My father found Dan Barry wandering across the hills years ago.

He was riding home over the range and he heard a strange and beautiful whistling, and when he looked up he saw on the western ridge, walking against the sky, a tattered figure of a boy.

He rode up and asked the boy his name.

He learned it was Dan Barry--Whistling Dan, he was called.

But the boy could not, or would not, tell how he came to be there in the middle of the range without a horse.