There was a respectable smattering of Italians, a few Poles and Germans, one Serbo-Croatian, and an Englishman named Bill Bishop, whose sidekick I became.

He was not going to squat henlike on his place as the cockies around him did.

At the edge of the burn, where the path turns downward, there is a patch of shingle washed up by some spate.

That’ll be twenty buckaroos, buddy.