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Buffalo Bill Cody opened the Irma hotel in 1902. He named it after his daughter. This is perhaps a regrettable name for a daughter, but a fine name for an ancient hotel. After a hundred years the building is a bit dated, and there certainly are nicer, more modern places to stay in Cody, but the historic place is a big hit with the tourists, so Frank was not a bit surprised when his client made his reservation there. He had arranged to meet the guy for breakfast at seven sharp, in the big room with that magnificent cherry wood bar.

Frank drove away from his small log home a little before six. It was plenty light by then, for dawn comes early to Wyoming in June. He lives in a cold pocket tucked into the side of a mountain, so a light frost coated the long grass in the south pasture, down by the gate. It would burn off fast once the warm sun hit it. The black mare was already standing in sunlight, and a faint cloud of steam rose from her back.

The mountains were still white with snow. Lots fell last winter, which was fine with everybody. A thick snowpack meant there would be water for irrigation all summer, and the rivers would finally run deep enough this year for the cutthroat trout to have a productive spawn. The South Fork was broiling with runoff when he crossed over on the rickety bridge. Two spotted whitetail fawns followed the does out in Grady's alfalfa plot, and the antelope herd was busy munching down in the pasture north of Diamond Basin. Spring had sprung, and the tourists were on the move. So now Frank turned back into a fishing guide. ...

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