LETTER No. I.
My bright anticipations—Melancholy forebodings—Bound for the
Rockies—Frank's start for the Far West—Farming in Minnesota—A new
scheme—Starting a creamery—Glowing hopes—Failure and
disappointment.
_London, July, 1885._
Last year I spent a pleasant time in Dovedale, and "The Amateur Angler"
told you all about it. This autumn I had looked forward to a holiday in
some retired nook in leafy Herefordshire or Shropshire. I had my eye on
an old farmhouse at which to make my headquarters for fishing in The
Teme, or The Lugg, or The Arrow.
As a boy, I knew that old house well; every corner of it, all the
buildings, orchards, and lovely green meadows surrounding it; the woods,
the ravines, the far-off mountains, and, above all, the pleasant river
which ran through and around the farm, wherein I used to swim and fish
for trout and grayling, are vividly before me now.
"I knew each lane and every alley green,
Dingle and bushy dell....
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walk and ancient neighbourhood."
But hard and inexorable fate has ordered me off in quite a different
direction. All being well, my autumnal holiday will be spent in the
Rocky Mountains! If I have called such a fate as that hard, it is only
because of the uncertainty of it. A young man, I fancy, would see
nothing but delight in it; but for an old man in his seventh decade, and
one not accustomed to travel, it is like tearing up his roots and
plunging down stream into the unknown.
I am going to fish in the Rockies. I shall take with me that immaculate
tackle which last year inspired me with such hopes in Dovedale. I hear
of places where you have only to cast your fly and you pull out a 5 lb.
trout (nothing less) with positive certainty; and without taking him off
your hook, you have simply to swing him a little behind you into a
natural boiling geyser, and in ten minutes your 5-pounder is cooked and
ready for your lunch. That is but a small specimen of the kind of sport
I am anticipating! That's the sort of thing that inspires me!
But then there is the reverse of this pretty picture, which sometimes,
in melancholy moments, makes me contemplate my enforced holiday as a
hardship on the part of fate. Are there not mosquitoes on that side of
the broad Atlantic? Are there not Red Indians and grizzly bears? I have
pictured myself walking though a narrow glen, fishing-rod in hand, in
the angler's contemplative mood, and suddenly finding myself confronted
by a grizzly! Must, or rather _will_, he retire, or must I? I never
fired a revolver in my life, so I should not think of carrying one;
besides, I have no thirst for a grizzly's blood, and I only hope he has
none for mine. I am sure if he will let me alone I won't meddle with
him. Alas! I get a hug and a pat, and my fate and my fishing are ended!
Then, again, I dream of encountering a band of black-feet, or crow's
feet, or spotted-tailed Indians, in feathers and war-paint, armed with
tomahawk and scalping-knife. I yield my hoary, or I may say my bald
scalp to that horrid knife, and _so_ my fate is ended. When I think of
things in that way, am I wrong in talking of it as a _hard_ fate? Then
there are six-shooters, bowie-knives, buffaloes, and rattlesnakes!
Nevertheless, to the Rockies I am bound, in spite of all such gloomy
possibilities. My passage money is already paid and my berth secured in
the good ship "Cunardia": which is, I am told, one of the finest vessels
afloat; so I hope I shall be able to give a good account of her.
My youngest son Frank, who has always been somewhat of a rolling stone,
and to whom, in the old country, neither wool nor pelf would stick, is
now settled away up at the foot of the Rocky Mountains; and when he has
sometimes written to me for money, and I have asked him how he has spent
it, his answer has invariably been "Come and see!"
Year after year I have put off going, but now I am beginning to feel
that if I am ever to go, I must delay no longer; so I am about to see
with my own eyes where my money has gone to, and what may be the chances
of any portion of it coming back to me.
Frank was always a peculiar youth to manage. He began life in my City
counting-house, but he soon tired of it. He had formed the notion that
he was better suited to the free life of the prairie than to the routine
work of City business. Of course he knew nothing about prairie life, and
he would not be persuaded that his notions were but the outcome of a
disordered imagination; he was well off where he was, with fair chances
before him; but he was quite prepared to throw those chances away, and
to strike out into the Far West. He was a strong, healthy, good-looking
youth, fond of society, and very popular, and consequently, was
gradually being led into habits of extravagance which might have ended
badly. I was therefore, willing to humour his wishes.
In the year 1880 I paid his passage to America, and he began his career
by engaging himself to a farmer in Minnesota, who for a small stipend
was to instruct him in farming and give him his board in exchange for
his work.
When Frank began with the farmer, it is not too much to say that he was
totally ignorant of everything belonging to a farm; but he had not been
on this farm for six months before he became convinced that he had
learnt everything there was to learn, and that he could give a few
wrinkles to his master.
Then he told me that there was a wonderful farm to be had close at hand,
dirt cheap, a chance not to be lost; it was a small place of about 200
acres with good house and building, and splendid feeding prairie-land
adjoining. This, he said, was just the place for him to begin on; and he
produced such elaborate figures to prove to me that, although the
previous occupant had failed there, enormous profits—one hundred per
cent. at least—could be made of it, if managed in accordance with his
enlightened views, rather than in the humdrum way in which the previous
farmer had come to grief. He wrote to me so urgently, so persistently,
so enthusiastically, that I, although with many misgivings, found him
the money wherewith to purchase and stock the place. More money was
expended on that farm than I am now willing to acknowledge, but
everything went along swimmingly for a short period.
As time went on things did not seem to thrive so well as was hoped. The
corn crop was not up to the mark; the cattle did not fetch the expected
price; two or three horses died, and, on the whole, the first year's
work had not paid its expenses. But Frank was not disheartened; he wrote
courageously home for more money, and worked hard, ploughing and
planting, digging and hoeing. I was at least pleased to find him
sticking to his work so bravely, and exhibiting no desire to "cave in,"
although it was evident that his life was a pretty hard one, and his
daily fare rough enough.
One day I got a letter from him telling me that he was going to sell the
farm, as he had got another scheme in view which would land him in a
fortune in a very short time.
The scheme was something quite new in that part of the country, and was
a safe success.
The idea was to sell his farm, and with the produce establish a
Creamery, for the purpose of buying up all the cream from the farmers
for many miles round, and supply all the western cities, and even
eastward, as far as New York, with the best butter that could be made,
and at prices of hitherto unknown moderation.
Frank supplied me with figures which proved conclusively that after
estimating cost of plant, and interest thereon, horses and carts for
driving round and collecting, wages of carters and butter-makers, and
the prime cost of the cream, the best butter could be produced at a
prime cost of sixpence a pound, while the very lowest at which it could
possibly be sold was a shilling or 1_s._ 2_d._ a pound. This, after
making ample allowance for cost of transit, &c., would clearly leave a
very handsome profit; the success of the thing was too obvious to be for
a moment questioned.
So Frank sold his farm at about what it had originally cost him, but
with a total loss of his year's labour, and money sunk in improvements;
and went to work in connection with a partner, a practical man, who
joined him with no capital, but who, in consideration of his knowledge
and experience, was to share equally in the profits, first allowing
Frank fair interest for his capital. The local newspapers puffed the new
enterprise, and spoke in glowing terms of the pluck and energy of the
young Englishman: for a time things looked quite promising.
Frank wrote home with his usual buoyancy and asked for more money to
purchase sundry articles and machinery absolutely needed to carry on the
rapidly-growing business.
But, alas! for the glowing hopes of youth! At the end of a year it was
found by a balance-sheet carefully, and I believe fairly, drawn up by
the business partner, that there was nothing left but the plant; the
working capital for purchases and expenses was gone. The price of butter
had fallen enormously, and the price of cream and cost of collecting it
had exceeded the original calculations, whilst the plant, except as a
going concern, was not worth much.
It was found necessary either that Frank should put in 2,000 dollars
more capital (which he said would set them right), or he must give up
the creamery. He did give it up, and was left high and dry to begin the
world again with a capital of about two hundred dollars.
I am told that the working partner still carries on the business, and
having got hold of the plant at a nominal price, is now really making
the thing pay.
But Frank was out of it, and Minnesota was no longer a place for him.
With the small capital above mentioned he decided to strike out west for
the Rockies.
How he fared I will tell you in my next letter.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER No. II.
Frank's dearly-bought experience—A start for the Rockies—Magnificent
scenery—Indian scouts and revolvers—Advice to parents—Frank's
determination to "rough it."
_London, August, 1885._
I have now given you a short account of how Frank managed to get through
his two first years of farming life in Minnesota, and how he (or rather
I) was worse off in the end than at the beginning.
He had purchased experience at my expense; his money was nearly all
gone, and with what remained he resolved to start off for the Rocky
Mountains with a friend. This friend was a young fellow, who had gone
out from the City of London fired with the notion that the Great West
was the proper place for him, that there was nothing like a life in the
open prairie, where a little work would be diversified by a good deal of
hunting, shooting, and riding about.
So this youth immediately on his reaching Frank, to whom he had been
highly commended by friends at home, borrowed a hundred dollars from
him, and they started off together to seek their fortunes in the
Rockies.
I think I cannot do better than send you some extracts from Frank's
letters, which will give you a fair notion of his progress from the year
1883 to this time, and show, at all events, that amid a good many ups
and downs, and hardships of no ordinary character, he has up to this
point "stuck to it;" while his friend who accompanied him to the
Rockies, suddenly bolted, leaving Frank in the lurch, and minus the
money he had lent him. The first letter is dated June, 1883.
"MY DEAR PARENTS,
"I have just struck out here; I had nothing to do at M. The creamery
business was finished up, and I can get better pay working out here
than there. I started with S. on Monday, and we arrived here on
Thursday, a distance of 1,100 miles, right through the Rockies.
"The view from our window looks out across a valley to the Rocky
Mountains, and down the valley for a distance of fifty miles; the
scenery is magnificent; the mountains are capped with snow. On
Monday we start for a place called Clark's Forks, 120 miles S.W.,
just north of 'The National Park.' We stage it for sixty miles, and
either walk or take ponies the rest, up to a height of 7,000 feet
above sea level, to work on some fencing at two and a half dollars a
day. There are lots of ways of making a living there, and I hope of
saving money. The town here is full of Indian scouts, and every man
carries a revolver; in fact, as you may suppose, it is a rough
place, and we shall have to look sharp after ourselves with our
revolvers. Bears (grizzlies) are thick in the district we are going
to, also antelope, deer, and Indians.... We are in the roughest of
countries, but I am determined to fight my way through, and in the
end I hope to come out successful....
"My motive in coming here is simply to work hard and save money. If
any thing should happen to either of us you will hear from one of
us; we go with our lives in our hands.
"As we are green hands just yet, we only get two dollars, but after
a little while we are to get three dollars a day.
"I have now just money enough to get to our destination."
Notwithstanding the fact that this boy had been losing my money all the
time, I did not feel altogether disheartened; for I had found him as
candid about his failures as he had been sanguine about his successes,
and he always gave me sufficiently clear accounts as to _how_ the money
had gone. I was pleased with the pluck he had shown under difficulties
from which many a young fellow would have shrunk.
I had found out by this time that I had acted very unwisely in supplying
an inexperienced youth, however energetic and right principled, with
capital to start farming in a new country without any practical
knowledge whatever.
Hundreds of youths go out to America and the Colonies every year under
circumstances very like those of my son. Indulgent parents supply them
with money at once to start them in life in an occupation to which they
bring nothing but conceit and ignorance combined, and their money is as
certain to be lost as if it were thrown into the sea.
My advice to parents situated similarly to myself is never to give an
unlimited supply of money to start with. Allow your son just so much as
will keep him from starvation, and let him work out his luxuries for
himself. Let him rough it for three or four years at least; by that time
he will have discovered how far his boyish dreams have been realized by
experience, and he will have shown the stuff he is made of. He will
either have succumbed and gone home, or broken down in some more
disastrous way, or he will have gained experience which may justify his
starting in business with some hope of his being able to take care of
himself and his money, and to pull through.
My son had gained experience at my expense, and now I decided that he
should gain a little more at his own cost. I thought it better that he
should rough it for himself, and this he had made up his mind to do.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER No. III.
A hundred and twenty miles' walk—Axe, pick-axe, and shovel—A
four-hundred-feet roll down the mountain—Rough living—An Indian
scare—Deadly fumes—Working round a smelter—Fishing in Lake
"Abundance"—Disturbed by a grizzly.
_London, August, 1885._
I propose now to occupy a few pages with extracts from Frank's letters,
which will give a fair notion of his progress up to the time of my
sailing, and from that point I purpose to give you an account of my own
adventures.
In his next letter, which is dated Cook's City, July 6, 1883, he says:—
"I started out from Minnesota, as there was nothing for me to do
there that would pay me so well.... We walked from Bozeman, 120
miles through the Rockies, with a promise of work, but the roads and
creeks, or rather mountain torrents, which we had to cross are so
bad at present that the smelter cannot be got up here yet, and so we
are employing ourselves in building a log cabin for the winter for
ourselves. The trouble is that winter will soon be here ... and as I
paid all S.'s expenses as well as my own, besides lending him 100
dollars, I am afraid I shall not have much left.... We are now 120
miles from the nearest neighbourhood, right in the heart of the
Rockies, so that letters are scarce and far between. From Bozeman
(where Mrs. Blackmore was buried) the carrier comes once a week, but
in winter, I suppose, once a fortnight.
"The scenery here is magnificent; we are now in a gulch, with a
range of mountains on each side of us; a small camp composed of log
cabins, at present about fifty people, but a boom is expected, and
we shall share it. We have already taken up a lot, which costs
nothing, and are building a log cabin, which in two weeks we hope to
finish.... We hope in winter to save by getting an elk or two, of
which there are plenty, also bears, mountain lions, &c. The air is
very fine and rare here, and happens to agree with us both."
[Illustration: WOODCHOPPER'S CABIN, FROM FRANK'S SKETCH.]
"_Clark's Fork, August 5, 1883._
"When we first came here (on foot, 120 miles from Bozeman) we were
promised work, but on account of a misunderstanding between our
employers, we had to wait a few days; however, we have both been
working on a mountain pass, at two dollars and board a day. The
work, swinging an axe, pick-axe, and shovel, is not so very hard,
but the sleeping out in the open under our two blankets, sometimes
pouring with rain, was not very clever. There were about twenty of
us and a black cook, and the amount of bluebottle flies and other
insects I have eaten would have turned my stomach but for having a
marvellous appetite.
"Boiled elk, bear, and tea was the programme for two weeks. When the
job was finished, we immediately got work fixing up and shovelling
charcoal round a smelter at three dollars, _without_ board; so we
are now working at it, and come home at noon for our dinner in a
little shack near the smelter; hours, seven to twelve; one to six.
We cook our bread when we get through at six, generally boiling some
buffalo meat for our next day's supply.
"I must not forget to mention that our appearance at night is
somewhat similar to a coalheaver's.
"This is good, honest, though dirty work. Our intention at present
is to save up 100 dollars, start off from here, and camp up at
Bridger's, 130 miles from here (about twelve miles on the other side
of Bozeman), and cut cordwood to supply Bozeman, and by hard work
hope to make 1,000 dollars by next July.... I want you to think that
I am doing my very best to make and save money. We have not had even
potatoes for a month. Goods are too expensive here, as they have to
be hauled from Bozeman.
[Illustration: AN AWKWARD ROLL.]
"Before we went on to the road business we had a three days' job
about five miles away, up on the side of a mountain covered with
snow, and had to pack our blankets, grub, &c., across the snow,
making sure of our footsteps, otherwise it might have been all up
with us. Once we did slip, and went flying down the mountain for 400
feet; but there happened to be a curve which pulled us up. I shall
never forget the sensation. We tried to get a horse across. He
slipped, rolled over and over with our blankets, frying pan, and all
on his back. We thought it was all over with him, but he got up
after tumbling down 300 feet, shook himself, and walked off, leaving
our teapot smashed in. I believe the old beast had been there
before."
"_August_ 19, 1883.
"... As long as my health keeps up I don't care. I can get along
well; but this high altitude and the rough living, nothing but bread
and elk meat, which is liable to give one dysentery, has stopped me
working two or three days. However, I hope to be all right
to-morrow.
"I have been working round a smelter (which has not yet actually
begun to work) from seven o'clock to six, at three dollars a day,
without board, so that, though I don't spend a cent except for meat,
sugar, flour, and coffee, which, by the way, are frightfully dear,
having to be hauled 120 miles, I cannot save much.... This is the
roughest of lives, but as I can get good wages I can put up with it.
"My idea now is to work on as long as possible here. The smelter is
run by water power, and when it freezes up work will stop, Then
either go to a place near Bozeman and cut wood, or hire out
somewhere else; and when the winter is through make my way out to
Washington territory as soon as the snow will allow; take up a
homestead claim somewhere the other side of the Columbia River, work
in a lumber camp all the winter, and work the farm in the summer....
There was an Indian scare in camp last night. Ten Indians turned up
fully armed, but they were only after some of their horses the
whites had stolen; two men were arrested, but one escaped, tearing
away with a horse and six-shooter at full gallop."
"_August_ 26, 1883.
"... I can now fully appreciate the value of money, having worked
hard for it lately. The 'boom' I mentioned meant simply that we
staked out ground near town, built a log foundation on it (to hold
it by homestead right), so that should this mining town turn out
another Leadville, the lot would be valuable, though it did not cost
a cent save our two days' labour.... You also mention that I said I
was going to get 20 dollars a week. So I did, but have had to lay
off two days, and still have plenty of money in hand; but laying off
when work shuts down cannot be helped. Last night, for instance, I
worked from seven o'clock to seven in the morning in the smelter
here for 14_s._ at carrying bullion (silver and lead, 100 lbs.
weight), but I am afraid I cannot work again to-night, as my feet
are blistered and dried up. Besides, the fumes, which are deadly,
have rather upset me. Though the wages are good, the risk is too
great. Out of the 14_s._ (three and a half dollars) I have to pay
2_s._ a meal for board, as one has to live a little better than
'baching it' at this sort of work.
"Milk is a _necessity_, and at 1_s._ 6_d._ a quart runs away with
money. I must not forget to mention that there is a fearful rush for
the four cows owned by an old rancher here, whose _spring_ is by far
too handy.
"I would have sent you a little sketch, but the principal mixer of
my oil colours is missing, and 120 miles too far to send.... Winter
is fast coming on, and the snow lies from five to seven inches deep
on the level, outside work being nearly shut off.
"S. left here two days ago to work on a ranche, and I am not very
sorry for it, as he would neither save nor try and push along; so at
present I am without a partner in this wild life.
"In my last I told you I was not feeling very well, so I went up on
the mountains from the valley to Lake 'Abundance,' and I send you
herewith a short account of my excursion.... I am sorry to say that
churches are out of the question here. The old miners are a
perfectly godless set, and if they were to catch sight of what they
call a 'sky pilot' he would swing."
"FISHING AMONG THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
"Just a line to tell you of a little fishing expedition that I went
on with a friend. We started from here, Cook's City (? city, there
are only a few log cabins), at daybreak on one of those mornings
only known to early risers, cool, with slight delicious breezes
fanning the valley of pines. We took with us a pack-horse to carry
our blankets, grub, &c., and I must here mention that a man soon
learns to pack, there being very little both as to quantity and
size—two blankets each, ten pounds of flour, coffee, bacon,
frying-pan, and coffee-pot completing the outfit.
"Our way took us over a steep mountain leading through forests, down
again to a long plateau with a rushing torrent as its centre, until
we again ascended to a high divide or rocky ridge, whence we caught
sight of our lake, some four miles distant, shut in between the
bases of surrounding mountains.
"I must not forget the charming view we had from the divide. Far
away for the distance of quite eighty miles could be seen mountain
after mountain rising in the clear, though mighty rare, atmosphere,
some looking like ancient castles, others as flat as tables, all
bare and rugged from above timber line. After a pipe and look to the
trappings of our pack-saddle, we started to descend, and camped
within a mile of the lake, near a creek of clear snow water. A
breakfast the next morning of bacon, coffee, and bread cooked in
frying-pan, at the cooking of which I am quite an expert, and we
started for the lake, catching grasshoppers on our way before the
sun had made them shed their overcoats and get too lively.
"The first throw I made was with a piece of red flannel, and hooked
three nice salmon trout in no time, weighing from a pound to two and
a half; but they seemed as the morning advanced to fight shy of such
indigestible stuff as flannel, and I treated them to some nice
hoppers of a brownish tint, catching eight more. The hoppers went
wrong after a little, and I was hard up for a new bait, when,
happening to nearly land another fish, I pulled a piece of his jaw
(do you anglers call it the jaw?) out, threw again with this, and
caught two more; it was a small piece of the white gristly flesh,
and wriggled like a worm in the water. Time for grub came on: we
started a fire, fried some fish, ate it, smoked, of course, and I
think went to sleep—I know I did; when my friend roused me up and
told me to listen, and sure enough we could hear an old bear rolling
rocks on the other side of the lake, some quarter of a mile distant.
Both of us started with our rifles to have a shot, though, if within
fifty yards and the shot is not fatal (and bears have been shot
three times through the heart, and yet not killed), it is all up
with you; if near a tree, up you go.
"However, we did not see the bruin, and perhaps it was lucky for us
we did not, as the older the hunters, the more cautious and wary
they are about these enormously strong brutes. Let me tell of my
first bear story out here. We were then down at the mill creek, some
eighty miles distant, when we met three hunters, who the night
before had met a bear. They came upon her unawares, each discharging
his Winchester, though only one slightly wounded her. She made a
rush for the nearest of them, and then for a scatter—one jumped into
a creek running fast enough to carry him off his legs; the other
climbed up a tree, which, being rotten, fell with a crash. However,
they all escaped, and lucky for them, as the strength and agility of
these Rocky Mountain bears is marvellous; they can lift and roll
about boulders of six hundred pounds, and tear up young trees from
the ground in a surprising manner. To return to our fishing, we had
good sport also the next day, catching forty-two; and on our nearing
the lake saw two young elk. My friend fired, but missed, I having
left my gun behind.
"As our mail carrier starts early to-morrow, I must conclude, and,
should you want any information as to species of fish with their
anatomical peculiarities, I will try and find them out and send
you.—I am, &c.,
"F.
"_Cook's City, Montana, August 30, 1883._"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER No. IV.
Starting afresh on a new farm—Wheat forty to seventy-five bushels to
the acre—Felling trees and fencing—"Life here is deuced
hard"—Somewhat despondent—Forty below zero—Ink and bacon
frozen—Anxiety for General Gordon—Working in snow up to the waist.
_London, August 15, 1885._
In September, 1883, Frank worked his way back into the more civilized
regions of Montana, and with his usual enthusiasm he wrote to me:—
"This is the best country I have yet struck, and I am sure that I
shall do well here. My idea now is to hack up 160 acres, get a team,
wagon, and horses, build a small house, plough forty acres this
fall, put it into wheat, and ten acres of oats; ... if _I only had
the start now which I had when I went to Minnesota my fortune would
soon be made I feel sure_. Wheat goes from forty to even
seventy-five bushels to the acre, and at 4_s._ a bushel, one ought
to make plenty of money. A member of Parliament and several English
gentlemen have lately visited this valley, and were surprised at the
fertility of the soil. If a little later on you could send me some
money to start with again, it will help me to get a home, and so far
as I can see pave my way to a large thing.
"By chance I have run out a piece of land where I can secure the
entire water right for a farm. I cannot see any thing but success
before me.... I am going to work out with the team every day I can
spare from the farm and earn money.... I would not ask you for a
cent if I could possibly help it, and I only want you to think I am
doing the very best for myself. I don't spend any money at all but
what is absolutely necessary, and I must beg you to give me another
small start to put me on my legs again.
"I worked on the thresher here two days ago, and the wheat on the
farm I worked went forty-three bushels to the acre. On some stalks
two heads; this is a second crop on same land and no manure."
The result of these appeals was that I supplied Frank with some more
money, and he purchased the farm and other things partly on credit (at a
ruinous interest), partly with his own savings, and partly with the cash
I sent him.
In October of the same year (1883) he wrote—
[Illustration: FRANK'S CABIN, FROM A SKETCH BY HIMSELF.]
"I have got my cabin up and ploughed up some land, and have these
last five days been hauling logs down from the mountain to build my
stable, and, in fact, have come to town to have my log chain
mended....
"Don't imagine I am having a good time and spending money for the
sake of spending. I am up long before daylight and working hard
until dark. This winter I hope to get out 600 posts, and fencing for
the farm, besides working round to earn money. I bought fifteen
bushels of seed wheat at one dollar, and sowed and harrowed it in my
neighbour's piece of breaking. This is called 'renting;' I receive
two-thirds of the crop and he gets one-third. As I was not on my
land in time to plough enough, this gives me a share in the winter
wheat crop, and next year I hope to put in twenty acres of wheat and
five of potatoes."
In December, 1883, he wrote to his brother:
"A letter from you now and again would do no positive injury to
either party; send me a line when you can, as I don't expect to be
home for some years, and I do not want to lose track of any of you.
Many thanks for papers, send me any old magazines you can. I read
for company's sake, as I am all alone here, and don't want to forget
how to read.
"The life here is deuced hard, but I feel certain of reaping a good
harvest, and am going to stick to it. At present I am working about
two miles from home, cutting down trees for fencing. I then start
them down the mountain on a small natural gulch on the snow; they go
like greased lightning, and make a terrible noise, which is echoed
and re-echoed through the mountains.
"I have just completed my stable which looks _boss_, logs with mud
chinking; next year I intend putting in twenty acres of spring
wheat.... As I have just bought some beef-bones I am making a fine
stew; which makes my little kitten mew and skip round, being the
first taste for her little sides."
"_Jan. 1, 1884._
"I wanted, if possible, to begin the new year without having to
write for money, but I am now having the hardest time I have ever
had; weather excessively cold, and very little grub in the house....
I don't like to give up my best hopes, so if you can let me have the
little balance I mentioned, it would make me even.... It was indeed
a quiet Christmas for me, at work in the woods at my fencing; and
now comes new year, just the same."
"_A few days later._"
"Sometimes I begin to despair, as the undertaking I have gone into
requires more money than I really thought it would.... Don't think
by this that I am getting discouraged with the work or prospects—far
from it.... It seems to me that I cannot start to write a letter
unless I make some allusion to money, but I am so anxious to get
straightened up that I cannot help it.... The money has wholly been
expended on the ranche, no folly or stupidities have been indulged
in, and I feel fully competent to take care of anything I get
now.... Winter has set in now nearly two months, and those who
_can_, keep near the stoves. Every day is much the same to me, and
all I hope is, that I don't get hurt, or become ill, as getting out
timber alone is dangerous work; snow slides, bringing rocks and
timber along, may occur at any moment.
"... Time is creeping along, and spring not far off, bringing back
the horrid grizzlies and panthers."
"_Jan. 10, 1884._
"I am obliged to write in pencil, as my ink has frozen, and adding
water to it has taken away nearly all its colour. The snow is nearly
three feet deep on the level, making it mighty hard work to get
about; however, if it lets up it will make it all the better
sleighing. I am still at work in the woods chopping; up to my waist
in snow, getting down fencing and firewood; uncomfortable. Though
when I have a good soup and get a refreshing sleep I forget all the
discomforts. If it snows to-morrow I shall plaster up my shack
inside, having bought a bushel of lime.... Every day I learn
something new, and expect to do so for years to come. I look forward
to a bright future. All farming operations have ceased long ago, and
nothing can be done until the spring.
"... I have made several friends out here, but have been very
careful who they were, and sometimes by moonlight I skip away five
miles and have a chat with a good old timer.... My paint box has not
come from Cook City yet; when it does I will try my hand at giving
you some faint idea of this superb scenery."
"_Feb. 8, 1884._
"I told you that S. had disappeared altogether, and with him my
hundred dollars and other money he owed me. Young B. has now come
out here, and has so far joined me that we go halves in expenses,
and he helps me in all work.... The weather the last four days has
been intensely cold, forty below zero. In fact, so cold, that we
dared not go out to work, and though we have just put a floor in the
shack, just in time, at night the cold wakes one up and sends the
creeps down one's back. Our bacon freezes solid, saw and axe only
having any effect. Is there no old aunt to die and leave me some
money? I do hate to be always bothering you.... Of course we 'bache
it' here, and as there is no great variety to cook, cooking is no
great hardship.
"We have just finished our supper of bacon and beans, and some stray
pieces of meat; and as Burnaby says in his book that _tea_ stays
longer by one than coffee, we have been _teaing_ for some time.
"Now is the dull season, of course; but we are getting a few hens,
hoping the weather will improve, to make them cackle. It does not
seem like the same place now I have some one with me—much pleasanter
and a great help in working.
"I must not forget to mention that I hurt my back a few days ago
lifting some logs, and I get up every morning like an old man;
however, B. has put a porous plaister on my back, and I really don't
know which is the greater nuisance of the two, back-ache or
plaister."
"_March 5, 1884._
"Thanks for sending me the papers! I really don't know what we would
do without them; the neighbours make regular calls, weather
permitting, to borrow them. Our anxiety for General Gordon is as
great here as I suppose it is with you.... Although life is hard and
rough here, I like it more and more, and I trust to do well here:
our plans for next year are as follows:—To put in about four acres
of garden produce, onions, potatoes, &c., and sell the produce; and
if we have luck we shall do well on this; not to put any crop in at
all, as machinery is too expensive; a reaper, rake and thrashing
expenses would eat up our profits, especially as the machinery would
have to be bought on time, a system I am not going in for if I can
help it. To fence the whole 160 acres in, the posts for which I have
already cut (640), besides hen-house logs, &c., with barbed wire,
will cost £23, but I hope to sell hay enough off the place to cover
this. When the fencing is done, I shall start out somewhere to get
work, and stay away six months (the law allows this under the
Homestead Act), and B. will run the ranche.
"I hope to earn three dollars a day, but cannot figure on it, as all
sorts of accidents may happen; I might not get paid, or I may hurt
myself in some way. B. has already six cows from which we hope to
make butter and raise the calves; this is the best and surest
business, they increase rapidly. The natural grass (bunch grass) is
not only good feed, but strengthening and fattening....
"During the season B. ought to have time to cut up at least fifty
cords of wood, which left to the fall to season, readily brings in
Bozeman six dollars a cord, or in all, 300 dollars.... As the
'Rheumatiz' has got a slight hold of me, the result of working in
the snow up to my waist after fencing and timber, I must make an
early start to bed.... A general thaw was followed last night by
eight inches of snow, bringing the average up again to two feet ten
inches on the level."
[Illustration]
LETTER No. V.
Never had such a hard time—Camping out in the Rockies—Horses
decamp—Left in the lurch—A terrible fright—Crossing a torrent—"Old
Jim" taking a roll—Pack smashed—"Old Jim" in a snow-drift—Woke up
by a grizzly—What the newspapers said of it—Cutting fencing poles
in the snow—Christmas Day—Pickles and plum pudding—The
consequences—A dance—Cowboys and farmers' daughters—"Shall I turn
tail?"—A profitable old cow—The nicest little ranche in
Montana—Start on a sheep drive 300 miles—"The healthiest place I
ever struck."
_London, August 20, 1885._
In the following May, 1884, he wrote: "I never had such a hard time of
it in my life." And in September to his brother:—
"... The truth is, I have been some seventy miles away from home,
and shall be gone again in a few days to look for a winter job. The
new railway has knocked things topsy-turvy.
"Labour, when I first came here, was scarce, and well paid for, but
now things are very dull here. However, there is a good prospect for
better things. They all say that one railroad spoils a town, two
bring it to par again, and three make it 'boom.' This seems the
general rule throughout America. On my way out to the mountains
after work, some three months back, I found a good prospect for
copper, and since then we have taken up four distinct veins in the
centre of a good mining camp; but we shall simply represent them
each year to hold them so that it will not ruin us. (Representation
is ten days' work each year on the mine for five years, then you can
get your patent.) We may make a fortune from them, and we may not
make a cent. However, we shall not let it interfere with our work. I
could send one of your papers a decent article—'A Prospector's Life,
or Hunting after Gold.' The newspapers come in mighty handy, and are
read through and through.
"CAMPING OUT IN THE ROCKIES."
"Let me give you a short account of my little trip. Starting from my
log cabin early in the spring, when the snow was still in drifts, in
places fifteen feet deep, I made my way some seventy miles into the
mountains. I had a little Indian pony, and a horse old enough in
tricks, if not in years, to carry my pack, consisting of my
blankets, tent, and grub. Grub! why, certainly. Fifty pounds of
flour, a tin of self-raising flour, labelled 'absolutely pure' of
course, (a lawsuit ought to follow up this libel,) two pounds of
coffee, salt, frying-pan, cup, and a well-stocked box of matches.
The above was to last me a month or more. I am forgetting the bacon.
The day I set out was beautifully clear, and my journey progressed
through ever-changing scenery. Before me and on each side were the
snow-capped mountains, still white as they had been for six months
past, and fringed along their sides by a massive belt of timber, at
the foot of which my little pony and old carcase ahead were picking
their way, treading lightly lest their weight should precipitate
them through the hardened crust of snow.
"Looking back, I could see my little home nestled close against the
mountains, and I fancied, too, that I could see my little kitten on
the roof, perhaps mourning its late master, or more probably
lamenting its cosy bed inside. I stayed but a short time to
contemplate this scene, a fairer could not be found—a beautiful
valley, surrounded on all sides by high-towering mountains of every
shape and form. Three brooks teeming with trout wend their headlong
way; I say headlong, for they rise from the very top of yon snowy
peaks, and come tearing and roaring down at this season of the year,
when the sun is getting the better of the snow, and feeding these
streams, which eventually fall into the flowing Missouri.
"Continuing my journey for a short time, my ponies wanted to stop
for a feed, and I felt the same inclination; so I unpacked,
scratched a fire together, made some coffee, and while my gentle
steeds were pawing and nibbling at grass in bare places, took to my
pipe of 'Wills' Westward Ho' (supposed to be) tobacco, dried and cut
fine, but it ought to be labelled 'Old Boot Tops,' instead of 'Uncle
Sam.' So absorbed was I in my pipe, I did not notice that my Arabs
had decamped, leaving me in the lurch. Ascending a higher point, I
could just distinguish them a mile off, and had it not been for the
snow, they would have been five miles away, making steadily for
home, though why they wanted to go there I do not know. Certainly
not for food; at least, I could very rarely find any luxuries there
myself. A brisk walk, with much shouting, 'Whoa! where are you off
to?' &c, brought me up to them. A hasty return, quickened by
prodigious cudgellings, though my pack-horse has a hide like a
rhinoceros, packing up, and giving old Jim a happy reminder, I again
rode along. Towards evening it became excessively chilly. I had
taken a little _eau de vie_ with me, which, however, I always put in
my pack, as its immediate presence on my person might tempt me too
often; so starting my pony at a little quicker pace, and getting
off, I made for old Jim, just a little ahead of me; but no sooner
was I within reach of the old boy's tail than he started off at a
brisk gambol. Nothing would induce him to stop till he had left me
some distance behind. However, being persistent, and by making
little detours, I secured him and the bottle.
"The place to which I was bound was some seventy miles from home,
and through a rough and wild country, infested with bears, mountain
lions, and wolves. The weather at night was very cold, and my fare
not princely. At sundown I struck off into the timber, lighted my
camp fire, secured one of the horses, and in a short time was fast
asleep, dreaming of delightful trips by land or sea. Let me not
forget a little incident which occurred this first night. It being a
calm evening, the wind having lulled, before retiring for the night
I did not put up my little tent. At somewhere between midnight and
three o'clock I was awakened by a terrible (or it seemed so then)
howl close to my head, which had got out of the blankets, and on
looking up I saw an awful head not a foot from mine, teeth, jaws,
and ears. It did not take as long as it does to recount to find my
head where my toes were; I had performed a sort of double
somersault, landing me in the snow, and then I looked back and found
the terrible monster who was ready to devour me was off at a
two-forty pace in the opposite direction. After all, it was only old
'Jim.' He must have been scared at a coyote (wolf) or other
marauder, and sought my protection; but he was certainly scared far
worse the second time. Shaking off the snow, and having another pipe
between the blankets just to consider awhile as to whether the old
animal was not going to cause me more trouble, I soon fell asleep
again, dreaming of bears, tigers, and every other household pet.
"On waking, my blankets seemed heavier than on going to bed. It had
snowed during the early hours, and they were converted into white
ermine. One more snooze, and then to get up, shake my blankets,
light my fire; breakfast through, and horses saddled, away I start
to commence my second day. A few hours after starting I lost sight
of the valley I had come from, but in front of me again was one of
the finest panoramas I had ever seen. From my elevated position, and
for a distance of fifty miles at least, I could see mountain after
mountain towering one above another—high, sharp, rocky peaks, and
undulating table-lands. Leaving this, I broke off down a narrow
divide or cañon, wending my way towards a bright stream, near which
I could discern a small house, some fencing, and cattle ranging
around.
"Two hours' ride brought me to the little stream, now a raging
torrent. The farmer shouted to me not to attempt the crossing, but
my motto is 'Excelsior.' I had terrible hard work to cross.
"'Try not the pass!' the old man said,
'Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The roaring torrent is deep and wide.'
"My horses were very nearly carried away down the rushing stream.
However, we succeeded at last; and a warm fire and a chat with a
human being, for it seemed a month since starting, revived my hopes.
I found the house to be owned by a cattle-man whom I met just before
entering, ready saddled, and on his way to hunt up some game. The
house is beautifully situated; the stream furnishes an abundant
supply of fine mountain trout, many of which have been caught in a
little irrigating ditch, which the rancher has run out from the
stream to water his garden, and not having time to put them back in
the stream, and time to eat them, I presume he prefers the latter.
Here, 'midst the heart of the Rockies, lives a man and his wife all
alone, not seeing a human being for a month at a time, perfectly
happy and healthy, letting their cattle range on the vast undulating
lowlands; and here, owing to the amount of wind in winter, they feed
all the year round, bare places being thus kept open. Although a
pressing invitation was given me to stay, I still journeyed on,
following the creek along, and having to cross it no less than nine
times until the route indicated to me took up a rough and dry cañon,
where, I have since found out, the gentle rattlesnake 'loves to lie
a-basking in the sun.' Nothing happened worthy of mention, save old
Jim, who, wanting to give his old back (made at an angle of
forty-five degrees) a scratch, coolly—I may here use the word, as it
was in the snow—squatted down and commenced to roll with my precious
pack on his back. My coffee-pot was crushed square, frying-pan
jammed into the hunch of bacon, and _eau de vie_ bottle smashed.
What did I say? Never mind. At length we got to what seemed to me an
impassable barrier, a terribly deep snow-drift. If I had reached
this place early in the morning all would have been well, but now
the sun had softened the upper crust, and the first step old Jim
took was up to his neck, his poor old front legs and nose were
hidden altogether, presenting a comical picture which I should like
to give you a sketch of. Unpacking him, letting him struggle
backwards, carrying the pack by pieces nearly a half mile, and
letting the horses swim rather than walk through, took me two good
hours at least, landing me on a bare place, only to find that I had
another drift almost as bad to go through. A repetition of the above
landed me near two or three scattered pines, not knowing in the
least where I was or which way to turn, my clothes wet, everything
wet, bottle gone, and generally played out.
[Illustration: OLD JIM IN A SNOW-DRIFT.]
"I soon made my camp, pitched my tent, heaped up all the wood I
could find, and then sat down to brood over my folly in not waiting
until a month later, or indeed in making such a risky journey at
all. After awhile I was surprised to see, coming evidently from the
opposite direction from which I had come, a man with two horses.
This, at least, was a blessing, for were he white or black man he
should answer me, and tell me all he knew concerning the route.
"He turned out to be a miner returning from a camp through which I
had to go, but as he was too anxious to get on, I kindly asked him
if he would not take a drink, when suddenly I remembered the smashed
bottle. Ample excuses and convincing ones, as he had to go through
the same drift, and would there see the mangled remains of my dead
soldier; so we parted, he to continue his journey, and I to bed,
though yet only sundown.
"The next morning found me up early, only too anxious to get away
from this land of desolation. The preceding evening had landed me on
a bare knoll, and a slight wind having sprung up during the night
and obliterated the tracks of my unexpected visitor, I had to make
my way as well as I possibly could; old Jim now up and now down,
digging him out, unpacking and wearying along, passed the day, and
found me camped alongside a creek surrounded by heavy brush.
[Illustration: "IT WAS A FINE OLD BRUIN!"]
"It would have been hard to have awoke me when I did get to sleep,
as I had had a fairly rough day of it; still it could not have been
more than three hours after I had gone to sleep when I was awoke by
a horrible grunting, and the bushes round the tent were torn and
smashed round as if a young cyclone was at work. It could not be old
Jim this time; oh, no! it was a fine old bruin! so, hastily putting
on my pants, and at the same time giving a terrific yell, feeling
for my rifle, which, by the way, I had left at home, and skipping
out of the tent, took a very short space of time. As it was now
pitch dark, and plenty of roots of trees to run against and tumble
over, I had to pull up and listen, and I soon heard with
satisfaction the noise some distance past my tent. I evidently had
either scared him or he had gone to the tent, taken my bacon, and
walked off. Though not fifty yards off, I had a good deal of trouble
to find my tent again, and, when found, lay me down, but not to
sleep, for a while at least, until I could hear no more groanings.
Old bear-hunters since tell me that he would have done no harm if he
had intruded into my tent; if I had feigned being dead he would only
have nosed me round and given me a parting slap for old
acquaintance' sake, breaking one or two ribs. I think here again
discretion was better than valour. The funny part comes later on.
Next day I met two prospectors, and told them about the bear. They
told it in Bozeman, and next day it is in the paper, reading as
follows:—
"'A man out prospecting was aroused from his midnight slumbers by a
bear. The night being dark, and no ammunition at hand, he beat a
hasty retreat, running two miles, falling into a creek, and then
down a deep gully (fortunately sustaining no injuries) in but very
scanty clothing; staying out all night, and on returning in the
morning, he found his bacon and grub all gone,' &c.
"So much for newspaper reports! I have had several gentle surprises
since. I hope to do well in time, and do not expect to return home
until I have made a good stake.
"The remainder of my journey passed without further incident."
"_December 10, 1884._
"Why don't you send me a coloured plate now and then? People in my
low scale of life would hang it up on the wall in place of a
Millais....
"I can do well here. It is only a question of time, as I have before
said. If business were more flourishing, the prices would be better,
and this can only be remedied by time. 'Everything comes to him who
waits.'
"I am now getting out fencing poles, both for myself and to sell. It
is terribly hard work. A walk of three miles, completely up grade,
brings me to the top of the mountain range, back of the cabin, and
here I cut them on the now already six inches of snow, work them
down a 'shoot,' then haul them home on a sleigh. To-day I cut one
hundred, and put them in position with my others (three hundred
already cut). This may seem easy work, but in reality it is very
hard. Even if it snows a foot or two to-morrow, I must still stick
to it. I want about one thousand five hundred (a thousand to sell at
fourpence apiece), and it will keep me rushing to do it. What with
climbing up and slipping down, cutting and clearing the shoot each
fresh snow, walking home again, you may imagine I get pretty fagged
out by the end of the day.
"If we had not had such bad luck this summer we (B. and myself)
would have been some hundreds of dollars ahead this winter; but the
cattle breaking my garden fence down, and destroying the whole of
the garden stuff, and not getting paid for work, it put me a way
behind, besides the loss of one of my horses....
"My mule was looking poor when B. came. So we thought to trade him
off, and we exchanged him for a pony, and then exchanged the pony
for a mare (a good trade). Unfortunately, I lost the mare, but may
still get her back next summer; so I had to get another horse, for
which I gave eighty-five dollars.... The money you sent me helped to
pay for my former team, wagon, harness, tools, and furniture. Though
not elaborate, still it all mounted up.
"... This winter I shall earn all I can, though it is terribly hard
to make much this time of year. Boots (rubber) are continually
wearing out, and socks too; my heels are like boards.
"I have come to the conclusion I could learn some language, living
or dead, these long winter evenings, if you would send me some
books. I read continually of an evening.... Wishing you all a merry
Christmas and happy new year."
"_December 31, 1884._
"Since I last wrote we have had a terrible fall of snow, but now all
is clear again; that is to say, the tracks are all broken; good
sleighing and sharp, cold weather. Can you realise 47° below zero?
We had this for a day and a half, and it kept us pretty close to the
stove.
"B. calculates to buy a piece of railroad land adjoining my ranche,
and we can then fence together.... He can still live with me, and we
can work and help one another. The longer I stay here, the more I
like the life.... Cattle grow at a surprising pace here. My
neighbour, a mile north, sold ten steers at forty dollars a head,
for which he was only offered twenty dollars last spring. Thank all
round for Christmas cards.
"The hardest thing to do now is to keep warm, and much as we try
with patent socks, running round, eating fat bacon, &c., the cold
will creep to our toes.... A bottle of Crosse and Blackwell's
pickles, mixed with a little plum pudding of my own making, we had
on Christmas Day, quite made me ill for the time being; however, a
dose of horse specific soon put me right again. I really believe the
sight of a mince pie would turn my stomach. Life here is without any
of the festivities of Old England. If there is a dance, you invite
your lady love to go with you, and pay two dollars for the privilege
of dancing in a little cabin no bigger than mine (seventeen by
nineteen), crowded with cowboys and farmers' daughters. As I have no
lady love, nor the money to throw away, I have not given them the
pleasure of my society yet.
"Sister A. ought to come out and keep my house for me next summer.
Tell her I will build an addition to the mansion if she will come.
The mountain air will do her good."
"_March 14, 1885._
"I have been expecting to hear from you, I may say, very
anxiously.... _Any_ letter would be better than none at all. I feel
it all the more here, as I have been doing my very best to get
ahead. I am still convinced that I can do well here if I can once
get ahead. A little bunch of stock, and my debts cleared, and I can
then go right ahead.... To-day is my birthday. By next year, if I
live, I shall be gray-headed. Snow still a foot deep, though
disappearing."
"_May 17, 1885._
"We are now in full swing of spring work; grass, trees, and my
garden are pushing ahead wonderfully. The season is short here, so
vegetation has to hurry up to take advantage of the time.... I
verily believe I got the last piece of Government land in the valley
worth taking up with good grass on it, and water running through,
but it is too rocky to plough any extent of it. Thirty acres are the
most I could work, but as pasturage it will be worth considerable
some day.
"I am now in such a position that I hardly know how to look ahead. I
have my ranche, which still requires considerable fencing, and ought
to be done this spring, as grass is getting scarce, and the stock
not only eat it off, but tread it out, so that I ought to take
advantage of this spring to get it completely under fence. This, of
course, costs money. The barbed wire has to be bought. I have
already a good deal up, besides the 1,350 poles and 640 posts that I
cut and put up myself. All this takes time, of course, and prevents
my working out anywhere in the mountains.
"Now the question is, What am I to do? I still owe —— dollars. I
hardly like to say that I had better turn tail and come home, or get
a berth, if possible, in New York or somewhere. This is not my wish
at all. In truth, I would sooner stay and work on here. I like the
country immensely, and, with the aid of capital, can do well; but,
on the other hand, I can only go on as a day labourer, earning
enough, perhaps, this summer and winter to pay my debts, which are
piling up at a cent and a half a month interest (18 _per cent._). Of
course, you will take into account my early failure in Minnesota;
but though I know it was my own fault, I put it down to a run of bad
luck and want of experience. I assure you I have done nothing but
work since I have been out here, building up my home, and looking
out for a job as the chances came.... My debts paid and clear here,
I can, of course, make a living, but I want to do something more
than that.
"If you cannot possibly give me the necessary start, I must go off
and wander round from month to month. It seems to me that I have
done nothing but have money since I left England, but since the
first loss it has come in in rather small sums, that have been
swallowed up in odds and ends about the place.
"You need not think me grumbling or grasping. I long to get a fair,
clear start, and have done with it. Whatever you do, do not think I
am tired or want a change. The more I see of this life the more I
like it.
"My _Homestead Right_[1] lasts for five years, and until they have
expired I cannot get a title from the Government for my land, so
that I am not likely to throw up my work and right without a good
cause....
Footnote 1:
See Appendix.
"_P.S.—A trip out here would do you good, and you could see for
yourself how things stand._"
"_June 26, 1885._
"... You ask me whether my ranche does not produce anything—have I
no cattle to sell, &c. If you refer to my letters, you will see that
I mentioned having bought an old cow cheap (for £4), which gave us
milk last winter, but as she was a little too decrepit to raise a
calf, I traded her off this spring for a little mare, which, again,
I sold for 200 cedar posts, worth twenty cents apiece, or forty
dollars. Thus my old cow, which I gave £4 for, will, when the posts
are delivered and sold, bring me in £8. (As the spring has been
unusually wet, the man has not come up to time with the posts, but I
shall have them shortly.) My garden ought to bring me in £20. I have
the finest set of cabbages, peas, and potatoes in the valley, my
team, and this spring I have 130 chickens, 100 of which we raised
this spring, and more are hatching out now. Twenty-five acres broken
ready for a crop of wheat that is ready to sow by September, and one
mile and a half of fence, or 150 acres, enclosed. In addition to
this, I have just finished putting up a little milk house on the
creek, and am terribly proud of it; it looks like a Swiss châlet,
gabled ends, &c. I am all the more proud of it, as I have hewed the
logs and put it up at odd times of an evening. By next autumn, when
I hope to have everything complete, I shall have, if not the
prettiest, at least one of the nicest little ranches in Montana,
magnificent building spot, icy cold water all the year round, and
unrivalled panoramic view, also perfectly healthy. You will
understand from this that what with having bought my team, tools,
&c., it does not leave much for stock. One cow costs fifty dollars,
and _hard_ to get at that. A yearling calf costs from £3 to £5, and
if possible I must try and get some in the fall, as I have put about
seven acres into oats for hay, besides what hay I can cut (this
having been a splendid season for grass). Oats would hardly pay to
thresh on so small an acreage, though the yield ought to be between
fifty and seventy bushels to the acre. Crops are magnificent. On
lots of ranches _wheat_ will go as high as fifty bushels to the acre
this year (seventy-five have been raised). As my team, though
strong, are not very heavy, I have only averaged three-quarters of
an acre breaking sod a day. Three horses are generally used.
"With five cows I could keep twenty hogs, and what with my crop next
year, garden, and work at odd times, should be considered rich here,
and could put by money.
"You will perhaps remember my telling you that there was a saw-mill
up the cañon above my ranche some three miles. Well, the 'boss' came
down three weeks ago, and hired me to work for him at thirty dollars
a month until threshing time, or the 1st of September. This suited
me well, as on Sundays and after work, when not too tired, I could
run down home and see that things were all right. B. is still
staying with me, and is a great help.... I started to work two days
after, and stayed three weeks, whereas I had hoped to get a job till
September. He shut down the mill suddenly, and thus threw me out of
work. We have given him a piece of our mind, but as he was young,
and didn't know his own mind, we didn't quarrel about it. This job,
of course, suited me well, as it was handy to home; but the day
after to-morrow I am going after a three months' job on a sheep
drive some three hundred miles, at forty dollars a month. The sheep
are twenty miles from here, and have to be driven down beyond
Custer, which would bring me back home by threshing time.
"I am glad to say that wherever I have worked or am known at all I
can always get a job, as I am considered to be a 'rustler,' or
night-hawk, as I work early up to dark. The mill-owner is going to
move his mill down to mouth of the cañon, I hear; so this will to
some extent improve the value of my property."
In July, 1885, he wrote to a friend:—
"I have only just received your letter. It has been a long time on
the road, as I am now twenty miles away from home, working out at
'dipping sheep,' dirty and terribly hard work. As to your cousin
coming out, I can only say that _I_ certainly can do well, and I
should say that he could also if he will be content to rough it. I
have done nothing but rough it since I have been out, and find it
has done me no harm, but much good. I am getting as strong as a
horse.
"Thirty shillings (say five dollars) a week will keep your cousin in
good circumstances; and if he cares to come out to me I can show him
round, and he will be quite welcome. The climate is bracing, and it
is without exception the healthiest place I have ever struck.
"Try and get 'the Old Man' [meaning _me_] to come out with you; you
will enjoy the trip. I am sending this scrawl by a cowboy, and he
may or may not forget to post it, though I trust he will not."
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LETTER No. VI.
My last letter before leaving for the United States by the good ship
"Cunardia."
_London, August 20, 1885._
Frank is now about twenty-six years of age. He has had four years of
hard and varied experience, and although fortune has not yet smiled upon
him, he does not seem inclined, so far as I am able to form an opinion
from his correspondence, to succumb. I gather from his letters, by which
alone I can at present judge, that he is still prepared to rough it. He
has youth, health, and strength on his side, and I imagine there are few
young fellows who have been brought up amidst the comforts and pleasures
of a city life who would willingly have gone through so many hardships.
Circumstances make it desirable for me to visit New York and the other
Eastern cities. I have, therefore, resolved to journey so far as the
Rockies, in order to see for myself, and thus to form a clear opinion of
what he is doing and what his chances of success really are.
I propose, therefore, to follow up the foregoing sketch of Frank's four
years' struggles by sending occasional letters, giving you an account of
whatever may turn up on my long journey, and to describe what I may see
of his location and surroundings. I am also not without hope of finding
opportunities for some further piscatorial exploits in the lakes and
streams of Montana. If I meet with any adventures in this way, I shall
not fail to record them.
END OF PART I.
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