly
could we mention a famous camp of the last quarter century that he had
not blundered into。 Moreover he proved by the indirections of his
misinformation that he had really been there and was not making ghost
stories in order to impress us。 Yet if the Lord spares him thirty…two years
more； at the end of that time he will probably still be carrying his gun
upside down； turning his horse into a bog…hole； and blundering through the
country by main strength and awkwardness。 He was a beautiful type of
the tenderfoot。
The redeeming point of the tenderfoot is his humbleness of spirit and
his extreme good nature。 He exasperates you with his fool performances
to the point of dancing cursing wild crying rage； and then accepts your
well； reproofsso meekly that you come off the boil as though some one
had removed you from the fire； and you feel like a low…browed thug。
Suppose your particular tenderfoot to be named Algernon。 Suppose
him to have packed his horse looselythey always doso that the pack has
slipped； the horse has bucked over three square miles of assorted
mountains； and the rest of the train is scattered over identically that area。
You have run your saddle…horse to a lather heading the outfit。 You have
sworn and dodged and scrambled and yelled； even fired your six…shooter；
to turn them and bunch them。 In the mean time Algernon has either sat
his horse like a park policeman in his leisure hours； or has ambled directly
into your path of pursuit on an average of five times a minute。 Then the
trouble dies from the landscape and the baby bewilderment from his eyes。
You slip from your winded horse and address Algernon with elaborate
courtesy。
〃My dear fellow；〃 you remark； 〃did you not see that the thing for you
to do was to head them down by the bottom of that little gulch there？
Don't you really think ANYBODY would have seen it？ What in hades
do you think I wanted to run my horse all through those boulders for？
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Do you think I want to get him lame 'way up here in the hills？ I don't
mind telling a man a thing once； but to tell it to him fifty…eight times and
then have it do no good Have you the faintest recollection of my
instructing you to turn the bight OVER instead of UNDER when you
throw that pack…hitch？ If you'd remember that； we shouldn't have had all
this trouble。〃
〃You didn't tell me to head them by the little gulch；〃 babbles Algernon。
This is just the utterly fool reply that upsets your artificial and
elaborate courtesy。 You probably foam at the mouth； and dance on your
hat； and shriek wild imploring imprecations to the astonished hills。 This
is not because you have an unfortunate disposition； but because Algernon
has been doing precisely the same thing for two months。
〃Listen to him！〃 you howl。 〃Didn't tell him！ Why you gangle…
legged bug…eyed soft…handed pop… eared tenderfoot； you！ there are some
things you never THINK of telling a man。 I never told you to open your
mouth to spit； either。 If you had a hired man at five dollars a year who
was so all…around hopelessly thick…headed and incompetent as you are；
you'd fire him to…morrow morning。〃
Then Algernon looks truly sorry； and doesn't answer back as he ought
to in order to give occasion for the relief of a really soul…satisfying scrap；
and utters the soft answer humbly。 So your wrath is turned and there
remain only the dregs which taste like some of Algernon's cooking。
It is rather good fun to relieve the bitterness of the heart。 Let me tell
you a few more tales of the tenderfoot； premising always that I love him；
and when at home seek him out to smoke pipes at his fireside； to yarn over
the trail； to wonder how much rancor he cherishes against the maniacs
who declaimed against him； and by way of compensation to build up in
the mind of his sweetheart； his wife； or his mother a fearful and wonderful
reputation for him as the Terror of the Trail。 These tales are selected
from many； mere samples of a varied experience。 They occurred here；
there； and everywhere； and at various times。 Let no one try to lay them at
the door of ou