Wild Bill and I stood there in a scene looking as if it was straight out of a history book, two men, tired of the illusion civilization offers, appearing more Indian in our values than ever the white world could flavor. The older seasoned veteran of the mountain life and a young boy of twenty-two seeing where we stood, stating our views, palavering about the wilderness life, deeds we'd done, but I don't think the local mountains were mentioned once, other than him making it clear he considered them his sole domain. "Interlopers! Pilgrims don't deserve these mountains, they belong to those as live in them. FUCKING PISS ANTS!" I had the feeling he was including me in that statement. As if I was a monsieur de lard, a term from the old trapper lexicon of the...
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