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I Married a Ranger
_By Dama Margaret Smith_
(_Mrs. "White Mountain"_)
STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS STANFORD UNIVERSITY, CALIFORNIA
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS STANFORD UNIVERSITY, CALIFORNIA
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
THE MARUZEN COMPANY TOKYO, OSAKA, KYOTO, SENDAI
THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 55 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Copyright 1930 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior
University All Rights Reserved Published 1930
PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY STANFORD UNIVERSITY
PRESS
_This book is lovingly dedicated
to
White Mountain Smith
who has made me glad
I married a Ranger_
_FOREWORD_
_I Married a Ranger_ is an intimate story of "pioneer" life in a
national park, told in an interesting, humorous way, that makes it most
delightful.
To me it is more than a book; it is a personal justification. For back
in 1921, when the author came to my office in Washington and applied for
the clerical vacancy existing at the Grand Canyon, no woman had been
even considered for the position. The park was new, and neither time nor
funds had been available to install facilities that are a necessary part
of our park administrative and protective work. Especially was the Grand
Canyon lacking in living quarters. For that reason the local
superintendent, as well as Washington Office officials, were opposed to
sending any women clerks there.
Nevertheless, after talking to the author, I decided to make an
exception in her case, so she became the first woman Government employee
at the Canyon. _I Married a Ranger_ proves that the decision was a happy
one.
It is a pleasure to endorse Mrs. Smith's book, and at the same time to
pay a tribute of admiration to the women of the Service, both employees
and wives of employees, who carry on faithfully and courageously under
all circumstances.
ARNO B. CAMMERER
_Associate Director,_
National Park Service
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "_Out in Arizona, Where the Bad Men Are_" 1
II. "_This Ain't Washington!_" 11
III. "_I Do!_" 21
IV. _Celebrities and Squirrels_ 31
V. _Navajo Land_ 42
VI. "_They Killed Me_" 56
VII. _A Grand Canyon Christmas_ 67
VIII. _The Day's Work_ 77
IX. _The Doomed Tribe_ 89
X. _Where They Dance with Snakes_ 104
XI. _The Terrible Badger Fight_ 121
XII. _Grand Canyon Ups and Downs_ 131
XIII. _Sisters under the Skin_ 147
XIV. _The Passing Show_ 158
XV. _Fools, Flood, and Dynamite_ 170
[Illustration]
_Chapter I: "OUT IN ARIZONA, WHERE THE BAD MEN ARE"_
"So you think you'd like to work in the Park Office at Grand Canyon?"
"Sure!" "Where is Grand Canyon?" I asked as an afterthought.
I knew just that little about the most spectacular chasm in the world,
when I applied for an appointment there as a Government worker.
Our train pulled into the rustic station in the wee small hours, and
soon I had my first glimpse of the Canyon. Bathed in cold moonlight, the
depths were filled with shadows that disappeared as the sun came up
while I still lingered, spellbound, on the Rim.
On the long train journey I had read and re-read the _Grand Canyon
Information Booklet_, published by the National Park Service. I was
still unprepared for what lay before me in carrying out my rôle as field
clerk there. So very, very many pages of that booklet have never been
written--pages replete with dangers and hardships, loneliness and
privations, sacrifice and service, all sweetened with friendships not
found in heartless, hurrying cities, lightened with loyalty and love,
and tinted with glamour and romance. And over it all lies a fascination
a stranger without the gates can never share.
I was the first woman ever placed in field service at the Grand Canyon,
and the Superintendent was not completely overjoyed at my arrival. To be
fair, I suppose he expected me to be a clinging-vine nuisance, although
I assured him I was well able to take care of myself. Time softens most
of life's harsh memories, and I've learned to see his side of the
question. What was he to do with a girl among scores of road builders
and rangers? When I tell part of my experiences with him, I do so only
because he has long been out of the Service and I can now see the
humorous aspect of our private feud.
As the sun rose higher over the Canyon, I reluctantly turned away and
went to report my arrival to the Superintendent. He was a towering,
gloomy giant of a man, and I rather timidly presented my assignment. He
looked down from his superior height, eyed me severely, and spoke
gruffly.
"I suppose you know you were thrust upon me!"
"No. I'm very sorry," I said, quite meekly.
While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond
man in Park uniform entered the office.
The Superintendent looked quite relieved.
"This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over
to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?" And he washed his hands of
me.
In the Washington office I had often heard of "White Mountain" Smith. I
recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in
Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I looked him
over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well. His keen
blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West Virginia. He
looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised that his speech
had a "down East" tone.
"Aren't you a Westerner?"
"No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee," he smiled. "But we drift out here from
everywhere. I've been in the West many years."
"Have you ever been in West Virginia?" I blurted. Homesickness had
settled all over me.
He looked at me quickly, and I reckon he saw that tears were close to
the surface.
"No-o, I haven't been there. But my father went down there during the
Civil War and helped clean up on the rebels!"
Sparks flew then and I forgot to be homesick. But he laughed and led me
toward my new home.
We strolled up a slight rise through wonderful pine trees, with here and
there a twisted juniper giving a grotesque touch to the landscape. The
ground was covered with springy pine needles, and squirrels and birds
were everywhere. We walked past rows and rows of white tents pitched in
orderly array among the pines, the canvas village of fifty or more road
builders. By and by we came to a drab gray shack, weather-beaten and
discouraged, hunched under the trees as if it were trying to blot
itself from the scene. I was passing on, when the Chief (White Mountain)
stopped me with a gesture.
"This is your home," he said. Just that bald statement. I thought he was
joking, but he pushed the door open and we walked inside. The tiny shack
had evidently seen duty as a warehouse and hadn't been manicured since!
But in view of the fact that the Park Service was handicapped by lack of
funds, and in the throes of road building and general development, I was
lucky to draw a real house instead of a tent. I began to see why the
Superintendent had looked askance at me when I arrived. I put on my
rose-colored glasses and took stock of my abode.
It was divided into two rooms, a kitchen and a combination
living-dining-sleeping-dressing-bath-room. The front door was a heavy
nailed-up affair that fastened with an iron hook and staple. The back
door sagged on its leather hinges and moved open or shut reluctantly.
Square holes were cut in the walls for windows, but these were innocent
of screen or glass. Cracks in the roof and walls let in an abundance of
Arizona atmosphere. The furniture consisted of a slab table that
extended all the way through the middle of the room, a wicker chair, and
a golden-oak dresser minus the mirror and lacking one drawer.
White Mountain looked surprised and relieved, when I burst out laughing.
He didn't know how funny the financial inducements of my new job sounded
to me while I looked around that hovel: "So much per annum and furnished
quarters!"
"We'll fix this up for you. We rangers didn't know until this morning
that you were coming," he said; and we went down to see if the cook was
in a good humor. I was to eat at the "Mess House" with the road crew and
rangers, provided the cook didn't mind having a woman around. I began to
have leanings toward "Equal-Rights-for-Women Clubs," but the cook was as
nice as could be. I fell in love with him instantly. Both he and his
kitchen were so clean and cheerful. His name was Jack. He greeted me as
man to man, with a hearty handclasp, and assured me he would look after
me.
"But you'll have to eat what the men do. I ain't got time to fix fancies
for you," he hastened to add.
A steel triangle hung on a tree near the cookhouse door, and when dinner
was ready Jack's helper struck it sharply with an iron bar. This made a
clatter that could be heard a mile and brought the men tumbling from
their tents to eat. As I was washing my hands and face in the kitchen I
heard Jack making a few remarks to his boarders: "Now don't any you
roughnecks forget there's a lady eatin' here from now on, and I'll be
damned if there's goin' to be any cussin', either." I don't believe they
needed any warning, for during the months I lived near their tents and
ate with them they never "forgot."
Many of them no doubt had come from homes as good as mine, and more than
one had college degrees. As they became accustomed to having me around
they shed their reserve along with their coats and became just what they
really were, a bunch of grown-up boys in search of adventure.
A week later it seemed perfectly natural to sit down to luncheon with
platters of steak, bowls of vegetables, mounds of potatoes, and pots of
steaming black coffee; but just then it was a radical change from my
usual glass of milk and thin sandwich lunch. The food was served on long
pine tables, flanked by backless benches. Blue and white enamel dishes,
steel knives and forks, and of course no napkins, made up the service.
We drank coffee from tin cups, cooling and diluting it with condensed
milk poured from the original can. I soon learned that "Shoot the cow!"
meant nothing more deadly than "Pass the milk, please!"
The rangers ate at a table apart from the other men. The Chief sat at
the head of the table, and my plate was at his right. Several rangers
rose to greet me when I came in.
"I'm glad you came," said one of them. "We are apt to grow careless
without someone to keep the rough edges polished for us." That was
Ranger Charley Fisk, the most loyal, faithful friend one could wish for.
He was never too tired nor too busy to add a shelf here or build a
cabinet there in my tiny cabin for me. But all that I had to learn
later. There was Frank, Ranger Winess; he and the Chief had been
together many years in Yellowstone; and Ranger West, and Ranger Peck.
These and several more were at the table.
"Eat your dinner," the Chief advised, and I ate, from steak to pie. The
three meals there were breakfast, dinner, and supper. No lettuce-leaf
lunch for them.
Dinner disposed of, I turned my attention to making my cabin fit to
live in. The cook had his flunky sweep and scrub the floor, and then,
with the aid of blankets, pictures, and draperies from my trunks, the
little place began to lose its forlorn look. White Mountain contributed
a fine pair of Pendleton blankets, gay and fleecy. He spread a Navajo
rug on the floor and placed an armful of books on the table. Ranger Fisk
threw the broken chair outside and brought me a chair he had made for
himself. Ranger Winess had been riding the drift fence while we worked,
but he appeared on the scene with a big cluster of red Indian paintbrush
blossoms he had found in a coulee. None of us asked if they were picked
inside the Park.
No bed was available, and again Ranger Fisk came to the rescue. He lent
me his cot and another ranger contributed his mattress.
White Mountain was called away, and when he returned he said that he had
hired a girl for the fire look-out tower, and suggested that I might
like to have her live there with me. "She's part Indian," he added.
"Fine. I like Indians, and anyway these doors won't lock. I'm glad to
have her." So they found another cot and put it up in the kitchen for
her.
She was a jolly, warm-hearted girl, used to life in such places. Her
husband was a forest ranger several miles away, and she spent most of
her time in the open. All day she stayed high in the fire tower, with
her glasses scanning the surrounding country. At the first sign of
smoke, she determined its exact location by means of a map and then
telephoned to Ranger Headquarters. Men were on their way immediately,
and many serious forest fires were thus nipped in the bud.
She and I surveyed each other curiously. I waited for her to do the
talking.
"You won't stay here long!" she said, and laughed when I asked her why.
"This is a funny place to put you," she remarked next, after a glance
around our new domain. "I'd rather be out under a tree, wouldn't you?"
"God forbid!" I answered earnestly. "I'm no back-to-nature fan, and this
is primitive a-plenty for me. There's no bathroom, and I can't even find
a place to wash my face. What shall we do?"
We reconnoitered, and found the water supply. We coaxed a tin basin away
from the cook and were fully equipped as far as a bathroom was
concerned.
Thea--for that was her Indian name--agreed that it might be well to
fasten our doors; so we dragged the decrepit dresser against the front
portal and moved a trunk across the back entrance. As there were no
shades at the windows, we undressed in the dark and retired.
The wind moaned in the pines. A querulous coyote complained. Strange
noises were everywhere around us. Scampering sounds echoed back and
forth in the cabin. My cot was hard and springless as a rock, and when I
stretched into a more comfortable position the end bar fell off and the
whole structure collapsed, I with it. Modesty vetoed a light, since the
men were still passing our cabin on their way to the tents; so in utter
darkness I pulled the mattress under the table and there made myself as
comfortable as possible. Just as I was dozing, Thea came in from the
kitchen bringing her cot bumping and banging at her heels. She was
utterly unnerved by rats and mice racing over her. We draped petticoats
and other articles of feminine apparel over the windows and sat up the
rest of the night over the smoky lamp. Wrapped in our bright blankets it
would have been difficult to tell which of us was the Indian.
"I'll get a cat tomorrow," I vowed.
"You can't. Cats aren't allowed in the Park," she returned, dejectedly.
"Well, then rats shouldn't be either," I snapped. "I can get some traps
I reckon. Or is trapping prohibited in this area?"
Thea just sighed.
Morning finally came, as mornings have a habit of doing, and found me
flinging things back in my trunk, while my companion eyed me
sardonic-wise. I had spent sufficient time in the great open spaces, and
just as soon as I could get some breakfast I was heading for Washington
again. But by the time I had tucked in a "feed" of fried potatoes, eggs,
hot cakes, and strong coffee, a lion couldn't have scared me away.
"Bring on your mice," was my battle cry.
At breakfast Ranger Fisk asked me quite seriously if I would have some
cackle berries. I looked around, couldn't see any sort of fruit on the
table, and, remembering the cook's injunction to eat what he set before
me, I answered: "No, thank you; but I'll have an egg, please." After
the laughter had subsided, White Mountain explained that cackle berries
were eggs!
I told the rangers about the mice in my house, and the cook overheard
the conversation. A little later a teamster appeared at my cabin with a
tiny gray kitten hidden under his coat.
"Cook said you have mice, Miss. I've brought 'Tuffy' to you. Please keep
him hid from the rangers. He has lived in the barn with me up to now."
With such a loyal protector things took a turn for the better, and my
Indian friend, my wee gray cat, and myself dwelt happily in our little
Grayhaven.
[Illustration]
_Chapter II: "THIS AIN'T WASHINGTON!"_
"This ain't Washington, and we don't keep bankers' hours here," was the
slogan of the Superintendent. He spoke that phrase, chanted it, and sang
it. He made a litany of it; he turned it into a National Anthem. It came
with such irritating regularity I could have sworn he timed it on a
knotted string, sort of "Day-by-day-in-every-way" tempo, one might say.
And it wasn't Washington, and we didn't live lives of ease; no banker
ever toiled from dawn until all hours of the night, Sunday included!
I made pothooks and translated them. I put figures down and added them
up. For the road crew I checked in equipment and for the cook I chucked
out rotten beef. The Superintendent had boasted that three weeks of the
program he had laid out for me would be plenty to send me back where I
came from and then he would have a regular place again. But I really
didn't mind the work. I was learning to love the Arizona climate and the
high thin air that kept one's spirits buoyed up in spite of little
irritations. I was not lonely, for I had found many friends.
When I had been at the Canyon a few days the young people gave a party
for me. It was my début, so to speak. The world-famous stone building at
Hermit's Rest was turned over to us for the evening by the Fred Harvey
people, and, attended by the entire ranger force, I drove out the nine
miles from Headquarters. We found the house crowded with guides,
cowboys, stage-drivers, and their girls. Most of the girls were Fred
Harvey waitresses, and if you think there is any discredit attached to
that job you had better change your mind. The girls there were
bookkeepers, teachers, college girls, and stenographers. They see the
world and get well paid while doing it.
The big rendezvous at Hermit's Rest resembles an enormous cavern. The
fireplace is among the largest anywhere in the world, and the cave
impression is further carried out by having flat stones laid for the
floor, and rock benches covered with bearskins and Navajo rugs. Many
distinguished guests from all parts of the globe have been entertained
in that room, but we forgot all about distinguished personages and had a
real old-fashioned party. We played cards and danced, and roasted
weenies and marshmallows. After that party I felt that I belonged there
at the Canyon and had neighbors.
There were others, however. The Social Leader, for instance. She tried
to turn our little democracy into a monarchy, with herself the
sovereign. She was very near-sighted, and it was a mystery how she
managed to know all about everything until we discovered she kept a pair
of powerful field-glasses trained on the scene most of the time. The
poor lady had a mania for selling discarded clothing at top prices. We
used to ask each other when we met at supper, "Did you buy anything
today?" I refused point-blank to buy her wreckage, but the rangers were
at a disadvantage. They wanted to be gentlemen and not hurt her
feelings! Now and then one would get cornered and stuck with a
second-hand offering before he could make his getaway. Then how the
others would rag him! One ranger, with tiny feet, of which he was
inordinately proud, was forced to buy a pair of No. 12 shoes because
they pinched the Social Leader's Husband's feet. He brought them to me.
"My Gawd! What'll I do with these here box cars? They cost me six bucks
and I'm ruined if the boys find out about it."
An Indian squaw was peddling baskets at my house, and we traded the
shoes to her for two baskets. I kept one and he the other. Not long
after that he was burned to death in a forest fire, and when I packed
his belongings to send to his mother the little basket was among his
keepsakes.
There was a Bridge Fiend in our midst, too! She weighed something like
twenty stone, slept all forenoon, played bridge and ate chocolates all
afternoon, and talked constantly of reducing. One day she went for a
ride on a flop-eared mule; he got tired and lay down and rolled over and
over in the sand. They had some trouble rescuing her before she got
smashed. I told her the mule believed in rolling to help reduce. She
didn't see the joke, but the mule and I did. Grand Canyon life was too
exciting for her, so she left us.
A quaint little person was the rancher's wife who brought fresh eggs and
vegetables to us. She wore scant pajamas instead of skirts, because she
thought it "more genteel," she explained. When a favorite horse or cow
died, she carefully preserved the skull and other portions of the
skeleton for interior-decoration purposes.
Ranger Fisk and I took refuge in her parlor one day from a heavy rain.
Her husband sat there like a graven image. He was never known to say
more than a dozen words a day, but she carried on for the entire family.
As Ranger Fisk said, "She turns her voice on and then goes away and
forgets it's running." She told us all about the last moments of her
skeletons before they were such, until it ceased to be funny. Ranger
Fisk sought to change the conversation by asking her how long she had
been married.
"Ten years; but it seems like fifty," she said. We braved the rain after
that.
Ranger Fisk was born in Sweden. He ran away from home at fourteen and
joined the Merchant Marine, and in that service poked into most of the
queer seaports on the map. He had long since lost track of his kinsfolk,
and although he insisted that he was anxious to marry he carefully kept
away from all marriageable ladies.
Ranger Winess was the sheik of the force. Every good-looking girl that
came his way was rushed for a day and forgotten as soon as another
arrived. He played his big guitar, and sang and danced, and made love,
all with equal skill and lightness. The only love he was really constant
to was Tony, his big bay horse.
Ranger West, Assistant Chief Ranger, was the most like a storybook
ranger of them all. He was essentially an outdoor man, without any
parlor tricks. I have heard old-timers say he was the best man with
horses they had ever known. He was much more interested in horses and
tobacco than he was in women and small talk. But if there was a
particularly dangerous task or one requiring sound judgment and a clear
head, Ranger West was selected.
He and Ranger Fisk and Ranger Winess were known as the "Three
Musketeers." They were the backbone of the force.
Sometimes I think my very nicest neighbor was the gardener at El Tovar
Hotel. He saw me hungrily eying his flowers, and gave me a generous
portion of plants and showed me how to care for them. I planted them
alongside my little gray house, and after each basin of water had seen
duty for cleansing purposes it went to water the flowers. We never
wasted a drop of water. It was hauled a hundred miles in tank cars, and
cost accordingly. I sometimes wondered if we paid extra for the red bugs
that swam around in it so gaily. Anyway, my flowers didn't mind the
bugs. They grew into masses of beautiful foliage and brilliant blossoms.
I knew every leaf and bud on them. I almost sat up nights with them, I
was so proud of their beauty. My flowers and my little gray kitten were
all the company I had now. The fire guard girl had gone home.
One of my neighbors asked me to go with a group of Fred Harvey girls to
visit the Petrified Forest, lying more than a hundred miles southeast
of the Canyon. As I had been working exceptionally hard in the Park
Office, I declared myself a holiday, and Sunday morning early found us
well on the way.
We drove through ordinary desert country to Williams and from there on
past Flagstaff and eastward to Holbrook. Eighteen miles from there we
began to see fallen logs turned into stone.
My ideas of the Petrified Forest were very vague, but I had expected to
see standing trees turned to stone. These big logs were all lying down,
and I couldn't find a single stump! We drove through several miles of
fallen logs and came to the Government Museum where unique and choice
specimens had been gathered together for visitors to see. It is hard to
describe this wood, that isn't wood. It looks like wood, at least the
grain and the shape, and knotholes and even wormholes are there; but it
has turned to beautifully brilliant rock. Some pieces look like
priceless Italian marble; others are all colors of the rainbow, blended
together into a perfect poem of shades.
Of course I asked for an explanation, and with all the technical terms
left out, this is about what I learned: "These trees are probably forty
million years old! None of them grew here. This is proved in several
ways: there are few roots or branches and little bark."
The ranger saw me touch the outside of a log that was covered with what
looked to me like perfectly good bark! He smiled.
"Yes, I know that looks like bark, but it is merely an outside crust of
melted sand, et cetera, that formed on the logs as they rolled around in
the water."
"Water?" I certainly hadn't seen any water around the Petrified Forest.
"Yes, water. This country, at one time, was an arm of the Pacific Ocean,
and was drained by some disturbance which brought the Sierra Mountains
to the surface. These logs grew probably a thousand miles north of here
and were brought here in a great flood. They floated around for
centuries perhaps, and were thoroughly impregnated with the mineral
water, doubtless hot water. When the drainage took place, they were
covered by silt and sand to a depth of perhaps two thousand feet. Here
the petrifaction took place. Silica was present in great quantities.
Manganese and iron provided the coloring matter, and through pressure
these chemicals were forced into the grain of the wood, which gradually
was absorbed and its cell structure replaced by ninety-nine per cent
silica and the other per cent iron and manganese. Erosion brought what
we see to the top. We have reason to believe that the earth around here
covers many thousand more."
After that all soaked in I asked him what the beautiful crystals in
purple and amber were. These are really amethysts and topazes found in
the center of the logs. Formed probably by resin in the wood, these
jewels are next hardest to diamonds and have been much prized. One
famous jeweler even had numberless logs blown to splinters with
explosives in order to secure the gems.
The wood is very little softer than diamond, and polishes beautifully
for jewelry, book-ends, and table tops. The ranger warned us against
taking any samples from the Reserve.
We could have spent days wandering around among the fallen giants, each
one disclosing new beauties in color and formation; but we finally left,
reluctantly, each determined to come back again.
It was quite dark when we reached the Canyon, and I was glad to creep
into bed. My kitten snuggled down close to the pillow and sang sleepy
songs, but I couldn't seem to get to sleep. Only cheesecloth nailed over
the windows stood between me and all sorts of animals I imagined prowled
the surrounding forest. The cheesecloth couldn't keep the noises out,
and the cry that I heard might just as well have been the killing scream
of a cougar as a bed-time story of a tree frog. It made my heart beat
just as fast. And although the rangers declared I never heard more than
one coyote at a time, I knew that at least twenty howling voices swelled
the chorus.
While I was trying to persuade myself that the noise I heard was just a
pack rat, a puffing, blowing sound at the window took me tremblingly out
to investigate. I knew some ferocious animal was about to devour me! But
my precious flowers were the attraction. A great, gaunt cow had taken
the last delectable bite from my pansy bed and was sticking out a greedy
tongue to lap in the snapdragons. Throwing on my bathrobe, I grabbed the
broom and attacked the invader. I whacked it fore and aft! I played a
tune on its lank ribs! Taken completely by surprise, it hightailed
clumsily up through the pines, with me and my trusty broom lending
encouragement. When morning came, showing the havoc wrought on my
despoiled posies, I was ready to weep.
Ranger Winess joined me on my way to breakfast.
"Don't get far from Headquarters today," he said. "Dollar Mark Bull is
in here and he is a killer. I've been out on Tony after him, but he
charged us and Tony bolted before I could shoot. When I got Tony down to
brass tacks, Dollar Mark was hid."
I felt my knees knocking together.
"What's he look like?" I inquired, weakly.
"Big red fellow, with wide horns and white face. Branded with a Dollar
Mark. He's at least twenty years old, and mean!"
My midnight visitor!
I sat down suddenly on a lumber pile. It was handy to have a lumber
pile, for I felt limp all over. I told the ranger about chasing the old
beast around with a broom. His eyes bulged out on stems.
Frequent appearances of "Dollar Mark" kept me from my daily tramps
through the pines, and I spent more time on the Rim of the Canyon.
Strangely, the great yawning chasm itself held no fascination for me. I
could appreciate its dizzy depths, its vastness, its marvelous color
effects, and its weird contours. I could feel the immensity of it, and
it repelled instead of attracted. I seemed to see its barrenness and
desolation, the cruel deception of its poisonous springs, and its
insurmountable walls. I could visualize its hapless victims wandering
frantically about, trying to find the way out of some blind coulee,
until, exhausted and thirst-crazed, they lay down to die under the
sun's pitiless glare. Many skeletons, half buried in sand, have been
found to tell of such tragedies.
It was only in the evenings, after the sun had gone down, that I could
feel at ease with the Canyon. Then I loved to sit on the Rim and look
down on the one living spot far below, where, almost a century ago, the
Indians made their homes and raised their crops, watering the fields
from the clear, cold spring that gushes out of the hillside. As the
light faded, the soft mellow moon would swim into view, shrouding with
tender light the stark, grim boulders. From the plateau, lost in the
shadows, the harsh bray of wild burros, softened by distance, floated
upward.
On a clear day I could see objects on the North Rim, thirteen miles
away, and with a pair of strong field glasses I could bring the scene
quite close. It looked like a fairyland over there, and I wanted to
cross over and see what it was really like. White Mountain advanced the
theory that if we were married we could go over there for our honeymoon!
I had to give the matter careful consideration; but while I considered,
the moon came up, and behind us in the Music Room someone began to play
softly Schubert's "Serenade." I said, "All right. Next year we'll go!"
[Illustration]
_Chapter III: "I DO!"_
The Washington Office decided, by this time, that I was really going to
stay, so they sent another girl out to work with me. The poor
Superintendent was speechless! But his agony was short-lived. Another
superintendent was sent to relieve him, which was also a relief to me!
My new girl was from Alabama and had never been west of that state. She
was more of a tenderfoot than I, if possible. At first she insisted one
had to have a bathtub or else be just "pore white trash," but in time
she learned to bathe quite luxuriously in a three-pint basin. It took
longer for her to master the art of lighting a kerosene lamp, and it was
quite a while before she was expert enough to dodge the splinters in the
rough pine floor. I felt like a seasoned sourdough beside her!
We "ditched" the big cookstove, made the back room into sleeping
quarters, and turned our front room into a sort of clubhouse. White
Mountain gave us a wonderful phonograph and plenty of records. If one is
inclined to belittle canned music, it is a good plan to live for a
while where the only melody one hears is a wailing coyote or the wind
moaning among the pines.
We kept getting new records. The rangers dropped in every evening with
offerings. Ranger Winess brought us love songs. He doted on John
McCormack's ballads, and I secretly applauded his choice. Of course I
had to praise the Harry Lauder selections that Ranger Fisk toted in.
White Mountain favored Elman and Kreisler. The violin held him
spellbound. But when Pat came we all suffered through an evening of
Grand Opera spelled with capital letters!
Nobody knew much about "Pat." He was a gentleman without doubt. He was
educated and cultured, he was witty and traveled. His game of bridge was
faultless and his discussion of art or music authentic. He was ready to
discuss anything and everything, except himself.
In making up personnel records I asked him to fill out a blank. He gave
his name and age. "Education" was followed by "A.B." and "M.A." Nearest
relative: "None." In case of injury or death notify--"_Nobody._" That
was all. Somewhere he had a family that stood for something in the
world, but where? He was a striking person, with his snow-white hair,
bright blue eyes, and erect, soldier-like bearing. White Mountain and
Ranger Winess had known him in Yellowstone; Ranger Fisk had seen him in
Rainier; Ranger West had met him at Glacier. He taught me the game of
cribbage, and the old game of gold-rush days--solo.
One morning Pat came to my cabin and handed me a book. Without speaking
he turned and walked away. Inside the volume I found a note: "I am
going away. This is my favorite book. I want you to have it and keep
it." The title of the book was _Story of an African Farm_. None of us
ever saw Pat again.
The yearly rains began to come daily, each with more force and water
than the preceding one. Lightning flashed like bombs exploding, and
thunder roared and reverberated back and forth from Rim to Rim of the
Canyon. We sank above our shoes in mud every time we left the cabin. The
days were disagreeable, but the evenings were spent in the cabin, Ranger
Winess with his guitar and the other boys singing while we girls made
fudge or sea-foam. Such quantities of candy as that bunch could consume!
The sugar was paid for from the proceeds of a Put-and-Take game that
kept us entertained.
We had a girl friend, Virginia, from Washington as a guest, and she fell
in love with Arizona. Also with Ranger Winess. It was about arranged
that she would remain permanently, but one unlucky day he took her down
Bright Angel Trail. He provided her with a tall lank mule, "By Gosh," to
ride, and she had never been aboard an animal before. Every time By Gosh
flopped an ear she thought he was trying to slap her in the face. On a
steep part of the trail a hornet stung the mule, and he began to buck
and kick.
I asked Virginia what she did then.
"I didn't do anything. By Gosh was doing enough for both of us," she
said. Ranger Winess said, however, that she turned her mule's head in
toward the bank and whacked him with the stick she carried. Which was
the logical thing to do. Unfortunately Ranger Winess teased her a
little about the incident, and a slight coolness arose. Just to show how
little she cared for his company, Virginia left our party and strolled
up to the Rim to observe the effect of moonlight on the mist that filled
it.
Our game of Put-and-Take was running along merrily when we heard a
shriek, then another. We rushed out, and there was Dollar Mark Bull
chasing Virginia around and around among the big pine trees while she
yelled like a calliope. Seeing the door open she knocked a few of us
over in her hurry to get inside. Then she bravely slammed the door and
stood against it! Fortunately, Dollar Mark retreated and no lives were
lost.
The rangers departed, we soothed Virginia, now determined not to remain
permanently, and settled down for the night. Everything quiet and
peaceful, thank goodness!
Alas! The most piercing shrieks I ever heard brought me upright in bed
with every hair standing on end. It was morning. I looked at Virginia's
bed. I could see her quite distinctly, parts of her at least. Her head
was buried, ostrich-wise, in the blankets, while her feet beat a wild
tattoo in the air. Stell woke up and joined the chorus. The cause of it
all was a bewildered Navajo buck who stood mutely in the doorway,
staring at the havoc he had created. At arm's length he tendered a pair
of moccasins for sale. It was the first Reservation Indian in native
dress, or rather undress, the girls had seen, and they truly expected to
be scalped.
It never occurs to an Indian to knock at a door, nor does the question
of propriety enter into his calculations when he has an object in view.
I told him to leave, and he went out. An hour later, however, when we
went to breakfast, he was squatted outside my door waiting for us to
appear. He had silver bracelets and rings beaten out of Mexican coins
and studded with native turquoise and desert rubies. We each bought
something. I bought because I liked his wares, and the other girls
purchased as a sort of thank-offering for mercies received.
The bracelets were set with the brilliant rubies found by the Indians in
the desert. It is said that ants excavating far beneath the surface
bring these semi-precious stones to the top. Others contend that they
are not found underneath the ground but are brought by the ants from
somewhere near the nest because their glitter attracts the ant. True or
false, the story results in every anthill being carefully searched.
Virginia's visit was drawing to a close, and White Mountain and I
decided to announce our engagement while she was still with us. We gave
a dinner at El Tovar, with the rangers and our closest friends present.
At the same party another ranger announced his engagement and so the
dinner was a hilarious affair.
One of the oldest rangers there, and one notoriously shy with women,
made me the object of a general laugh. He raised his glass solemnly and
said: "Well, here's wishin' you joy, but I jest want to say this: ef
you'd a played yo' cyards a little bit different, you wouldn't 'a had to
take White Mountain."
Before the dinner was over a call came from the public camp ground for
aid. Our party broke up, and we girls went to the assistance of a
fourteen-year-old mother whose baby was ill. Bad food and ignorance had
been too much for the little nameless fellow, and he died about
midnight. There was a terrible electric storm raging, and rain poured
down through the old tent where the baby died.
Ranger Winess carried the little body down to our house and we took the
mother and followed. We put him in a dresser drawer and set to work to
make clothes to bury him in. Ranger Fisk and Ranger Winess made the tiny
casket, and we rummaged through our trunks for materials. A sheer dimity
frock of mine that had figured in happier scenes made the shroud, and
Virginia gave a silken scarf to line the coffin. Ranger Winess tacked
muslin over the rough boards so it would look nicer to the young mother.
There were enough of my flowers left by Dollar Mark to make a wreath,
and that afternoon a piteous procession wended its way to the cemetery.
And such a cemetery! Near the edge of the Canyon, a mile or so from
Headquarters it lay, a bleak neglected spot in a sagebrush flat with
nothing to mark the cattle-tramped graves, of which there were four. At
the edge of the clearing, under a little pine, was the open grave, and
while the coffin was lowered the men sang. I never heard a more lonesome
sound than those men singing there over that little grave. White
Mountain read the burial service.
We took the mother back to our cabin while the grave was being filled
in. I used to see her walking out there each morning with a few wild
flowers to put on the mound. Ranger Winess managed to ride that way and
keep her in sight until she returned to the camp ground. While the blue
lupine blossomed she kept the mound covered with the fragrant flowers.
Ranger Fisk had a vacation about this time, and he insisted White
Mountain and I should get married while he could act as best man. So we
journeyed to Flagstaff with him and were married. It seemed more like a
wedding in a play than anything else. Ranger Fisk was burdened with the
responsibility of the wedding-ring, license, minister's fee, and flowers
for the occasion. He herded us into the clerk's office to secure the
necessary papers, and the girl clerk that issued them was a stickler for
form. We gave our names, our parents' names, our ages, birth-places, and
previous states of servitude. I was getting ready to show her my
vaccination scar, when she turned coldly critical eyes on me and asked:
"Are you white?" This for a Virginian to answer was quite a blow.
We went to the minister's house, and since two witnesses were necessary,
the wife was called in from her washing. She came into the parlor drying
her hands on her apron, which she discarded by rolling up and tossing
into a chair. Ranger Fisk produced the ring, with a flourish, at the
proper moment, gave the minister his money, after all the "I do's" had
been said, and the wedding was over. So we were married. No wedding
march, no flower girls, no veil, no rice, no wedding breakfast. Just a
solemn promise to respect each other and be faithful. Perhaps the
promise meant just a little more to us because it was not smothered in
pomp.
For a wedding-trip we visited the cliff dwellings in Walnut Canyon.
Here, hundreds of years ago, other newly married couples had set up
housekeeping and built their dreams into the walls that still tell the
world that we are but newcomers on this hemisphere.
The news of our marriage reached the Canyon ahead of us, and we found
our little cabin filled with our friends and their gifts. They spent a
merry evening with us and as we bade them goodnight we felt that such
friendship was beyond price indeed.
But after midnight! The great open spaces were literally filled with a
most terrifying and ungodly racket. I heard shrieks and shots, and tin
pans banging. Horrors! The cook was on another vanilla-extract
jamboree!! But--drums boomed and bugles blared. Ah, of course! The
Indians were on the warpath; I never entirely trusted those red devils.
I looked around for a means of defense, but the Chief told me not to be
alarmed--it was merely a "shivaree."
"Now, what might that be?" I inquired. I supposed he meant at least a
banshee, or at the very least an Irish wake! It was, however, nothing
more or less than our friends serenading us. They came inside, thirty
strong; the walls of the cabin fairly bulged. They played all sorts of
tricks on us, and just as they left someone dropped a handful of sulphur
on top of the stove. Naturally, we went outside with our visitors to
wish them "godspeed!"
"I'll never get married again; at least not in the land of the
shivaree," I told White Mountain as we tried to repair the damage.
I guess we were let off easy, for when our ranger friend returned with
his bride they suffered a much worse fate. The groom was locked for
hours in the old bear cage on the Rim, and his wife was loaded into a
wheelbarrow and rolled back and forth across the railroad tracks until
the Chief called a halt to that. He felt the treatment was a little too
severe even for people in love.
Since I could not go to live in the bachelor ranger quarters, White
Mountain moved into my cabin until our house could be completed. A tent
house was built for Stell in the back yard of our cabin. She was afraid
to live alone, and used to wake us at all hours of the night. Once she
came bursting into our cabin, hysterical with fright. A bunch of coyotes
had been racing around and around her tent trying to get into the
garbage can. They yelped and barked, and, finally, as she sobbed and
tried to explain, "They sat down in my door and laughed like crazy
people." She finished the night on our spare cot, for anybody that
thinks coyotes can't act like demons had better spend a night in Arizona
and listen to them perform.
Stell wasn't a coward by any means. She was right there when real
courage was needed. A broken leg to set or a corpse to bathe and dress
were just chores that needed to be done, and she did her share of both.
But seven thousand feet altitude for months at a time will draw a
woman's nerves tauter than violin strings. I remember, one morning,
Stell and I came home in the dawn after an all-night vigil with a dying
woman. We were both nearly asleep as we stumbled along through the
pines, but not too far gone to see Dollar Mark come charging at us. We
had stopped at the cookhouse and begged a pot of hot coffee to take to
our cabins. Stell was carrying it, and she stood her ground until the
mean old bull was within a few feet of her. Then she dashed the
boiling-hot coffee full in his gleaming red eyes, and while he snorted
and bellowed with pain we shinnied up a juniper tree and hung there like
some of our ancestors until the road crew came along and drove him away.
We were pretty mad, and made a few sarcastic remarks about a ranger
force that couldn't even "shoot the bull." We requested the loan of a
gun, if necessary! Ranger Winess took our conversation to heart, and
next morning hung a notice in Headquarters which "Regretted to report
that Dollar Mark Bull accidentally fell over the Rim into the Canyon and
was killed." In my heart I questioned both the "regret" and the
"accidental" part of the report, and in order to still any remorse that
the ranger might feel I baked him the best lemon pie I had in my
repertoire!
[Illustration]
_Chapter IV: CELEBRITIES AND SQUIRRELS_
Soon after our wedding the Chief crossed to the North Rim to meet a
party of celebrities, which included his old friend Emerson Hough. This
was to have been our honeymoon trip, but I was left at home! The new
Superintendent needed me in the office; therefore White Mountain spent
our honeymoon trip alone. I had heard of such a thing, but never
expected it to happen to me. I might have felt terribly cut up about it
but on the South Rim we were fermenting with excitement getting ready to
entertain important guests.
General Diaz of Italy and his staff were coming, soon to be followed by
Marshal Foch with his retinue. And in the meantime Tom Mix and Eva Novak
had arrived with beautiful horses and swaggering cowboys to make a
picture in the Canyon. What was a mere honeymoon compared to such
luminaries?
Tom and Eva spent three weeks making the picture, and we enjoyed every
minute they were there. Ranger Winess was assigned to duty with them,
and when they left the Canyon he found himself with the offer of a
movie contract. Tom liked the way the ranger handled his horse and his
rifle, and Tom's wife liked the sound of his guitar. So we lost Ranger
Winess. He went away to Hollywood, and we all went around practicing:
"I-knew-him-when" phrases. But Hollywood wasn't Grand Canyon, and there
wasn't a horse there, not even Tom's celebrated Tony, that had half as
much brains as his own bay Tony of the ranger horses. So Winess came
back to us, and everybody was happy again.
While the picture was being made, some of the company found a burro
mother with a broken leg, and Ranger Winess mercifully ended her
suffering. A tiny baby burro playing around the mother they took to camp
and adopted at once. He was so comical with his big velvet ears and wise
expression. Not bigger than a shepherd dog, the men could pick him up
and carry him around the place. Tom took him to Mixville and the movie
people taught him to drink out of a bottle, so he is well on the road to
stardom. Ranger Winess, visiting in New Jersey a couple of years later,
dropped into a theater where Tom Mix was in a vaudeville act. Mix spied
the ranger, and when the act was over he stepped to the edge of the
stage and sang out: "Hey, Winess, I still got that burro!"
A dummy that had been used in the picture was left lying quite a
distance up the side of a mountain, but quite visible from their movie
camp. Tom bet his Director, Lynn Reynolds, twenty-five dollars that the
dummy was six feet tall. He knew quite well that it was _not_ six feet
tall, and knew that Reynolds knew so too. But the bet was on. A guide
going to the top, was bribed by a ten-dollar bill from Tom, to stretch
the dummy out to the required length. This guide went up the trail a few
hours before Tom and Reynolds were due to measure the dummy. Imagine
their feelings when they arrived, and found the money and this note
pinned to the object of dispute:
"Mr. Tom Mix, deer sir. I streetched the dam thing till it busted.
It hain't no higher than me, and I hain't six feet. You'll plees
find herein yore money.
Youers truly,
SHORTY."
It is said that Reynolds collected in full and then hunted Shorty up and
bestowed the twenty-five dollars on him.