Tuesday, August 8.
We caught fish enough for breakfast last evening, and gathered currants
enough for sauce, but I spoilt the sauce by putting the sugar in, when
I put them on to cook, they hardened and were not fit to eat. I have
been experimenting to-day and have succeeded in making a nice cobbler.
I did not sweeten at all before baking, but made the sauce sweet enough
to sweeten all. I also made a fine sauce by cooking the currants only
a very few minutes, and putting in the sugar after they were cooked.
We will have currant dumplings for dinner to-morrow. We have picked a
lot, enough to make sauce and pies and other good things for a week.
The currants are a beautiful fruit, and some are as large as small
cherries. We are waiting at Camp Plentiful, in the hope that some of
the wagons from the train will drive in before night.
There are three wigwams within sight of our camp. Sim and Hillhouse
went hunting to-day. On their way back they stopped at the wigwams and
found them occupied by white men with squaws for wives. Ugh!
* * * * *
Wednesday, August 9.
Somehow I felt a little suspicious of those white men living with
squaws, and feared some of our horses might be missing this morning,
but my suspicions were groundless. Our horses and cattle were all here,
well fed and ready for a long drive. We were off bright and early,
without seeing any one from the train.
We passed the Bridger Road, where our friends going to California will
turn off, so we are not likely to see them again, perhaps for years,
perhaps never again in this life.
There is a very fine ranch at the junction of the roads, where we
stopped at noon. Two men from this ranch visited our camp this evening.
They were rather fine looking, genteel in appearance, dressed in
civilization style, but for some unexplainable reason, I was afraid of
them. They tried to be very cordial and polite. They engaged Sim in
conversation, and plied him with pertinent questions, such as:
“Who owns those big American mares?” (referring to our horse team).
“They are the property of a widow.”
“Whose bay pony is that?”
“It belongs to the widow’s daughter.”
“Who is the owner of that chestnut sorrel?”
“Mr. Curry, father of those boys playing over there.”
They asked many more questions. Where we came from? Where we are going?
What we expect to do, etc.
Sim answered them patiently and civilly. He thinks they are horse
thieves, but hopes they will not be mean enough to steal from a widow.
As if horse thieves care who they steal from. No doubt, their ranch is
stocked with stolen horses and cattle, for they have things as they
choose away out here, where there is no law, except the law of might.
God’s Word says, “As the partridge sitteth on eggs, and hatcheth them
not; so he that getteth riches, and not by right, shall leave them in
the midst of his days, and at his end shall be a fool” (Jer. 17:11).
We are camping on Ham’s Fork, where the currants and fish are very
plentiful, and the pasture very fine. We had our currant dumplings
for dinner. They were lovely. No one can imagine how we appreciate
this fruit by the wayside, except those who have been deprived of the
strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and cherries, each in their
season, and confined to the sameness and tameness of diet, which people
making this trip are necessarily confined to. This fruit would seem
inferior among other cultivated fruits, but where it is, it seems a
luxury provided for our benefit.
* * * * *
Thursday, August 10.
We went fishing at noon. It is such fun to fish in water so clear that
we can see the fish biting at the hook. They do not seem at all afraid,
and sometimes there will be two, three, or four grabbing at the hook at
the same time. Such shoving, pushing and crowding as they all try to
get the tempting bait. How eager and unsuspecting they are. Soon the
strongest or fleetest, or rather the most unfortunate one seizes it.
Away goes bait, hook and all, and then out comes a fish on dry land. I
give a shiver of pity for the unlucky fish, as I call to the boys: “I
have another.”
It does seem such a cruel thing to take them from their pleasant home
in the deep, clear, cool water. But then, “Life is sustained by death.”
And thousands upon thousands of lives are taken daily to nourish and
sustain human life. We are in a beautiful place, where all things
necessary for camping are plentiful, and we are all alone, no corral
within sight; the first time we have been entirely alone.
* * * * *
Friday, August 11.
One or other of the boys stood guard last night. It proved an
unnecessary precaution. There was no disturbance either from horse
thieves, Indians, or wild beasts. We are living fine since we crossed
Green River. We have fresh fish for breakfast and sometimes for dinner.
Wild game of some kind for dinner, with currant pudding, cobbler, or
dumplings, with rich cream for dessert. We may possibly go hungry next
Winter at Virginia City, but there is no danger of starving while we
stay on Ham’s Fork.
The weather is perfect. I have been riding my pony the greater part
of the day, sometimes one of Mr. Curry’s little boys with me, and
sometimes alone. I have enjoyed the delightful atmosphere--it seems
so pure and invigorating; the scenery is beautiful, and it has been a
glorious day.