tells me that she is going "back yan" when she gets a "little mo'
richer." I am afraid you give me too much credit for being of help to
poor little Molly. It wasn't that I am so helpful, but that "fools rush
in where angels fear to tread." It was Mrs. O'Shaughnessy who was the
real help. She is a woman of great courage and decision and of splendid
sense and judgment. A few days ago a man she had working for her got
his finger-nail mashed off and neglected to care for it. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy examined it and found that gangrene had set in. She
didn't tell him, but made various preparations and then told him she
had heard that if there was danger of blood-poisoning it would show if
the finger was placed on wood and the patient looked toward the sun.
She said the person who looked at the finger could then see if there
was any poison. So the man placed his finger on the chopping-block and
before he could bat his eye she had chopped off the black, swollen
finger. It was so sudden and unexpected that there seemed to be no
pain. Then Mrs. O'Shaughnessy showed him the green streak already
starting up his arm. The man seemed dazed and she was afraid of shock,
so she gave him a dose of morphine and whiskey. Then with a quick
stroke of a razor she laid open the green streak and immersed the whole
arm in a strong solution of bichloride of mercury for twenty minutes.
She then dressed the wound with absorbent cotton saturated with olive
oil and carbolic acid, bundled her patient into a buggy, and drove
forty-five miles that night to get him to a doctor. The doctor told us
that only her quick action and knowledge of what to do saved the man's
life.
I was surprised that you have had a letter from Jerrine. I knew she was
writing to you that day, but I was feeling very stiff and sore from the
runaway and had lain down. She kept asking me how to spell words until
I told her I was too tired and wanted to sleep. While I was asleep the
man came for the mail, so she sent her letter. I have your address on
the back of the writing-pad, so she knew she had it right, but I
suspect that was all she had right. She has written you many letters
but I have never allowed her to send them because she misspells, but
that time she stole a march on me. The books you sent her, "Black
Beauty" and "Alice in Wonderland," have given her more pleasure than
anything she has ever had. She just loves them and is saving them, she
says, for her own little girls. She is very confident that the stork
will one day visit her and leave her a "very many" little girls. They
are to be of assorted sizes. She says she can't see why I order all my
babies little and red and squally,--says she thinks God had just as
soon let me have larger ones, especially as I get so many from him.
One day before long I will get busy and write you of a visit I shall
make to a Mormon bishop's household. Polygamy is still practiced.
Very truly your friend,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XXIII
HOW IT HAPPENED
_June 12, 1913._
Dear Mrs. Coney,--
Your letter of the 8th to hand, and in order to catch you before you
leave I'll answer at once and not wait for time. I always think I shall
do better with more time, but with three "bairns," garden, chickens,
cows, and housework I don't seem to find much time for anything. Now
for the first question. My maiden name was Pruitt, so when I am putting
on airs I sign Elinore Pruitt Stewart. I don't think I have ever
written anything that Clyde would object to, so he can still stay on
the pedestal Scotch custom puts him upon and remain "the Stewart."
Indeed, I don't think you are too inquisitive, and I am glad to tell
you how I happened to meet the "gude mon."
It all happened because I had a stitch in my side. When I was
housekeeper at the Nursery, I also had to attend to the furnace, and,
strange but true, the furnace was built across the large basement from
where the coal was thrown in, so I had to tote the coal over, and my
_modus operandi_ was to fill a tub with coal and then drag it across to
the hungry furnace. Well, one day I felt the catch and got no better
fast. After Dr. F---- punched and prodded, she said, "Why, you have the
grippe." Rev. Father Corrigan had been preparing me to take the
Civil-Service examination, and that afternoon a lesson was due, so I
went over to let him see how little I knew. I was in pain and was so
blue that I could hardly speak without weeping, so I told the Reverend
Father how tired I was of the rattle and bang, of the glare and the
soot, the smells and the hurry. I told him what I longed for was the
sweet, free open, and that I would like to homestead. That was Saturday
evening. He advised me to go straight uptown and put an "ad" in the
paper, so as to get it into the Sunday paper. I did so, and because I
wanted as much rest and quiet as possible I took Jerrine and went
uptown and got a nice quiet room.
On the following Wednesday I received a letter from Clyde, who was in
Boulder visiting his mother. He was leaving for Wyoming the following
Saturday and wanted an interview, if his proposition suited me. I was
so glad of his offer, but at the same time I couldn't know what kind of
person he was; so, to lessen any risk, I asked him to come to the
Sunshine Mission, where Miss Ryan was going to help me "size him up."
He didn't know that part of it, of course, but he stood inspection
admirably. I was under the impression he had a son, but he hadn't, and
he and his mother were the very last of their race. I am as proud and
happy to-day as I was the day I became his wife. I wish you knew him,
but I suspect I had better not brag too much, lest you think me not
quite sincere. He expected to visit you while he was in Boulder. He
went to the Stock Show, but was with a party, so he planned to go
again. But before he could, the man he left here, and whom I dismissed
for drunkenness, went to Boulder and told him I was alone, so the
foolish thing hurried home to keep me from too hard work. So that is
why he was disappointed.
Junior can talk quite well, and even Calvin jabbers. The children are
all well, and Jerrine writes a little every day to you. I have been
preparing a set of indoor outings for invalids. Your telling me your
invalid friends enjoyed the letters suggested the idea. I thought to
write of little outings I take might amuse them, but wanted to write
just as I took the little trips, while the impressions were fresh; that
is why I have not sent them before now. Is it too late? Shall I send
them to you? Now this is really not a letter; it is just a reply. I
must say good-night; it is twelve o'clock, and I am so sleepy.
I do hope you will have a very happy summer, and that you will share
your happiness with me in occasional letters.
With much love,
ELINORE STEWART.
In writing I forgot to say that the Reverend Father thought it a good
plan to get a position as housekeeper for some rancher who would advise
me about land and water rights. By keeping house, he pointed out, I
could have a home and a living and at the same time see what kind of a
homestead I could get.
XXIV
A LITTLE ROMANCE
_October 8, 1913._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
I have had such a happy little peep into another's romance that I think
I should be cheating you if I didn't tell you. Help in this country is
extremely hard to get; so when I received a letter from one Aurelia
Timmons, saying she wanted a job,--three dollars a week and _not_ to be
called "Relie,"--my joy could hardly be described. I could hardly wait
until morning to start for Bridger Bench, where Aurelia held forth. I
was up before the lark next morning. It is more miles to the Bridger
Bench country than the "gude mon" wants his horses driven in a day; so
permission was only given after I promised to curb my impatience and
stay overnight with Mrs. Louderer. Under ordinary circumstances that
would have been a pleasure, but I knew at least a dozen women who would
any of them seize on to Aurelia and wrest her from me, so it was only
after it seemed I would not get to go at all that I promised.
At length the wagon was greased, some oats put in, a substantial lunch
and the kiddies loaded in, and I started on my way. Perhaps it was the
prospect of getting help that gilded everything with a new beauty. The
great mountains were so majestic, and the day so young that I knew the
night wind was still murmuring among the pines far up on the
mountain-sides. The larks were trying to outdo each other and the
robins were so saucy that I could almost have flicked them with the
willow I was using as a whip. The rabbit-bush made golden patches
everywhere, while purple asters and great pink thistles lent their
charm. Going in that direction, our way lay between a mountain stream
and the foothills. There are many ranches along the stream, and as we
were out so early, we could see the blue smoke curling from each house
we passed. We knew that venison steak, hot biscuit, and odorous coffee
would soon grace their tables. We had not had the venison, for the
"gude mon" holds to the letter of the law which protects deer here, but
we begrudged no one anything; we were having exactly what we wanted. We
jogged along happily, if slowly, for I must explain to you that Chub is
quite the laziest horse in the State, and Bill, his partner, is so old
he stands like a bulldog. He is splay-footed and sway-backed, but he is
a beloved member of our family, so I vented my spite on Chub, and the
willow descended periodically across his black back, I guess as much
from force of habit as anything else. But his hide is thick and his
memory short, so we broke no record that day.
We drove on through the fresh beauty of the morning, and when the sun
was straight overhead we came to the last good water we could expect
before we reached Mrs. Louderer's; so we stopped for lunch. In Wyoming
quantity has a great deal more to do with satisfaction than does
quality; after half a day's drive you won't care so much what it is
you're going to eat as you will that there is enough of it. That is a
lesson I learned long ago; so our picnic was real. There were no ants
in the pie, but that is accounted for by there being no pie. Our road
had crossed the creek, and we were resting in the shade of a
quaking-asp grove, high up on the sides of the Bad Land hills. For
miles far below lay the valley through which we had come.
Farther on, the mountains with their dense forests were all wrapped in
the blue haze of the melancholy days. Soon we quitted our enchanted
grove whose quivering, golden leaves kept whispering secrets to us.
About three o'clock we came down out of the hills on to the bench on
which the Louderer ranch is situated. Perhaps I should explain that
this country is a series of huge terraces, each terrace called a
bench. I had just turned into the lane that leads to the house when a
horseman came cantering toward me. "Hello!" he saluted, as he drew up
beside the wagon. "Goin' up to the house? Better not. Mrs. Louderer is
not at home, and there's no one there but Greasy Pete. He's on a tear;
been drunk two days, I'm tellin' you. He's _full_ of mischief. 'T ain't
safe around old Greasy. I advise you to go some'eres else." "Well," I
asked, "where _can_ I go?" "Danged if I know," he replied, "'lessen it
's to Kate Higbee's. She lives about six or seven miles west. She ain't
been here long, but I guess you can't miss her place. Just jog along
due west till you get to Red Gulch ravine, then turn north for a couple
of miles. You'll see her cabin up against a cedar ridge. Well, so
'long!" He dug his spurs into his cayuse's side and rode on.
Tears of vexation so blinded me that I could scarcely see to turn the
team, but ominous sounds and wild yells kept coming from the house, so
I made what haste I could to get away from such an unpleasant
neighborhood. Soon my spirits began to rise. Kate Higbee, I reflected,
was likely to prove to be an interesting person. All Westerners are
likable, with the possible exception of Greasy Pete. I rather looked
forward to my visit. But my guide had failed to mention the buttes; so,
although I jogged as west as I knew how, I found I had to wind around a
butte about ever so often. I crossed a ravine with equal frequency, and
all looked alike. It is not surprising that soon I could not guess
where I was. We could turn back and retrace our tracks, but actual
danger lay there; so it seemed wiser to push on, as there was, perhaps,
no greater danger than discomfort ahead. The sun hung like a big red
ball ready to drop into the hazy distance when we came clear of the
buttes and down on to a broad plateau, on which grass grew plentifully.
That encouraged me because the horses need not suffer, and if I could
make the scanty remnant of our lunch do for the children's supper and
breakfast, we could camp in comfort, for we had blankets. But we must
find water. I stood up in the wagon and, shading my eyes against the
sun's level light, was looking out in the most promising directions
when I noticed that the plateau's farther side was bounded by a cedar
ridge, and, better yet, a smoke was slowly rising, column-like, against
the dun prospect. That, I reasoned, must be my destination. Even the
horses livened their paces, and in a little while we were there.
But no house greeted our eyes,--just a big camp-fire. A lean old man
sat on a log-end and surveyed us indifferently. On the ground lay a
large canvas-covered pack, apparently unopened. An old saddle lay up
against a cedar-trunk. Two old horses grazed near. I was powerfully
disappointed. You know misery loves company; so I ventured to say,
"Good-evening." He didn't stir, but he grunted, "Hello." I knew then
that he was not a fossil, and hope began to stir in my heart. Soon he
asked, "Are you goin' somewheres or jist travelin'?" I told him I had
started somewhere, but reckoned I must be traveling, as I had not
gotten there. Then he said, "My name is Hiram K. Hull. Whose woman are
you?" I confessed to belonging to the house of Stewart. "Which
Stewart?" he persisted,--"C.R., S.W., or H.C.?" Again I owned up
truthfully. "Well," he continued, "what does he mean by letting you gad
about in such onconsequential style?"
_Sometimes_ a woman gets too angry to talk. Don't you believe that? No?
Well, they do, I assure you, for I was then. He seemed grown to the
log. As he had made no move to help me, without answering him I
clambered out of the wagon and began to take the horses loose. "Ho!" he
said; "are you goin' to camp here?" "Yes, I am," I snapped. "Have you
any objections?" "Oh, no, none that won't keep," he assured me. It has
always been a theory of mine that when we become sorry for ourselves we
make our misfortunes harder to bear, because we lose courage and can't
think without bias; so I cast about me for something to be glad about,
and the comfort that at least we were safer with a simpleton than near
a drunken Mexican came to me; so I began to view the situation with a
little more tolerance.
After attending to the horses I began to make the children comfortable.
My unwilling host sat silently on his log, drawing long and hard at his
stubby old pipe. How very little there was left of our lunch! Just for
meanness I asked him to share with us, and, if you'll believe me, he
did. He gravely ate bread-rims and scraps of meat until there was not
one bit left for even the baby's breakfast. Then he drew the back of
his hand across his mouth and remarked, "I should think when you go off
on a ja'nt like this you'd have a well-filled mess-box." Again speech
failed me.
Among some dwarf willows not far away a spring bubbled. I took the
kiddies there to prepare them for rest. When I returned to the fire,
what a transformation! The pack was unrolled and blankets were spread,
the fire had been drawn aside, disclosing a bean-hole, out of which
Hiram K. was lifting an oven. He took off the lid. Two of the plumpest,
brownest ducks that ever tempted any one were fairly swimming in gravy.
Two loaves of what he called punk, with a box of crackers, lay on a
newspaper. He mimicked me exactly when he asked me to take supper with
him, and I tried hard to imitate him in promptitude when I accepted.
The babies had some of the crackers wet with hot water and a little of
the gravy. We soon had the rest looking scarce. The big white stars
were beginning to twinkle before we were through, but the camp-fire was
bright, and we all felt better-natured. Men are not alone in having a
way to their heart through their stomach.
I made our bed beneath the wagon, and Hiram K. fixed his canvas
around, so we should be sheltered. I felt so much better and thought so
much better of him that I could laugh and chat gayly. "Now, tell me,"
he asked, as he fastened the canvas to a wheel, "didn't you think I was
an old devil at first?" "Yes, I did," I answered. "Well," he said, "I
am; so you guessed right." After I put the children to bed, we sat by
the fire and talked awhile. I told him how I happened to be gadding
about in "such onconsequential" style, and he told me stories of when
the country was new and fit to live in. "Why," he said, in a burst of
enthusiasm, "time was once when you went to bed you were not sure
whether you'd get up alive and with your scalp on or not, the Injins
were that thick. And then there was white men a durned sight worse;
they were likely to plug you full of lead just to see you kick. But
now," he continued mournfully, "a bear or an antelope, maybe an elk, is
about all the excitement we can expect. Them good old days are gone."
I am mighty glad of it; a drunken Pete is bad enough for me.
I was tired, so soon I went to bed. I could hear him as he cut cedar
boughs for his own fireside bed, and as he rattled around among his
pots and pans. Did you ever eat pork and beans heated in a frying-pan
on a camp-fire for breakfast? Then if you have not, there is one
delight left you. But you must be away out in Wyoming, with the morning
sun just gilding the distant peaks, and your pork and beans must be out
of a can, heated in a disreputable old frying-pan, served with coffee
_boiled_ in a battered old pail and drunk from a tomato-can. You'll
_never_ want iced melons, powdered sugar, and fruit, or sixty-nine
varieties of breakfast food, if once you sit Trilby-wise on Wyoming
sand and eat the kind of breakfast we had that day.
After breakfast Hiram K. Hull hitched our horses to the wagon, got his
own horses ready, and then said, "'T ain't more 'n half a mile straight
out between them two hills to the stage-road, but I guess I had better
go and show you exactly, or you will be millin' around here all day,
tryin' to find it." In a very few minutes we were on the road, and our
odd host turned to go. "S'long!" he called. "Tell Stewart you seen old
Hikum. Him and me's shared tarps many's the nights. We used to be
punchers together,--old Clyde and me. Tell him old Hikum ain't forgot
him." So saying, he rode away into the golden morning, and we drove
onward, too.
We stopped for lunch only a few minutes that day, and we reached the
Bridger community about two that afternoon. The much sought Aurelia had
accepted the position of lifetime housekeeper for a sheep-herder who
had no house to keep, so I had to cast about for whatever comfort I
could. The roadhouse is presided over by a very able body of the clan
of Ferguson. I had never met her, but formalities count for very little
in the West. She was in her kitchen, having more trouble, she said,
than a hen whose ducklings were in swimming. I asked her if she could
accommodate the children and myself. "Yes," she said, "I can give you a
bed and grub, but I ain't got no time to ask you nothing. I ain't got
no time to inquire who you are nor where you come from. There's one
room left. You can have that, but you'll have to look out for yourself
and young 'uns." I felt equal to that; so I went out to have the horses
cared for and to unload the kiddies.
Leaning against the wagon was a man who made annual rounds of all the
homes in our community each summer; his sole object was to see what
kind of flowers we succeeded with. Every woman in our neighborhood
knows Bishey Bennet, but I don't think many would have recognized him
that afternoon. I had never seen him dressed in anything but blue denim
overalls and overshirt to match, but to-day he proudly displayed what
he said was his dove-colored suit. The style must have been one of
years ago, for I cannot remember seeing trousers quite so skimpy. He
wore top-boots, but as a concession to fashion he wore the boot-tops
under the trouser-legs, and as the trousers were about as narrow as a
sheath skirt, they kept slipping up and gave the appearance of being at
least six inches too short. Although Bishey is tall and thin, his coat
was two sizes too small, his shirt was of soft tan material, and he
wore a blue tie. But whatever may have been amiss with his costume was
easily forgotten when one saw his radiant face. He grasped my hand and
wrung it as if it was a chicken's neck.
"What in the world is the matter with you?" I asked, as I rubbed my
abused paw. "Just you come here and I'll tell you," he answered. There
was no one to hear but the kiddies, but I went around the corner of the
house with him. He put his hand up to his mouth and whispered that
"Miss Em'ly" was coming, would be there on the afternoon stage. I had
never heard of "Miss Em'ly," and said so. "Well, just you go in and
set on the sofy and soon's I see your horses took care of I'll come in
and tell you." I went into my own room, and after I rustled some water
I made myself and the kiddies a little more presentable. Then we went
into the sitting-room and sat on the "sofy." Presently Bishey sauntered
in, trying to look unconcerned and at ease, but he was so fidgety he
couldn't sit down. But he told his story, and a dear one it is.
It seems that back in New York State he and Miss Em'ly were "young uns"
together. When they were older they planned to marry, but neither
wanted to settle down to the humdrumness that they had always known.
Both dreamed of the golden West; so Bishey had gone to blaze the trail,
and "Miss Em'ly" was to follow. First one duty and then another had
held her, until twenty-five years had slipped by and they had not seen
each other, but now she was coming, that very day. They would be
married that evening, and I at once appointed myself matron of honor
and was plumb glad there was no other candidate.
I at once took the decorations in hand. Bishey, Jerrine, and myself
went out and gathered armfuls of asters and goldenrod-like
rabbit-brush. From the dump-pile we sorted cans and pails that would
hold water, and we made the sitting-room a perfect bower of purple and
gold beauty. I put on my last clean shirt-waist and the children's last
clean dresses. Then, as there seemed nothing more to do, Bishey
suggested that we walk up the road and meet the stage; but the day had
been warm, and I remembered my own appearance when I had come over that
same road the first time. I knew that journey was trying on any one's
appearance at any time of the year, and after twenty-five years to be
thrust into view covered with alkali dust and with one's hat on awry
would be too much for feminine patience; so I pointed out to Bishey
that he'd better clear out and let Miss Em'ly rest a bit before he
showed up. At last he reluctantly agreed.
I went out to the kitchen to find what could be expected in the way of
hot water for Miss Em'ly when she should come. I found I could have all
I wanted if I heated it myself. Mrs. Ferguson could not be bothered
about it, because a water company had met there to vote on new canals,
the sheep-men were holding a convention, there was a more than usual
run of transients besides the regular boarders, and supper was ordered
for the whole push. All the help she had was a girl she just knew
didn't have sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. Under those
circumstances I was mighty glad to help. I put water on to heat and
then forgot Miss Em'ly, I was enjoying helping so much, until I heard a
door slam and saw the stage drive away toward the barn.
I hastened to the room I knew was reserved for Miss Em'ly. I rapped on
the door, but it was only opened a tiny crack. I whispered through
that I was a neighbor-friend of Mr. Bennet's, that I had lots of hot
water for her and had come to help her if I might. Then she opened the
door, and I entered. I found a very travel-stained little woman, down
whose dust-covered cheeks tears had left their sign. Her prettiness was
the kind that wins at once and keeps you ever after. She was a strange
mixture of stiff reticence and childish trust. She was in _such_ a
flutter, and she said she was ashamed to own it, but she was so hungry
she could hardly wait.