so nervous I just had to investigate. Taking the Chief's "forty-five,"
which was a load in itself, I opened the rear door and crept around the
house. And there was a poor hungry pony that had wandered away from an
Indian camp, and found the straw packed around our water pipes. He was
losing no time packing himself around the straw. I was so relieved I
could have kissed his shaggy nose. I went back to bed and slept
soundly.
[Illustration]
_Chapter VII: A GRAND CANYON CHRISTMAS_
Funny how one can never get over being homesick at Christmas. Days and
weeks and even months can pass by without that yearning for family and
home, but in all the years since I hung my stocking in front of the big
fireplace in the old home I have never learned to face Christmas Eve in
a strange place with any degree of happiness. I believe the rangers all
felt the same way. Several days before Christmas they began to plan a
real "feed."
We had moved into our new house now, and it was decided to make a home
of it by giving a Christmas housewarming.
The rangers all helped to prepare the dinner. Each one could choose one
dish he wanted cooked and it was cooked, even if we had to send to
Montgomery Ward and Company for the makin's. Ranger Fisk opined that
turkey dressing without oysters in it would be a total loss as far as he
was concerned, so we ordered a gallon from the Coast. They arrived three
days before Christmas, and it was his duty to keep them properly
interred in a snow drift until the Great Day arrived.
Ranger Winess wanted pumpkin pies with plenty of ginger; White Mountain
thought roast turkey was about his speed. Since we would have that
anyway, he got another vote. This time he called for mashed turnips and
creamed onions. The Superintendent, Colonel White, being an Englishman,
asked plaintively if we couldn't manage a plum pudding! We certainly
managed one just bursting with plums. That made him happy for the rest
of the day.
I didn't tell anybody what I intended to have for my own special dish,
but when the time came I produced a big, rich fruit cake, baked back
home by my own mother, and stuffed full of nuts and fruit and ripened to
a perfect taste.
All the rangers helped to prepare the feast. One of them rode down the
icy trail to Indian Gardens and brought back crisp, spicy watercress to
garnish the turkey.
After it became an effort to chew, and impossible to swallow, we washed
the dishes and gathered around the blazing fire. Ranger Winess produced
his omnipresent guitar and swept the strings idly for a moment. Then he
began to sing, "Silent Night, Holy Night." That was the beginning of an
hour of the kind of music one remembers from childhood. Just as each one
had chosen his favorite dish, now each one selected his favorite
Christmas song. When I asked for "Little Town of Bethlehem" nobody
hesitated over the words. We all knew it better than we do "Star
Spangled Banner!" I could have prophesied what Colonel White would call
for, so it was no surprise when he swung into "God rest ye merry,
gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay." Fortunately, most of us had sung
carols in our distant youth, and we sang right with the Colonel.
Someone suggested that each one tell of the strangest Christmas Day he
or she had ever spent. For a while none of us were in Arizona. Ranger
Winess was in a state of siege in the Philippines, while the Moros
worked themselves into a state of frenzy for the attack that followed;
Ranger Fisk scaled Table Mountain, lying back of Capetown, and there
picked a tiny white flower which he had pressed in the Bible presented
to him there that day; each sailor in port had received a Bible that day
with this inscription: "Capetown, Africa, Christ's Birthday, December
25, 19--." White Mountain snowshoed twenty miles in Yellowstone to have
Christmas dinner with another ranger, but when he got there he found his
friend delirious with flu. "Did he die?" we questioned anxiously. Ranger
Winess and the Chief looked at each other and grinned.
"Do I look like a dead one?" Ranger Winess demanded.
"I couldn't let him die," White Mountain said. "We had just lost one
Government man, mysteriously, and hadn't any more to spare. So I got his
dogs and sledge and hauled him into Headquarters."
Of course we wanted to know about the "lost" ranger. It seemed that
there had broken out among the buffalo herd in the Park a strange malady
that was killing them all off. An expert from Washington was en route
to make a study of the ailment, and was due to arrive just before
Christmas. Days passed into weeks and still he didn't show up. Inquiries
to Washington disclosed that he had started as per schedule. Tracing his
journey step by step it was discovered that on the train out of Chicago
he had become ill with flu and had been left in a small town hospital.
There he had died without recovering his speech, and had been buried in
the potter's field!
"Well, then what happened to the buffalo?"
"Washington sent us a German scientist. We loved that nation just about
that time, and on his arrival diplomatic relations were badly strained.
He was too fat and soft to use snowshoes or skis, so we loaded him on a
light truck and started for the buffalo farm. We stalled time and again,
and he sat in lordly indifference while we pushed and shoveled out. We
seemed hopelessly anchored in one drift, and from his perch where he sat
swaddled up like a mummy came his 'Vy don't you carry a portable
telephone so ve couldt hook it over the vires and call for _them_ to
come and pull us oudt?' One of the rangers replied, 'It would be nice
for us to telephone ourselves to please pull us oudt. _We_ are the
_them_ that does the pulling around here.'
"The old boy mumbled and sputtered but rolled out and put a husky
shoulder to the wheel, and we went on our way rejoicing. He won our
respect at the buffalo farm for he soon discovered the germ that was
killing our charges, and he prepared a serum with which we vaccinated
the entire herd."
"Wow!" Colonel White exclaimed. "I think I'd rather fight Moros than
vaccinate buffalo." He, too, had spent years in foreign warfare; his
experiences are graphically told in _Bullets and Bolos_.
While we heard about the buffalo, one of the rangers left the room. He
came back presently, and White Mountain said to me: "Don't you want to
see your Christmas present?"
I looked across at my proud new riding-boots, with their fancy
stitching, and funny high heels just like those the rangers wore. "I'm
crazy about them," I said.
But the whole bunch were laughing. White Mountain led me to the door,
and there I had my first glimpse of Tar Baby! He was a four-year-old
horse that had spent those years running wild on the range. A few months
before he had been captured and partly tamed. But he was hard-mouthed,
and stiff-necked and hell-bent on having his own way about things. I
didn't know all that when I saw him this Christmas Day. To me he was
perfect. He was round and fat, shiny black, with a white star in his
forehead, and four white feet. One eye was blue, and the other one the
nicest, softest, kindest brown! He was just that kind of a Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde horse, too! He was fitted out with a new saddle, a gaudy
Navajo saddle blanket, and a bridle with silver inlaid fittings. The
spade bit was necessary. I found that out later, also.
I would have stood there speechless with admiration the rest of the day,
but the others reminded me it was time to light the big tree we had
planned for the children in the Park.
The rangers had brought a slender fir into the Information Room and we
had it trimmed within an inch of its life. Cranberries and popcorn ropes
festooned its branches, and again Montgomery Ward and Company's
catalogue had been searched for treasures to load it with. Every child
in the Park, regardless of race or color, was remembered. Little brown
brothers, whose Filipino mothers worked in the laundry, found themselves
possessors of strange toys; Navajo babies and Hopi cupids from the Hopi
House were well supplied. One small Hopi lass wailed loudly at the look
of the flaxen-haired doll that fell to her lot. She was afraid to hold
it--she wouldn't let anybody else touch it--so she stood it in a corner
and squalled at it from a safe distance. When the party was over, an
older sister had to carry it for her. I suspect she much preferred her
native dolls.
After the tree was bare, we all went down to the Fred Harvey Recreation
Room and danced the rest of the evening away.
I could hardly wait for morning to go for a ride on Tar Baby. Ranger
West brought him down to the house to saddle him. While I dressed up in
my new boots I overheard the conversation between the ranger and the
horse. It was a rather one-sided talk, but quite interesting.
"Whoa there, Tar Baby!" very firmly and casually. "Stand still now!"
"Hey, now, you black devil, don't you try bitin' me again! Yes, he's a
nice baby horse," this last remark quite saccharine. A slight silence
fell while the cinches were being tightened, then--heels beating a tune
on the side of the shed, and sultry, sulphuric remarks being fitted to
the tune. About that time I was ready to go out.
"Have any trouble with Tar Baby?"
"No, oh, no. None whatever. Ready to go?"
Every morning as soon as I was in the saddle we had the same argument.
Would he go where and as fast as I desired, or would he run as fast and
as far as he pleased? Sore wrists and a strained disposition were the
price I paid for winning the battle. He just went wild if he could race
with another horse. Of course White Mountain put his foot down on such
racing, and since the rangers were such good sports their Chief never
learned that racing was part of the daily program!
One day, when some of the Washington officials were there, the Chief
borrowed Tar Baby to ride. He said it took him half a day to get him to
stay on the ground with the other horses. He came home fully determined
that I must trade my Christmas gift for a more sensible horse. Tears and
coaxing availed nothing, but I did win his consent to one more ride
before I gave him up.
Ranger West was going to ride the drift fence and I started out with
him. Tar Baby was a handful that day, and I was having all I could do to
control him. We passed a bunch of tourists having lunch out of paper
sacks, and one of the men had a wonderful idea. He said something to the
others, and while they giggled he blew one of the bags full of air and
exploded it right under my horse. Of course Tar Baby bolted, and even as
he ran away I admired his ability to keep ahead of Ranger West, who was
running full tilt after us. It was five minutes before I could get the
bit out of his teeth and bring the spade device into play. I had to
choke him into submission.
Ranger West and Ranger Fisk conducted those tourists out of the Park,
and they had to leave without seeing the Canyon.
"Ve drove here from New York to see this Canyon," one complained, and
made wide gestures with both hands.
"It wouldn't do you any good to see it," Ranger West told him grimly.
"You'd probably push somebody over the edge to have a little fun."
I was sure the Chief would take Tar Baby away after that. But I guess he
thought if the horse hadn't killed me with such a good chance as he had,
I was safe. He never said another word about selling him.
Several Indians were camped around in the woods near the Park, and we
visited them quite often. An Indian has as many angles in his makeup as
a centipede has legs. Just about the time you think you have one
characteristically placed, you put your finger down and he isn't there.
Charge one with dishonesty, and the next week he will ride a hundred
miles to deliver a bracelet you paid for months before. Decide he is
cruel and inhuman, and he will spend the night in heart-breaking labor,
carrying an injured white man to safety.
I suggested hiring a certain Navajo to cut some wood, and was told that
he was too lazy to eat what he wanted. In a few days this same brave
came to Headquarters with the pelt of a cougar. He had followed the
animal sixty miles, tracking it in the snow on foot without a dog to
help him. We knew where he took the trail and where it ended. He killed
the big cat, skinned it, and carried the pelt back to the Canyon. You
won't find many white men with that much grit! A tourist from New York
saw the pelt and coveted it. He offered twenty-five dollars. Neewah
wanted fifty. The tourist tried to beat him down. There wasn't any
argument about it. The whole conversation was a monologue. The Indian
saw that the tourist wanted the skin badly, so he just sat and stared
into space while the tourist elaborated on how much twenty-five dollars
would buy and how little the pelt had cost the Indian! The buck simply
sat there until it was about time for the train to pull out, then he
picked up the hide and stalked away. Mr. Tourist hastened after him and
shelled out fifty pesos. I expect he told the home folks how he shot
that panther in self-defense.
Ranger West did shoot a big cougar soon afterward. Not in self-defense
but in revenge.
Not many deer lived on the South Rim then. That was before the fawns
were brought by airplane across the Canyon! The few that were there were
cherished and protected in every possible way. A salt pen was built so
high the cattle couldn't get in, and it was a wonderful sight to see the
graceful deer spring over that high fence with seemingly no effort at
all. Ranger West came in one morning with blood in his eye--one of his
pets had been dragged down under the Rim and half devoured by a giant
cougar. A hunt was staged at once. I was told to stay at home, but that
didn't stop me from going. Ranger Fisk always saddled Tar Baby for me
when everybody else thought it best to leave me behind. So I wasn't far
away when the big cat was treed by the dogs. He sat close to the trunk
of the dead tree, defying the dogs and spitting at them until they were
almost upon him. Then he sprang up the tree and lay stretched out on a
limb snarling until a rifle ball brought him down. He hit the ground
fighting, and ripped the nose of an impetuous puppy wide open. Another
shot stretched him out. He measured eight feet from tip to tip. His skin
was tanned by an Indian and adorns a bench in the Ranger Office.
[Illustration]
_Chapter VIII: THE DAY'S WORK_
The snow had been tumbling down every day for weeks, until several feet
lay on the ground. After each storm the rangers took snow plows and
cleared the roads along the Rim, but the rest of our little world lay
among big snow drifts. As we walked around among the houses, only our
heads and shoulders showed above the snow. It was like living in Alaska.
The gloomy days were getting monotonous, and when the Chief announced he
was going to make an inspection trip over Tonto Trail, I elected myself,
unanimously, to go along.
"But it's cold riding down there, even if there is no snow," protested
White Mountain. "And, besides, your horse is lame."
"Well, it isn't exactly hot up here, and I'll borrow Dixie. I'm going!"
Ranger West obligingly lent Dixie to me and I went. The thermometer
registered well below zero when we started down Bright Angel Trail. On
account of the icy trail my descent threatened to be a sudden one. Dixie
slid along stiff-legged, and I was half paralyzed with fright and cold.
But every time the Chief looked back, I pulled my frozen features into
what I considered a cheerful smile. I got more and more scared as we
went farther down, and finally had a brilliant idea. "My feet are
awfully cold, and couldn't I walk a while?" The Chief had probably heard
that same excuse from a thousand others, but he gravely assented and
helped me dismount. I started down the trail leading Dixie. My feet
really were so cold they were numb. This was probably a mercy, since
Dixie kept stepping on them! I began to run to "keep out from in under,"
and she kept pace until we were almost galloping down the trail. When we
got below the snow line, my excuse wouldn't work, and I had to ride
again.
There was sagebrush and sand and cactus. Then sand and cactus and
sagebrush. Here and there we saw a lop-eared burro, and far away I saw
an eagle sailing around. Having nothing else to do I counted the burros
we passed--seventy. A bunch grazing near the trail looked interesting,
so I made a careful approach and took their picture. Of course I forgot
to roll the film, and a little later Friend Husband decided to
photograph the enormous pillar that gives the name to Monument Creek.
The result was rather amazing when we developed the film a week later.
The wild burros were grazing placidly on the summit of a barren rock, a
couple of hundred feet in the air, without visible means of ascent or
descent. The Chief made a few sarcastic remarks about this picture, but
I firmly reminded him my burros were there first! He didn't say anything
else--aloud.
It took a long day's riding to reach Hermit's Camp just at dusk. We were
warmly welcomed by a roaring fire and hot supper. After I ate and then
sat a while I was too stiff to move. I knew I would stay awake all night
and nurse my aches. That, added to my fear of "phoby cats," made me
reluctant to retire. What's a hydrophobia cat? I don't know for sure
that it's anything, but the camp man told me to keep my door locked or
one would sneak in and bite me. He also said that I would go crazy if
one chewed on me. I intended to keep at least one ear cocked for
suspicious noises; but when I hit the cot everything was a blank until I
heard the Chief making a fire in the little tin stove.
"Wake up and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, and
I want you to walk down to the creek and see the trout."
"Walk?" I never expected even to crawl again. Sore! Stiff!! I labored
all of ten minutes trying to get my boots on. And I had to ride up
Hermit Trail that day. I was glad to ride. I never mentioned walking to
warm my feet. The trail wound up and up. Today I slid down on Dixie's
tail, whereas yesterday I had braced my heels against her ears. A young
snowslide came down the mountainside, and we almost went on with it. It
missed us by such a very slight margin that fugitive snowballs rolled
around Dixie's feet and left her trembling and cringing with fright.
Dixie and I had been loitering quite a distance behind, because White
Mountain had made us a little mad about something; but we decided we
really had no right to be killed without letting him know about it, and
we kept close to his heels the rest of the way.
All too soon we reached near-zero weather again. It got zero, then
zero-er, and quickly zero-est. I thought of all the hot things I could
remember, endeavoring to raise the temperature.
Real chili con carne.
Pennsylvania Avenue in August.
Hornet stings.
Spankings sustained in my youth!
It was useless. I couldn't qualify as a Scientist. Maybe I lacked
concentration, for between looking out for another avalanche and
wondering how soon I could decently ask for another cup of coffee from
the thermos bottle, my thoughts wandered.
Perhaps the Chief was cold, too. Anyway, we stopped at Santa Maria
Spring and spread out our lunch. The quaint little shelter over the
spring was being rapidly covered with Boston ivy. White Mountain said
Earl Shirley used to ride down there twice a week after a hard day's
work to water the newly set plants so they would grow. One is always
learning new things about Western men!
It was mighty good to find Ranger Fisk at the top of the trail. He said
he thought I would be cold and tired so he brought a flivver to take me
the remaining six miles in to Headquarters. He had the house warm and
had melted snow for drinking-water. All the water pipes had frozen while
we were gone, and I washed my face with cold cream for several days.
I hadn't more than settled down comfortably when the Chief found it
necessary to make another trip down. When he mentioned going I played
the piano so loud I couldn't hear him. I had no desire to go. Not while
I could sit in my warm house and read and sew in my comfortable rocking
chair. It was without a single qualm that I waved him a floury adieu
from the midst of cookie-making. I closed the door and went back to my
baking, which was abruptly terminated by a blazing board falling into
the crock of dough. The house was burning over my luckless head. I
turned around and around a few times in the same spot, then tried to
throw a bucket of water up against the ceiling. Had I been the
conflagration it would have ended then and there, for I was thoroughly
drenched. Failing to be my own fire engine I ran out and happened to see
Ranger Winess crossing the road. He must have been startled at my war
whoop, for he came running. By that time the smoke was rolling out
through the roof. While he climbed into the loft and tore pieces of
blazing boards away, I gave the emergency call by telephone, and soon we
had plenty of help. After the fire was conquered, I went to the hotel
and stayed until the Chief got back.
The months from Christmas to April are the dullest at Grand Canyon. Of
course tourists still come but not in the numbers milder weather brings.
There is little or no automobile travel coming in from the outside
world. Very few large groups or conventions come except in June, which
seems to be the month for brides and large parties. That left the ranger
family more time for play, especially in the evenings, and we had jolly
parties in our big living-room. The piano was the drawing card, and
combined with Ranger Winess' large guitar manufactured strange music.
When the other rangers joined in and sang they managed to make quite a
racket. Perhaps the songs they sang would not have met with enthusiasm
in select drawing-rooms, but they had a charm for all that. Cowboy
songs, sea chanties, and ballads many years old were often on call.
Kipling's poems, especially "I Learned about Women from Her" were prime
favorites.
I soon learned to take my sewing close to the fire and sit there quietly
a few minutes in order to be forgotten. There are realms of masculine
pleasure into which no mere woman should intrude. Besides that, I never
could negotiate the weird crooks and turns they gave to their tunes.
Every time an old favorite was sung, it developed new twists and curves.
Ranger Winess would discover a heretofore unknown chord on his guitar:
"Get that one, boys. That's a wicked minor!" Then for the ensuing five
minutes, agonizing wails shattered the smoke screen while they were on
the trail of that elusive minor. I had one set rule regarding their
concerts--positively no lighted cigarettes were to be parked on my
piano!
One song Ranger Winess always rendered as a solo, because all the others
enjoyed hearing it too much to join in with him:
OLD ROANEY
I was hangin' 'round the town, and I didn't have a dime.
I was out of work and loafin' all the time.
When up stepped a man, and he said, "I suppose
You're a bronco-buster. I can tell by your clothes."
Well, I thought that I was, and I told him the same.
I asked him if he had any bad ones to tame?
"I have an old pony what knows how to buck;
At stacking up cowboys he has all the luck."'
I asked him what'd he pay if I was to stay
And ride his old pony around for a day.
"I'll give you ten dollars;" I said, "That's my chance,"
Throwed my saddle in the buckboard and headed for the ranch.
Got up next morning, and right after chuck
Went down to the corral to see that pony buck.
He was standin' in the corner, standin' all alone----
That pig-eyed pony, a strawberry roan!
Little pin ears that were red at the tip;
The X-Y-Z was stamped on his hip.
Narrow in the chest, with a scar on his jaw,
What all goes with an old outlaw!
First came the bridle, then there was a fight;
But I throwed on my saddle and screwed it down tight,
Stepped to his middle, feelin' mighty fine,
Said: "Out of the way, boys, watch him unwind!"
Well, I guess Old Roaney sure unwound;
Didn't spend much of his time on the ground!
Went up in the East, come down in the West----
Stickin' to his middle, I was doin' my best!
He went in the air with his belly to the sun
The old sun-fishin' son-of-a-gun!
Lost both the stirrups and I lost my hat
Reached for the horn, blinder than a bat.
Then Old Roaney gently slid into high,
Left me sittin' on nothin' but the sky.
There ain't no cowboy who is alive
Can ride Old Roaney when he makes his high dive!