the stones from where the fire had been, exposing a pit from which,
with a pair of pot-hooks, he lifted pots and ovens of the most
delicious meat, beans, and potatoes. From the mess-box he brought bread
and apricot pie. From a near-by spring he brought us a bright, new pail
full of clear, sparkling water, but Mrs. Louderer insisted upon tea and
in a short time he had it ready for us. The tarpaulin was spread on the
ground for us to eat from, and soon we were showing an astonished cook
just how much food two women and a child could get away with. I ate a
good deal of ashes with my roast beef and we all ate more or less sand,
but fastidiousness about food is a good thing to get rid of when you
come West to camp.
When the regular supper-time arrived the punchers began to gather in,
and the "boss," who had been to town about some business, came in and
brought back the news of the man-hunt. The punchers sat about the
fire, eating hungrily from their tin plates and eagerly listening to
the recital. Two of the boys were tenderfeet: one from Tennessee called
"Daisy Belle," because he whistled that tune so much and because he had
nose-bleed so much,--couldn't even ride a broncho but his nose would
bleed for hours afterwards; and the other, "N'Yawk," so called from his
native State. N'Yawk was a great boaster; said he wasn't afraid of no
durned outlaw,--said his father had waded in bloody gore up to his neck
and that he was a chip off the old block,--rather hoped the chase would
come our way so he could try his marksmanship.
The air began to grow chill and the sky was becoming overcast.
Preparations for the night busied everybody. Fresh ponies were being
saddled for the night relief, the hard-ridden, tired ones that had been
used that day being turned loose to graze. Some poles were set up and a
tarpaulin arranged for Mrs. Louderer and me to sleep under. Mrs.
Louderer and Jerrine lay down on some blankets and I unrolled some
more, which I was glad to notice were clean, for Baby and myself. I
can't remember ever being more tired and sleepy, but I couldn't go to
sleep. I could hear the boss giving orders in quick, decisive tones. I
could hear the punchers discussing the raid, finally each of them
telling exploits of his favorite heroes of outlawry. I could hear
Herman, busy among his pots and pans. Then he mounted the tongue of the
mess-wagon and called out, "We haf for breakfast cackle-berries, first
vot iss come iss served, und those vot iss sleep late gets nodings."
I had never before heard of cackle-berries and asked sleepy Mrs.
Louderer what they were. "Vait until morning and you shall see," was
all the information that I received.
Soon a gentle, drizzling rain began, and the punchers hurriedly made
their beds, as they did so twitting N'Yawk about making his between
our tent and the fire. "You're dead right, pard," I heard one of them
say, "to make your bed there, fer if them outlaws comes this way
they'll think you air one of the women and they won't shoot you. Just
us _men_ air in danger."
"Confound your fool tongues, how they goin' to know there's any women
here? I tell you, fellers, my old man waded in bloody gore up to his
neck and I'm just like him."
They kept up this friendly parleying until I dozed off to sleep, but I
couldn't stay asleep. I don't think I was afraid, but I certainly was
nervous. The river was making a sad, moaning sound; the rain fell
gently, like tears. All nature seemed to be mourning about something,
happened or going to happen. Down by the river an owl hooted dismally.
Half a mile away the night-herders were riding round and round the
herd. One of them was singing,--faint but distinct came his song: "Bury
me not on the lone prairie." Over and over again he sang it. After a
short interval of silence he began again. This time it was, "I'm
thinking of my dear old mother, ten thousand miles away."
Two punchers stirred uneasily and began talking. "Blast that Tex," I
heard one of them say, "he certainly has it bad to-night. What the
deuce makes him sing so much? I feel like bawling like a kid; I wish
he'd shut up." "He's homesick; I guess we all are too, but they ain't
no use staying awake and letting it soak in. Shake the water off the
tarp, you air lettin' water catch on your side an' it's running into my
ear."
That is the last I heard for a long time. I must have slept. I remember
that the baby stirred and I spoke to him. It seemed to me that
something struck against the guy-rope that held our tarpaulin taut, but
I wasn't sure. I was in that dozy state, half asleep, when nothing is
quite clear. It seemed as though I had been listening to the tramp of
feet for hours and that a whole army must be filing past, when I was
brought suddenly into keen consciousness by a loud voice demanding,
"Hello! Whose outfit is this?" "This is the 7 Up,--Louderer's," the
boss called back; "what's wanted?" "Is that you, Mat? This is Ward's
posse. We been after Meeks and Murdock all night. It's so durned dark
we can't see, but we got to keep going; their horses are about played.
We changed at Hadley's, but we ain't had a bite to eat and we got to
search your camp." "Sure thing," the boss answered, "roll off and take
a look. Hi, there, you Herm, get out of there and fix these fellers
something to eat."
We were surrounded. I could hear the clanking of spurs and the sound of
the wet, tired horses shaking themselves and rattling the saddles on
every side. "Who's in the wickiup?" I heard the sheriff ask. "Some
women and kids,--Mrs. Louderer and a friend."
In an incredibly short time Herman had a fire coaxed into a blaze and
Mat Watson and the sheriff went from bed to bed with a lantern. They
searched the mess-wagon, even, although Herman had been sleeping there.
The sheriff unceremoniously flung out the wood and kindling the cook
had stored there. He threw back the flap of our tent and flashed the
lantern about. He could see plainly enough that there were but the four
of us, but I wondered how they saw outside where the rain made it
worse, the lantern was so dirty. "Yes," I heard the sheriff say, "we've
been pushing them hard. They're headed north, evidently intend to hit
the railroad but they'll never make it. Every ford on the river is
guarded except right along here, and there's five parties ranging on
the other side. My party's split,--a bunch has gone on to the bridge.
If they find anything they're to fire a volley. Same with us. I knew
they couldn't cross the river nowhere but at the bridge or here."
The men had gathered about the fire and were gulping hot coffee and
cold beef and bread. The rain ran off their slickers in little
rivulets. I was sorry the fire was not better, because some of the men
had on only ordinary coats, and the drizzling rain seemed determined
that the fire should not blaze high.
Before they had finished eating we heard a shot, followed by a regular
medley of dull booms. The men were in their saddles and gone in less
time than it takes to tell it. The firing had ceased save for a few
sharp reports from the revolvers, like a coyote's spiteful snapping.
The pounding of the horse's hoofs grew fainter, and soon all was still.
I kept my ears strained for the slightest sound. The cook and the boss,
the only men up, hurried back to bed. Watson had risen so hurriedly
that he had not been careful about his "tarp" and water had run into
his bed. But that wouldn't disconcert anybody but a tenderfoot. I kept
waiting in tense silence to hear them come back with dead or wounded,
but there was not a sound. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Louderer struck a
match and said it was three o'clock. Soon she was asleep. Through a
rift in the clouds a star peeped out. I could smell the wet sage and
the sand. A little breeze came by, bringing Tex's song once more:--
"Oh, it matters not, so I've been told,
How the body lies when the heart grows cold."
Oh, dear! the world seemed so full of sadness. I kissed my baby's
little downy head and went to sleep.
It seems that cowboys are rather sleepy-headed in the morning and it is
a part of the cook's job to get them up. The next I knew, Herman had a
tin pan on which he was beating a vigorous tattoo, all the time
hollering, "We haf cackle-berries und antelope steak for breakfast."
The baby was startled by the noise, so I attended to him and then
dressed myself for breakfast. I went down to the little spring to wash
my face. The morning was lowering and gray, but a wind had sprung up
and the clouds were parting. There are times when anticipation is a
great deal better than realization. Never having seen a cackle-berry,
my imagination pictured them as some very luscious wild fruit, and I
was so afraid none would be left that I couldn't wait until the men
should eat and be gone. So I surprised them by joining the very
earliest about the fire. Herman began serving breakfast. I held out my
tin plate and received some of the steak, an egg, and two delicious
biscuits. We had our coffee in big enameled cups, without sugar or
cream, but it was piping hot and _so_ good. I had finished my egg and
steak and so I told Herman I was ready for my cackle-berries.
"Listen to her now, will you?" he asked. And then indignantly, "How
many cackle-berries does you want? You haf had so many as I haf cooked
for you." "Why, Herman, I haven't had a single berry," I said. Then
such a roar of laughter. Herman gazed at me in astonishment, and Mr.
Watson gently explained to me that eggs and cackle-berries were one
and the same.
N'Yawk was not yet up, so Herman walked over to his bed, kicked him a
few times, and told him he would scald him if he didn't turn out. It
was quite light by then. N'Yawk joined us in a few minutes. "What the
deuce was you fellers kicking up such a rumpus fer last night?" he
asked. "You blamed blockhead, don't you know?" the boss answered. "Why,
the sheriff searched this camp last night. They had a battle down at
the bridge afterwards and either they are all killed or else no one is
hurt. They would have been here otherwise. Ward took a shot at them
once yesterday, but I guess he didn't hit; the men got away, anyway.
And durn your sleepy head! you just lay there and snored. Well, I'll be
danged!" Words failed him, his wonder and disgust were so great.
N'Yawk turned to get his breakfast. His light shirt was blood-stained
in the back,--seemed to be soaked. "What's the matter with your shirt,
it's soaked with blood?" some one asked. "Then that durned Daisy Belle
has been crawling in with me, that's all," he said. "Blame his bleeding
snoot. I'll punch it and give it something to bleed for."
Then Mr. Watson said, "Daisy ain't been in all night. He took Jesse's
place when he went to town after supper." That started an inquiry and
search which speedily showed that some one with a bleeding wound had
gotten in with N'Yawk. It also developed that Mr. Watson's splendid
horse and saddle were gone, the rope that the horse had been picketed
with lying just as it had been cut from his neck.
Now all was bustle and excitement. It was plainly evident that one of
the outlaws had lain hidden on N'Yawk's bed while the sheriff was
there, and that afterwards he had saddled the horse and made his
escape. His own horse was found in the willows, the saddle cut loose
and the bridle off, but the poor, jaded thing had never moved. By sunup
the search-party returned, all too worn-out with twenty-four hours in
the saddle to continue the hunt. They were even too worn-out to eat,
but flung themselves down for a few hours' rest. The chase was hopeless
anyway, for the search-party had gone north in the night. The wounded
outlaw had doubtless heard the sheriff talking and, the coast being
clear to the southward, had got the fresh horse and was by that time
probably safe in the heavy forests and mountains of Utah. His getting
in with N'Yawk had been a daring ruse, but a successful one. Where his
partner was, no one could guess. But by that time all the camp
excepting Herman and Mrs. Louderer were so panicky that we couldn't
have made a rational suggestion.
N'Yawk, white around his mouth, approached Mrs. Louderer. "I want to
quit," he said. "Well," she said, calmly sipping her coffee, "you haf
done it." "I'm sick," he stammered. "I know you iss," she said, "I haf
before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death." "My old
daddy--" he began. "Yes, I know, he waded the creek vone time und you
has had cold feet effer since."
Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him. I had cold feet myself just then,
and I was powerfully anxious to warm them by my own fire where a pair
of calm blue eyes would reassure me.
I didn't get to see the branding that was to have taken place on the
range that day. The boss insisted on taking the trail of his valued
horse. He was very angry. He thought there was a traitor among the
posse. Who started the firing at the bridge no one knew, and Watson
said openly that it was done to get the sheriff away from camp.
My own home looked mighty good to me when we drove up that evening. I
don't want any more wild life on the range,--not for a while, anyway.
Your ex-Washlady,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XVII
AT GAVOTTE'S CAMP
_November 16, 1912._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
At last I can write you as I want to. I am afraid you think I am going
to wait until the "bairns" are grown up before writing to my friends,
but indeed I shall not. I fully intend to "gather roses while I may."
Since God has given me two blessings, children and friends, I shall
enjoy them both as I go along.
I must tell you why I have not written as I should have done. All
summer long my eyes were so strained and painful that I had to let all
reading and writing go. And I have suffered terribly with my back. But
now I am able to be about again, do most of my own work, and my eyes
are much better. So now I shall not treat you so badly again. If you
could only know how kind every one is to me, you would know that even
ill health has its compensations out here. Dear Mrs. Louderer, with her
goose-grease, her bread, and her delicious "kuchens." Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy, with her cheery ways, her tireless friendship, and
willing, capable hands. Gavotte even, with his tidbits of game and
fish. Dear little Cora Belle came often to see me, sometimes bringing
me a little of Grandpa's latest cure, which I received on faith, for,
of course, I could not really swallow any of it. Zebbie's nephew,
Parker Carter, came out, spent the summer with him, and they have now
gone back to Yell County, leaving Gavotte in charge again.
Gavotte had a most interesting and prosperous summer. He was
commissioned by a wealthy Easterner to procure some fossils. I had had
such a confined summer that Clyde took me out to Gavotte's camp as soon
as I was able to sit up and be driven. We found him away over in the
bad lands camped in a fine little grove. He is a charming man to visit
at any time, and we found him in a particularly happy mood. He had just
begun to quarry a gigantic find; he had piles of specimens; he had
packed and shipped some rare specimens of fossil plants, but his "beeg
find" came later and he was jubilant. To dig fossils successfully
requires great care and knowledge, but it is a work in which Gavotte
excels. He is a splendid cook. I almost believe he could make a Johnny
Reb like codfish, and that night we had a delicious supper and all the
time listening to a learned discourse about prehistoric things. I
enjoyed the meal and I enjoyed the talk, but I could not sleep
peacefully for being chased in my dreams by pterodactyls, dinosaurs,
and iguanodons, besides a great many horrible creatures whose names I
have forgotten. Of course, when the ground begins to freeze and snow
comes, fossil-mining is done for until summer comes, so Gavotte tends
the critters and traps this winter. I shall not get to go to the
mountains this winter. The babies are too small, but there is always
some happy and interesting thing happening, and I shall have two
pleasures each time, my own enjoyment, and getting to tell you of
them.
XVIII
THE HOMESTEADER'S MARRIAGE AND A LITTLE FUNERAL
_December 2, 1912._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Every time I get a new letter from you I get a new inspiration, and I
am always glad to hear from you.
I have often wished I might tell you all about my Clyde, but have not
because of two things. One is I could not even begin without telling
you what a good man he is, and I didn't want you to think I could do
nothing but brag. The other reason is the haste I married in. I am
ashamed of that. I am afraid you will think me a Becky Sharp of a
person. But although I married in haste, I have no cause to repent.
That is very fortunate because I have never had one bit of leisure to
repent in. So I am lucky all around. The engagement was powerfully
short because both agreed that the trend of events and ranch work
seemed to require that we be married first and do our "sparking"
afterward. You see, we had to chink in the wedding between times, that
is, between planting the oats and other work that must be done early or
not at all. In Wyoming ranchers can scarcely take time even to be
married in the springtime. That having been settled, the license was
sent for by mail, and as soon as it came Mr. Stewart saddled Chub and
went down to the house of Mr. Pearson, the justice of the peace and a
friend of long standing. I had never met any of the family and
naturally rather dreaded to have them come, but Mr. Stewart was firm in
wanting to be married at home, so he told Mr. Pearson he wanted him and
his family to come up the following Wednesday and serve papers on the
"wooman i' the hoose." They were astonished, of course, but being such
good friends they promised him all the assistance they could render.
They are quite the dearest, most interesting family! I have since
learned to love them as my own.
Well, there was no time to make wedding clothes, so I had to "do up"
what I did have. Isn't it queer how sometimes, do what you can, work
will keep getting in the way until you can't get anything done? That is
how it was with me those few days before the wedding; so much so that
when Wednesday dawned everything was topsy-turvy and I had a very
strong desire to run away. But I always did hate a "piker," so I stood
pat. Well, I had most of the dinner cooked, but it kept me hustling to
get the house into anything like decent order before the old dog
barked, and I knew my moments of liberty were limited. It was blowing a
perfect hurricane and snowing like midwinter. I had bought a beautiful
pair of shoes to wear on that day, but my vanity had squeezed my feet a
little, so while I was so busy at work I had kept on a worn old pair,
intending to put on the new ones later; but when the Pearsons drove up
all I thought about was getting them into the house where there was
fire, so I forgot all about the old shoes and the apron I wore.
I had only been here six weeks then, and was a stranger. That is why I
had no one to help me and was so confused and hurried. As soon as the
newcomers were warm, Mr. Stewart told me I had better come over by him
and stand up. It was a large room I had to cross, and how I did it
before all those strange eyes I never knew. All I can remember very
distinctly is hearing Mr. Stewart saying, "I will," and myself chiming
in that I would, too. Happening to glance down, I saw that I had
forgotten to take off my apron or my old shoes, but just then Mr.
Pearson pronounced us man and wife, and as I had dinner to serve right
away I had no time to worry over my odd toilet. Anyway the shoes were
comfortable and the apron white, so I suppose it could have been
worse; and I don't think it has ever made any difference with the
Pearsons, for I number them all among my most esteemed friends.
It is customary here for newlyweds to give a dance and supper at the
hall, but as I was a stranger I preferred not to, and so it was a long
time before I became acquainted with all my neighbors. I had not
thought I should ever marry again. Jerrine was always such a dear
little pal, and I wanted to just knock about foot-loose and free to see
life as a gypsy sees it. I had planned to see the Cliff-Dwellers' home;
to live right there until I caught the spirit of the surroundings
enough to live over their lives in imagination anyway. I had planned to
see the old missions and to go to Alaska; to hunt in Canada. I even
dreamed of Honolulu. Life stretched out before me one long, happy
jaunt. I aimed to see all the world I could, but to travel unknown
bypaths to do it. But first I wanted to try homesteading.
But for my having the grippe, I should never have come to Wyoming. Mrs.
Seroise, who was a nurse at the institution for nurses in Denver while
I was housekeeper there, had worked one summer at Saratoga, Wyoming. It
was she who told me of the pine forests. I had never seen a pine until
I came to Colorado; so the idea of a home among the pines fascinated
me. At that time I was hoping to pass the Civil-Service examination,
with no very definite idea as to what I would do, but just to be
improving my time and opportunity. I never went to a public school a
day in my life. In my childhood days there was no such thing in the
Indian Territory part of Oklahoma where we lived, so I have had to try
hard to keep learning. Before the time came for the examination I was
so discouraged because of the grippe that nothing but the mountains,
the pines, and the clean, fresh air seemed worth while; so it all came
about just as I have written you.
So you see I was very deceitful. Do you remember, I wrote you of a
little baby boy dying? That was my own little Jamie, our first little
son. For a long time my heart was crushed. He was such a sweet,
beautiful boy. I wanted him so much. He died of erysipelas. I held him
in my arms till the last agony was over. Then I dressed the beautiful
little body for the grave. Clyde is a carpenter; so I wanted him to
make the little coffin. He did it every bit, and I lined and padded it,
trimmed and covered it. Not that we couldn't afford to buy one or that
our neighbors were not all that was kind and willing; but because it
was a sad pleasure to do everything for our little first-born
ourselves.
As there had been no physician to help, so there was no minister to
comfort, and I could not bear to let our baby leave the world without
leaving any message to a community that sadly needed it. His little
message to us had been love, so I selected a chapter from John and we
had a funeral service, at which all our neighbors for thirty miles
around were present. So you see, our union is sealed by love and
welded by a great sorrow.
Little Jamie was the first little Stewart. God has given me two more
precious little sons. The old sorrow is not so keen now. I can bear to
tell you about it, but I never could before. When you think of me, you
must think of me as one who is truly happy. It is true, I want a great
many things I haven't got, but I don't want them enough to be
discontented and not enjoy the many blessings that are mine. I have my
home among the blue mountains, my healthy, well-formed children, my
clean, honest husband, my kind, gentle milk cows, my garden which I
make myself. I have loads and loads of flowers which I tend myself.
There are lots of chickens, turkeys, and pigs which are my own special
care. I have some slow old gentle horses and an old wagon. I can load
up the kiddies and go where I please any time. I have the best, kindest
neighbors and I have my dear absent friends. Do you wonder I am so
happy? When I think of it all, I wonder how I can crowd all my joy into
one short life. I don't want you to think for one moment that you are
bothering me when I write you. It is a real pleasure to do so. You're
always so good to let me tell you everything. I am only afraid of
trying your patience too far. Even in this long letter I can't tell you
all I want to; so I shall write you again soon. Jerrine will write too.
Just now she has very sore fingers. She has been picking gooseberries,
and they have been pretty severe on her brown little paws.
With much love to you, I am
"Honest and truly" yours,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XIX
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE
_January 6, 1913._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
I have put off writing you and thanking you for your thought for us
until now so that I could tell you of our very happy Christmas and our
deer hunt all at once.