"When spring came the kids and me gathered all the bones and_Letters on an Elk Hunt

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LETTERS ON AN ELK HUNT

BY A

WOMAN HOMESTEADER

_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_

UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS

Lincoln and London

First Bison Book Printing 1979

Most recent printing indicated by first digit below

7 8 9 10

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Stewart, Elinore Pruitt, 1878-- Letters on an elk hunt

1 Stewart, Elinore Pruitt, 1878-- 2 Frontier and pioneer

life--Wyoming 3 Elk hunting--Wyoming 4 Pioneers--Wyoming--Biography

5 Wyoming--Biography I Title

F761 S82 1979 978 7'03'0924 79-13840

ISBN 0-8032-4112-7

ISBN 0-8032-9112-4 pbk

Published by arrangement

with Houghton Mifflin Company

Manufactured in the United States of America

[Illustration: _Photograph courtesy of Clyde Stewart_]

CONTENTS

I. CONNIE WILLIS 1

II. THE START 13

III. EDEN VALLEY 24

IV. CRAZY OLAF AND OTHERS 34

V. DANYUL AND HIS MOTHER 57

VI. ELIZABETH'S ROMANCE 81

VII. THE HUNT 95

VIII. THE SEVENTH MAN 109

IX. AN INDIAN CAMP 118

X. THE TOOTH-HUNTERS 124

XI. BUDDY AND BABY GIRL 130

XII. A STAMPEDE 143

XIII. NEARING HOME 156

XIV. THE MEMORY-BED 160

LETTERS ON AN ELK HUNT

By a Woman Homesteader

CONNIE WILLIS

BURNT FORK, WYO., July 8, 1914.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

Your letter of the 4th just to hand. How glad your letters make me;

how glad I am to have you to tell little things to.

I intended to write you as soon as I came back from Green River, to

tell you of a girl I saw there; but there was a heap to do and I kept

putting it off. I have described the desert so often that I am afraid

I will tire you, so I will leave that out and tell you that we arrived

in town rather late. The help at the hotel were having their supper in

the regular dining-room, as all the guests were out. They cheerfully

left their own meal to place ours on the table.

One of them interested me especially. She was a small person; I

couldn't decide whether she was a child or a woman. I kept thinking

her homely, and then when she spoke I forgot everything but the music

of her voice,--it was so restful, so rich and mellow in tone, and she

seemed so small for such a splendid voice. Somehow I kept expecting

her to squeak like a mouse, but every word she spoke charmed me.

Before the meal was over it came out that she was the dish-washer. All

the rest of the help had finished their work for the day, but she, of

course, had to wash what dishes we had been using.

The rest went their ways; and as our own tardiness had belated her, I

offered to help her to carry out the dishes. It was the work of only a

moment to dry them, so I did that. She was so small that she had to

stand on a box in order to be comfortable while she washed the cups

and plates.

"The sink and drain-board were made for real folks. I have to use this

box to stand on, or else the water runs back down my sleeves," she

told me.

My room was upstairs; she helped me up with the children. She said her

name was Connie Willis, that she was the only one of her "ma's first

man's" children; but ma married again after pa died and there were a

lot of the second batch. When the mother died she left a baby only a

few hours old. As Connie was older than the other children she took

charge of the household and of the tiny little baby.

I just wish you could have seen her face light up when she spoke of

little Lennie.

"Lennie is eight years old now, and she is just as smart as the

smartest and as pretty as a doll. All the Ford children are pretty,

and smart, too. I am the only homely child ma had. It would do you

good just to look at any of the rest, 'specially Lennie."

It certainly did me good to listen to Connie,--her brave patience was

so inspiring. As long as I was in town she came every day when her

work was finished to talk to me about Lennie. For herself she had no

ambition. Her clothes were clean, but they were odds and ends that had

served their day for other possessors; her shoes were not mates, and

one was larger than the other. She said: "I thought it was a streak

of luck when I found the cook always wore out her right shoe first

and the dining-room girl the left, because, you see, I could have

their old ones and that would save two dollars toward what I am saving

up for. But it wasn't so very lucky after all except for the fun,

because the cook wears low heels and has a much larger foot than the

dining-room girl, who wears high heels. But I chopped the long heel

off with the cleaver, and these shoes have saved me enough to buy

Lennie a pair of patent-leather slippers to wear on the Fourth of

July."

I thought that a foolish ambition, but succeeding conversations made

me ashamed of the thought.

I asked her if Lennie's father couldn't take care of her.

"Oh," she said, "Pa Ford is a good man. He has a good heart, but

there's so many of them that it is all he can do to rustle what must

be had. Why," she told me in a burst of confidence, "I've been saving

up for a tombstone for ma for twelve years, but I have to help pa once

in a while, and I sometimes think I never will get enough money saved.

It is kind of hard on three dollars a week, and then I'm kind of

extravagant at times. I have wanted a doll, a beautiful one, all my

days. Last Christmas I got it--for Lennie. And then I like to carry

out other folks' wishes sometimes. That is what I am fixing to do now.

Ma always wanted to see me dressed up real pretty just once, but we

were always too poor, and now I'm too old. But I can fix Lennie, and

this Fourth of July I am going to put all the beauty on her that ma

would have liked to see on me. They always celebrate that day at

Manila, Utah, where pa lives. I'll go out and take the things. Then

if ma is where she can see, she'll see _one_ of her girls dressed for

once."

"But aren't you mistaken when you say you have been saving for your

mother's tombstone for twelve years? She's only been dead eight."

"Why no, I'm not. You see, at first it wasn't a tombstone but a

marble-top dresser. Ma had always wanted one so badly; for she always

thought that housekeeping would be so much easier if she had just

one pretty thing to keep house toward. If I had not been so selfish,

she could have had the dresser before she died. I had fifteen

dollars,--enough to buy it,--but when I came to look in the catalogue

to choose one I found that for fifteen dollars more I could get a

whole set. I thought how proud ma would be of a new bedstead and

wash-stand, so I set in to earn that much more. But before I could get

that saved up ma just got tired of living, waiting, and doing without.

She never caused any trouble while she lived, and she died the same

way.

"They sent for me to come home from the place where I was at work. I

had just got home, and I was standing by the bed holding ma's hand,

when she smiled up at me; she handed me Lennie and then turned over

and sighed so contented. That was all there was to it. She was done

with hard times.

"Pa Ford wanted to buy her coffin on credit,--to go in debt for

it,--but I hated for ma to have to go on that way even after she was

dead; so I persuaded him to use what money he had to buy the coffin,

and I put in all I had, too. So the coffin she lies in is her own. We

don't owe for _that_. Then I stayed at home and kept house and cared

for Lennie until she was four years old. I have been washing dishes in

this hotel ever since."

That is Connie's story. After she told me, I went to the landlady and

suggested that we help a little with Lennie's finery; but she told me

to "keep out." "I doubt if Connie would accept any help from us, and

if she did, every cent we put in would take that much from her

pleasure. There have not been many happy days in her life, but the

Fourth of July will be one if we keep out." So I kept out.

I was delighted when Mrs. Pearson invited me to accompany her to

Manila to witness the bucking contest on the Fourth. Manila is a

pretty little town, situated in Lucerne Valley. All the houses in town

are the homes of ranchers, whose farms may be seen from any doorstep

in Manila. The valley lies between a high wall of red sandstone and

the "hogback,"--that is what the foothills are called. The wall of

sandstone is many miles in length. The valley presents a beautiful

picture as you go eastward; at this time of the year the alfalfa is so

green. Each farm joins another. Each has a cabin in which the rancher

lives while they irrigate and make hay. When that is finished they

move into their houses in "town." Beyond the hogback rise huge

mountains, rugged cañons, and noisy mountain streams; great forests of

pine help to make up the picture. Looking toward the east we could see

where mighty Green River cuts its way through walls of granite. The

road lies close up against the sandstone and cedar hills and along the

canal that carries the water to all the farms in the valley. I enjoyed

every moment. It was all so beautiful,--the red rock, the green

fields, the warm brown sand of the road and bare places, the mighty

mountains, the rugged cedars and sage-brush spicing the warm air, the

blue distance and the fleecy clouds. Oh, I wish I could paint it for

you! In the foreground there should be some cows being driven home by

a barefooted boy with a gun on his shoulder and a limp brown rabbit in

his hand. But I shall have to leave that to your imagination and move

on to the Fourth.

On that day every one turns out; even from the very farthest outlying

ranches they come, and every one dressed in his best. No matter what

privation is suffered all the rest of the time, on this day every one

is dressed to kill. Every one has a little money with which to buy

gaudy boxes of candy; every girl has a chew of gum. Among the children

friendship is proved by invitations to share lemons. They cordially

invite each other to "come get a suck o' my lemon." I just _love_ to

watch them. Old and young are alike; whatever may trouble them at

other times is forgotten, and every one dances, eats candy, sucks

lemons, laughs, and makes merry on the Fourth.

I didn't care much for their contests. I was busy watching the faces.

Soon I saw one I knew. Connie was making her way toward me. I wondered

how I could ever have thought her plain. Pride lighted every feature.

She led by the hand the most beautiful child I have ever seen. She is

a few weeks younger than Jerrine[1] but much smaller. She had such an

elusive beauty that I cannot describe it. One not acquainted with her

story might have thought her dress out of taste out among the sand

dunes and sage-brush in the hot sun, but I knew, and I felt the thrill

of sheer blue silk, dainty patent-leather slippers, and big blue hat

just loaded with pink rose-buds.

[Footnote 1: The author's daughter, aged eight.]

"This is my Lennie," said Connie proudly.

I saw all the Ford family before I left,--the weak-faced,

discouraged-looking father and the really beautiful girls. Connie was

neat in a pretty little dress, cheap but becoming, and her shoes were

mates. Lennie was the center of family pride. She represented all

their longings.

Before I left, Connie whispered to me that she would very soon have

money enough to pay for her mother's tombstone. "Then I will have had

everything I ever wanted. I guess I won't have anything else to live

for then; I guess I will have to get to wanting something for Lennie."

On our way home even the mosquito bites didn't annoy me; I was too

full of Connie's happiness. All my happiness lacked was your presence.

If I had had you beside me to share the joy and beauty, I could have

asked for nothing more. I kept saying, "How Mrs. Coney would enjoy

this!" All I can do is to kind of hash it over for you. I hope you

like hash.

With much love to you,

ELINORE.

THE START

IN CAMP ON THE DESERT,

August 24, 1914.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

At last we are off. I am powerfully glad. I shall have to enjoy this

trip for us both. You see how greedy I am for new experiences! I have

never been on a prolonged hunt before, so I am looking forward to a

heap of fun. I hardly know what to do about writing, but shall try to

write every two days. I want you to have as much of this trip as I can

put on paper, so we will begin at the start.

To begin with we were all to meet at Green River, to start the

twentieth; but a professor coming from somewhere in the East delayed

us a day, and also some of the party changed their plans; that reduced

our number but not our enthusiasm.

A few days before we left the ranch I telephoned Mrs. Louderer and

tried to persuade her to go along, but she replied, "For why should I

go? Vat? Iss it to freeze? I can sleep out on some rocks here and with

a stick I can beat the sage-bush, which will give me the smell you

will smell of the outside. And for the game I can have a beef kill

which iss better to eat as elk."

I love Mrs. Louderer dearly, but she is absolutely devoid of

imagination, and her matter-of-factness is mighty trying sometimes.

However, she sent me a bottle of goose-grease to ward off colds from

the "kinder."

I tried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, but she was plumb aggravating and

non-committal, and it seemed when we got to Green River that I would

be the only woman in the party. Besides, all the others were strangers

to me except young Mr. Haynes, who was organizing the hunt. Really the

prospect didn't seem so joyous.

The afternoon before we were to start I went with Mr. Stewart and Mr.

Haynes to meet the train. We were expecting the professor. But the

only passenger who got off was a slight, gray-eyed girl. She looked

about her uncertainly for a moment and then went into the depot while

we returned to the hotel. Just as I started up the steps my eyes were

gladdened by the sight of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy in her buckboard trotting

merrily up the street. She waved her hand to us and drove up. Clyde

took her team to the livery barn and she came up to my room with me.

"It's going with you I am," she began. "Ye'll need somebody to keep

yez straight and to sew up the holes ye'll be shooting into each

other."

After she had "tidied up a bit" we went down to supper. We were all

seated at one table, and there was yet an empty place; but soon the

girl we had seen get off the train came and seated herself in it.

"Can any of you tell me how to get to Kendall, Wyoming?" she asked.

I didn't know nor did Clyde, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knew, so she

answered. "Kendall is in the forest reserve up north. It is two

hundred miles from here and half of the distance is across desert, but

they have an automobile route as far as Pinedale; you could get that

far on the auto stage. After that I suppose you could get some one to

take you on."

"Thank you," said the girl. "My name is Elizabeth Hull. I am alone in

the world, and I am not expected at Kendall, so I am obliged to ask

and to take care of myself."

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy at once mentioned her own name and introduced the

rest of us. After supper Miss Hull and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had a long

talk. I was not much surprised when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came in to tell

me that she was going to take the girl along. "Because," she said,

"Kendall is on our way and it's glad I am to help a lone girl. Did you

notice the freckles of her? Sure her forbears hailed from Killarney."

So early next morning we were astir. We had outfitted in Green River,

so the wagons were already loaded. I had rather dreaded the professor.

I had pictured to myself a very dignified, bespectacled person, and

I mentally stood in awe of his great learning. Imagine my surprise

when a boyish, laughing young man introduced himself as Professor

Glenholdt. He was so jolly, so unaffected, and so altogether likable,

that my fear vanished and I enjoyed the prospect of his company. Mr.

Haynes and his friend Mr. Struble on their wagon led the way, then we

followed, and after us came Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and Miss Hull brought

up the rear, with the professor riding horseback beside first one

wagon and then another.

So we set out. There was a great jangling and banging, for our tin

camp-stoves kept the noise going. Neither the children nor I can ride

under cover on a wagon, we get so sick; so there we were, perched

high up on great rolls of bedding and a tent. I reckon we looked funny

to the "onlookers looking on" as we clattered down the street; but we

were off and that meant a heap.

All the morning our way lay up the beautiful river, past the great red

cliffs and through tiny green parks, but just before noon the road

wound itself up on to the mesa, which is really the beginning of the

desert. We crowded into the shadow of the wagons to eat our midday

meal; but we could not stop long, because it was twenty-eight miles to

where we could get water for the horses when we should camp that

night. So we wasted no time.

Shortly after noon we could see white clouds of alkali dust ahead. By

and by we came up with the dust-raisers. The children and I had got

into the buckboard with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Miss Hull, so as to

ride easier and be able to gossip, and we had driven ahead of the

wagons, so as to avoid the stinging dust.

The sun was just scorching when we overtook the funniest layout I have

seen since Cora Belle[2] drove up to our door the first time. In a

wobbly old buckboard sat a young couple completely engrossed by each

other. That he was a Westerner we knew by his cowboy hat and boots;

that she was an Easterner, by her not knowing how to dress for the

ride across the desert. She wore a foolish little chiffon hat which

the alkali dust had ruined, and all the rest of her clothes matched.

But over them the enterprising young man had raised one of those big

old sunshades that had lettering on them. It kept wobbling about in

the socket he had improvised; one minute we could see "Tea"; then a

rut in the road would swing "Coffee" around. Their sunshade kept

revolving about that way, and sometimes their heads revolved a little

bit, too. We could hear a word occasionally and knew they were having

a great deal of fun at our expense; but we were amused ourselves, so

we didn't care. They would drive along slowly until we almost reached

them; then they would whip up and raise such a dust that we were

almost choked.

[Footnote 2: The story of Cora Belle is told in _Letters of a Woman

Homesteader_.]

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy determined to drive ahead; so she trotted up

alongside, but she could not get ahead. The young people were

giggling. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy doesn't like to be the joke all the time.

Suddenly she leaned over toward them and said: "Will ye tell me

something?" Oh, yes, they would. "Then," she said, "which of you are

Tea and which Coffee?"

Their answer was to drive up faster and stir up a powerful lot of

dust. They kept pretty well ahead after that, but at sundown we came

up with them at the well where we were to camp. This well had been

sunk by the county for the convenience of travelers, and we were

mighty thankful to find it. It came out that our young couple were

bride and groom. They had never seen each other until the night

before, having met through a matrimonial paper. They had met in Green

River and were married that morning, and the young husband was taking

her away up to Pinedale to his ranch.

They must have been ideally happy, for they had forgotten their

mess-box, and had only a light lunch. They had only their lap-robe for

bedding. They were in a predicament; but the girl's chief concern was

lest "Honey-bug" should let the wolves get her. Though it is scorching

hot on the desert by day, the nights are keenly cool, and I was

wondering how they would manage with only their lap-robe, when Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy, who cannot hold malice, made a round of the camp,

getting a blanket here and a coat there, until she had enough to make

them comfortable. Then she invited them to take their meals with us

until they could get to where they could help themselves.

I think we all enjoyed camp that night, for we were all tired. We were

in a shallow little cañon,--not a tree, not even a bush except

sage-brush. Luckily, there was plenty of that, so we had roaring

fires. We sat around the fire talking as the blue shadows faded into

gray dusk and the big stars came out. The newly-weds were, as the

bride put it, "so full of happiness they had nothing to put it in."

Certainly their spirits overflowed. They were eager to talk of

themselves and we didn't mind listening.

They are Mr. and Mrs. Tom Burney. She is the oldest of a large family

of children and has had to "work out ever since she was big enough to

get a job." The people she had worked for rather frowned upon any

matrimonial ventures, and as no provision was made for "help"

entertaining company, she had never had a "beau." One day she got hold

of a matrimonial paper and saw Mr. Burney's ad. She answered and they

corresponded for several months. We were just in time to "catch it,"

as Mr. Haynes--who is a confirmed bachelor--disgustedly remarked.

Personally, I am glad; I like them much better than I thought I should

when they were raising so much dust so unnecessarily.

I must close this letter, as I see the men are about ready to

start. The children are standing the trip well, except that Robert

is a little sun-blistered. Did I tell you we left Junior with his

grandmother? Even though I have the other three, my heart is hungry

for my "big boy," who is only a baby, too. He is such a precious

little man. I wish you could see him!

With a heart very full of love for you,

E. R. S.

III

EDEN VALLEY

IN CAMP, August 28.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

We are almost across the desert, and I am really becoming interested.

The difficulties some folks work under are enough to make many of us

ashamed. In the very center of the desert is a little settlement

called Eden Valley. Imagination must have had a heap to do with its

name, but one thing is certain: the serpent will find the crawling

rather bad if he attempts to enter _this_ Eden, for the sand is hot;

the alkali and the cactus are there, so it must be a serpentless Eden.

The settlers have made a long canal and bring their water many miles.

They say the soil is splendid, and they don't have much stone; but it

is such a flat place! I wonder how they get the water to run when they

irrigate.

We saw many deserted homes. Hope's skeletons they are, with their

yawning doors and windows like eyeless sockets. Some of the houses,

which looked as if they were deserted, held families. We camped near

one such. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I went up to the house to buy some

eggs. A hopeless-looking woman came to the door. The hot winds and the

alkali dust had tanned her skin and bleached her hair; both were a

gray-brown. Her eyes were blue, but were so tired-looking that I could

hardly see for the tears.

"No," she said, "we ain't got no eggs. We ain't got no chickens. You

see this ground is sandy, and last year the wind blowed awful hard and

all the grain blowed out, so we didn't have no chance to raise

chickens. We had no feed and no money to buy feed, so we had to kill

our chickens to save their lives. We et 'em. They would have starved

anyway."

Then we tried for some vegetables. "Well," she said, "they ain't much

to look at; maybe you'll not want 'em. Our garden ain't much this

year. Pa has had to work out all the time. The kids and me put in some

seed--all we had--with a hoe. We ain't got no horse; our team died

last winter. We didn't have much feed and it was shore a hard winter.

We hated to see old Nick and Fanny die. They were just like ones of

the family. We drove 'em clean from Missouri, too. But they died, and

what hurt me most was, pa 'lowed it would be a turrible waste not to

skin 'em. I begged him not to. Land knows the pore old things was

entitled to their hides, they got so little else; but pa said it

didn't make no difference to them whether they had any hide or not,

and that the skins would sell for enough to get the kids some shoes.

And they did. A Jew junk man came through and give pa three dollars

for the two hides, and that paid for a pair each for Johnny and Eller.

"Pa hated as bad as we did to lose our faithful old friends, and all

the winter long we grieved, the kids and me. Every time the coyotes

yelped we knew they were gathering to gnaw poor old Nick and Fan's

bones. And pa, to keep from crying himself when the kids and me would

be sobbin', would scold us. 'My goodness,' he would say, 'the horses

are dead and they don't know nothin' about cold and hunger. They don't

know nothin' about sore shoulders and hard pulls now, so why don't you

shut up and let them and me rest in peace?' But that was only pa's way

of hidin' the tears.

"When spring came the kids and me gathered all the bones and hair we

could find of our good old team, and buried 'em where you see that

green spot. That's grass. We scooped all the trash out of the mangers,

and spread it over the grave, and the timothy and the redtop seed in

the trash came up and growed. I'd liked to have put some flowers

there, but we had no seed."

She wiped her face on her apron, and gathered an armful of cabbage;

it had not headed but was the best she had. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy seemed

possessed; she bought stuff she knew she would have to throw away, but

she didn't offer one word of sympathy. I felt plumb out of patience

with her, for usually she can say the most comforting things.

"Why don't you leave this place? Why not go away somewhere else, where

it will not be so hard to start?" I asked.

"Oh, 'cause pa's heart is just set on making a go of it here, and we

would be just as pore anywhere else. We have tried a heap of times to

start a home, and we've worked hard, but we were never so pore before.

We have been here three years and we can prove up soon; then maybe we

can go away and work somewhere, enough to get a team anyway. Pa has

already worked out his water-right,--he's got water for all his land

paid for, if we only had a team to plough with. But we'll get it. Pa's

been workin' all summer in the hay, and he ought to have a little

stake saved. Then the sheep-men will be bringin' in their herds

soon's frost comes and pa 'lows to get a job herdin'. Anyway, we got

to stick. We ain't got no way to get away and all we got is right

here. Every last dollar we had has went into improvin' this place. If

pore old hard-worked pa can stand it, the kids and me can. We ain't

seen pa for two months, not sence hayin' began, but we work all we can

to shorten the days; and we sure do miss pore old Nick and Fan."

We gathered up as much of the vegetables as we could carry. Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy paid, and we started homeward, promising to send for the

rest of the beets and potatoes. On the way we met two children, and

knew them at once for "Johnny and Eller." They had pails, and were

carrying water from the stream and pouring it on the green spot that

covered Nick and Fan. We promised them each a dime if they would bring

the vegetables we had left. Their little faces shone, and we had to

hurry all we could to get supper ready before they came; for we were

determined they should eat supper with us.

We told the men before the little tykes came. So Mr. Struble let

Johnny shoot his gun and both youngsters rode Chub and Antifat to

water. They were bright little folks and their outlook upon life is

not so flat and colorless as their mother's is. A day holds a world of

chance for them. They were saving their money, they told us, "to buy

some house plants for ma." Johnny had a dollar which a sheep-man had

given him for taking care of a sore-footed dog. Ella had a dime which

a man had given her for filling his water-bag. They both hoped to pull

wool off dead sheep and make some more money that way. They had quite

made up their minds about what they wanted to get: it must be house

plants for ma; but still they both wished they could get some little

thing for pa. They were not pert or forward in any way, but they

answered readily and we all drew them out, even the newly-weds.

After supper the men took their guns and went out to shoot sage-hens.

Johnny went with Mr. Haynes and Mr. Struble. Miss Hull walked back

with Ella, and we sent Mrs. Sanders a few cans of fruit. Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy and I washed the dishes. We were talking of the Sanders

family. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was disgusted with me because I wept.

"You think it is a soft heart you have, but it is only your head that

is soft. Of course they are having a hard time. What of it? The very

root of independence is hard times. That's the way America was

founded; that is why it stands so firmly. Hard times is what makes

sound characters. And them kids are getting a new hold on character

that was very near run to seed in the parents. Johnny will be

tax-assessor yet, I'll bet you, and you just watch that Eller. It

won't surprise me a bit to see her county superintendent of schools.

The parents most likely never would make anything; but having just

only a pa and a ma and getting the very hard licks them kids are

getting now, is what is going to make them something more than a pa

and a ma."

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is very wise, but sometimes she seems absolutely

heartless.

The men didn't bring back much game; each had left a share with Mrs.

Sanders.

Next morning we were astir early. We pulled out of camp just as the

first level rays of the sun shot across the desolate, flat country. We

crossed the flat little stream with its soft sandy banks. A willow

here and there along the bank and the blue, distant mountains and some

lonesome buttes were all there was to break the monotony. Yet we saw

some prosperous-looking places with many haystacks. I looked back once

toward the Sanders cabin. The blue smoke was just beginning to curl

upward from the stove pipe. The green spot looked vividly green

against the dim prospect. Poor pa and poor ma! Even if they could be

_nothing_ more, I wish at least that they need not have given up Nick

and Fan!

Mr. Haynes told us at breakfast that we would camp only one more night

on the desert. I am so glad of that. The newly-weds will leave us in

two more days. I'm rather sorry; they are much nicer than I thought

they would be. They have invited us to stay with them on our way back.

Well, I must stop. I wish I could put some of this clean morning air

inside your apartments.

With much love,

E. R. S.

CRAZY OLAF AND OTHERS

IN CAMP, August 31, 1914.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

We are across the desert, and camped for a few days' fishing on a

shady, bowery little stream. We have had two frosty nights and there

are trembling golden groves on every hand. Four men joined us at

Newfork, and the bachelors have gone on; but Mr. Stewart wanted to

rest the "beasties" and we all wanted to fish, so we camped for a day

or two.

The twenty-eighth was the warmest day we have had, the most

disagreeable in every way. Not a breath of air stirred except an

occasional whirlwind, which was hot and threw sand and dust over us.

We could see the heat glimmering, and not a tree nor a green spot. The

mountains looked no nearer. I am afraid we _all_ rather wished we

were at home. Water was getting very scarce, so the men wanted to

reach by noon a long, low valley they knew of; for sometimes water

could be found in a buried river-bed there, and they hoped to find

enough for the horses. But a little after noon we came to the spot,

and only dry, glistening sand met our eyes. The men emptied the

water-bags for the horses; they all had a little water. We had to be

saving, so none of us washed our dust-grimed faces.

We were sitting in the scant shadow of the wagons eating our dinner

when we were startled to see a tall, bare-headed man come racing

down the draw. His clothes and shoes were in tatters; there were

great blisters on his arms and shoulders where the sun had burned

him; his eyes were swollen and red, and his lips were cracked and

bloody. His hair was so white and so dusty that altogether he was a

pitiful-looking object. He greeted us pleasantly, and said that his

name was Olaf Swanson and that he was a sheep-herder; that he had

seen us and had come to ask for a little smoking. By that he meant

tobacco.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was eyeing him very closely. She asked him when he

had eaten. That morning, he said. She asked him _what_ he had eaten;

he told her cactus balls and a little rabbit. I saw her exchange

glances with Professor Glenholdt, and she left her dinner to get out

her war-bag.

She called Olaf aside and gently dressed his blisters with listerine;

after she had helped him to clean his mouth she said to him, "Now,

Olaf, sit by me and eat; show me how much you can eat. Then tell me

what you mean by saying you are a sheep-herder; don't you think we

know there will be no sheep on the desert before there is snow to make

water for them?"

"I am what I say I am," he said. "I am not herding now because sorrow

has drove me to dig wells. It is sorrow for horses. Have you not seen

their bones every mile or so along this road? Them's markers. Every

pile of bones marks where man's most faithful friend has laid down at

last: most of 'em died in the harness and for want of water.

"I killed a horse once. I was trying to have a good time. I had been

out with sheep for months and hadn't seen any one but my pardner. We

planned to have a rippin' good time when we took the sheep in off the

summer range and drew our pay. You don't know how people-hungry a man

gets livin' out. So my pardner and me layed out to have one spree. We

had a neat little bunch of money, but when we got to town we felt lost

as sheep. We didn't know nobody but the bartender. We kept taking a

drink now and then just so as to have him to talk to. Finally, he told

us there was going to be a dance that night, so we asked around and

found we could get tickets for two dollars each. Sam said he'd like to

go. We bought tickets.

"Somehow or another they knew us for sheep-herders, and every once in

a while somebody would _baa-baa_ at us. We had a couple of dances, but

after that we couldn't get a pardner. After midnight things begun to

get pretty noisy. Sam and me was settin' wonderin' if we were havin' a

good time, when a fellow stepped on Sam's foot and said _baa_. I rose

up and was goin' to smash him, but Sam collared me and said, 'Let's

get away from here, Olaf, before trouble breaks out.' It sounded as if

every man in the house and some of the women were _baa_-ing.

"We were pretty near the door when a man put his hand to his nose and

_baa_-ed. I knocked him down, and before you could bat your eye

everybody was fightin'. We couldn't get out, so we backed into a

corner; and every man my fist hit rested on the floor till somebody

helped him away. A fellow hit me on the head with a chair and I didn't

know how I finished or got out.

"The first thing I remember after that was feeling the greasewood

thorns tearing my flesh and my clothes next day. We were away out on

the desert not far from North Pilot butte. Poor Sam couldn't speak. I

got him off poor old Pinto, and took off the saddle for a pillow for

him. I hung the saddle-blanket on a greasewood so as to shade his

face; then I got on my own poor horse, poor old Billy, and started to

hunt help. I rode and rode. I was tryin' to find some outfit. When

Billy lagged I beat him on. You see, I was thinking of Sam. After a

while the horse staggered,--stepped into a badger hole, I thought. But

he kept staggerin'. I fell off on one side just as he pitched forward.

He tried and tried to get up. I stayed till he died; then I kept

walking. I don't know what became of Sam; I don't know what became of

me; but I do know I am going to dig wells all over this desert until

every thirsty horse can have water."

All the time he had been eating just pickles; when he finished his

story he ate faster. By now we all knew he was demented. The men tried

to coax him to go on with us so that they could turn him over to the

authorities, but he said he must be digging. At last it was decided to

send some one back for him. Mr. Struble was unwilling to leave him,

but the man would not be persuaded. Suddenly he gathered up his

"smoking" and some food and ran back up the draw. We had to go on, of

course.

All that afternoon our road lay along the buried river. I don't mean

dry river. Sand had blown into the river until the water was buried.

Water was only a few feet down, and the banks were clearly defined.

Sometimes we came to a small, dirty puddle, but it was so alkaline

that nothing could drink it. The story we had heard had saddened us

all, and we were sorry for our horses. Poor little Elizabeth Hull

wept. She said the West was so big and bare, and she was so alone and

so sad, she just _had_ to cry.

About sundown we came to a ranch and were made welcome by one Timothy

Hobbs, owner of the place. The dwelling and the stables were a

collection of low brown houses, made of logs and daubed with mud.

Fields of shocked grain made a very prosperous-looking background. A

belled cow led a bunch of sleek cattle home over the sand dunes. A

well in the yard afforded plenty of clear, cold water, which was

raised by a windmill. The cattle came and drank at the trough, the

bell making a pleasant sound in the twilight.

The men told Mr. Hobbs about the man we saw. "Oh, yes," he said, "that

is Crazy Olaf. He has been that way for twenty years. Spends his time

digging wells, but he never gets any water, and the sand caves in

almost as fast as he can get it out." Then he launched upon a recital

of how he got sweet water by piping past the alkali strata. I kept

hoping he would tell how Olaf was kept and who was responsible for

him, but he never told.

He invited us to prepare our supper in his kitchen, and as it was late

and wood was scarce, we were glad to accept. He bustled about helping

us, adding such dainties as fresh milk, butter, and eggs to our menu.

He is a rather stout little man, with merry gray eyes and brown hair

beginning to gray. He wore a red shirt and blue overalls, and he wiped

his butcher's knife impartially on the legs of his overalls or his

towel,--just whichever was handiest as he hurried about cutting our

bacon and opening cans for us.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and he got on famously. After supper, while she and

Elizabeth washed the dishes, she asked him why he didn't get married

and have some one to look after him and his cabin.

"I don't have time," he answered. "I came West eighteen years ago to

make a start and a home for Jennie and me, but I can't find time to go

back and get her. In the summer I have to hustle to make the hay and

grain, and I have to stay and feed the stock all the rest of the

time."

"You write her once in a while, don't you?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.

"Yes," he said, "I wrote her two years ago come April; then I was so

busy I didn't go to town till I went for my year's supplies. I went to

the post office, and sure enough there was a letter for me,--been

waitin' for me for six months. You see the postmaster knows me and

never would send a letter back. I set down there right in the office

and answered it. I told her how it was, told her I was coming after

her soon as I could find time. You see, she refuses to come to me

'cause I am so far from the railroad, and she is afraid of Indians and

wild animals."

"Have you got your answer?" asked Elizabeth.

"No," he said, "I ain't had time yet to go, but I kind of wish

somebody would think to bring the mail. Not many people pass here,

only when the open season takes hunters to the mountains. When you

people come back will you stop and ask for the mail for me?"

We promised.

In the purple and amber light of a new day we were about, and soon

were on the road. By nightfall we had bidden the desert a glad

farewell, and had camped on a large stream among trees. How glad we

were to see so much water and such big cottonwoods! Mr. and Mrs.

Burney were within a day's drive of home, so they left us. This camp

is at Newfork, and our party has four new members: a doctor, a

moving-picture man, and two geological fellows. They have gone on, but

we will join them soon.

Just across the creek from us is the cabin of a new settler. Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy and I slept together last night,--only we couldn't sleep

for the continual, whining cry of a sick baby at the cabin. So after a

while we rose and dressed and crossed over to see if we could be of

any help. We found a woefully distressed young couple. Their first

child, about a year old, was very sick. They didn't know what to do

for it; and she was afraid to stay alone while he went for help.

They were powerfully glad to see us, and the young father left at

once to get Grandma Mortimer, a neighborhood godsend such as most

Western communities have one of. We busied ourselves relieving the

young mother as much as we could. She wouldn't leave the baby and lie

down. The child is teething and had convulsions. We put it into a hot

bath and held the convulsions in check until Mrs. Mortimer came. She

bustled in and took hold in a way to insure confidence. She had not

been there long before she had both parents in bed, "saving themselves

for to-morrow," and was gently rubbing the hot little body of the

baby. She kept giving it warm tea she had made of herbs, until soon

the threatening jerks were over, the peevish whining ceased, and the

child slept peacefully on Grandma's lap. I watched her, fascinated.

There was never a bit of faltering, no indecision; everything she did

seemed exactly what she ought to do.

"How did you learn it all?" I asked her. "How can you know just what

to do, and then have the courage to do it? I should be afraid of

doing the wrong thing."

"Why," she said, "that is easy. Just do the very best you can and

trust God for the rest. After all, it is God who saves the baby, not

us and not our efforts; but we can help. He lets us do that. Lots of

times the good we do goes beyond any medicine. Never be afraid to

_help_ your best. I have been doing that for forty years and I am

going to keep it up till I die."

Then she told us story after story--told us how her different

ambitions had "boosted" her along, had made her swim when she just

wanted to float. "I was married when I was sixteen, and of course, my

first ambition was to own a home for Dave. My man was poor. He had a

horse, and his folks gave him another. My father gave me a heifer, and

mother fitted me out with a bed. That was counted a pretty good start

then, but we would have married even if we hadn't had one thing. Being

young we were over-hopeful. We both took to work like a duck to

water. Some years it looked as if we were going to see every dream

come true. Another time and we would be poorer than at first. One year

the hail destroyed everything; another time the flood carried away all

we had.

"When little Dave was eleven years old, he had learned to plough.

Every one of us was working to our limit that year. I ploughed and

hoed, both, and big Dave really hardly took time to sleep. You see,

his idea was that we must do better by our children than we had been

done by, and Fanny, our eldest, was thirteen. Big Dave thought all

girls married at sixteen because his mother did, and so did I; so that

spring he said, 'In just three years Fanny will be leaving us and we

_must_ do right by her. I wanted powerfully bad that _you_ should have

a blue silk wedding dress, mother, but of course it couldn't be had,

and you looked as pretty as a rose in your pink lawn. But I've always

wanted you to have a blue silk. As you can't have it, let us get it

for Fanny; and of course we must have everything else according.' And

so we worked mighty hard.

"Little Dave begged to be allowed to plough. Every other boy in the

neighborhood did,--some of them younger than he,--but somehow I didn't

want him to. One of our neighbors had been sick a lot that year and

his crops were about ruined. It was laying-by time and we had finished

laying by our crops--all but about half a day's ploughing in the corn.

That morning at breakfast, big Dave said he would take the horses and

go over to Henry Boles's and plough that day to help out,--said he

could finish ours any time, and it didn't matter much if it didn't get

ploughed. He told the children to lay off that day and go fishing and

berrying. So he went to harness his team, and little Dave went to help

him. Fanny and I went to milk, and all the time I could hear little

Dave begging his father to let him finish the ploughing. His father

said he could if I said so.

"I will never forget his eager little face as he began on me. He had a

heap of freckles; I remember noticing them that morning; he was

barefooted, and I remember that one toe was skinned. Big Dave was

lighting his pipe, and till to-day I remember how he looked as he held

the match to his pipe, drew a puff of smoke, and said, 'Say yes,

mother.' So I said yes, and little Dave ran to open the gate for his

father.

"As big Dave rode through the gate, our boy caught him by the leg and

said, 'I just _love_ you, daddy.' Big Dave bent down and kissed him,

and said, 'You're a _man_, son.' How proud that made the little

fellow! Parents should praise their children more; the little things

work hard for a few words of praise, and many of them never get their

pay.

"Well, the little fellow would have no help to harness his mule; so

Fanny and I went to the house, and Fanny said, 'We ought to cook an

extra good dinner to celebrate Davie's first ploughing. I'll go down

in the pasture and gather some blackberries if you will make a

cobbler.'

"She was gone all morning. About ten o'clock, I took a pail of fresh

water down to the field. I knew Davie would be thirsty, and I was

uneasy about him, but he was all right. He pushed his ragged old hat

back and wiped the sweat from his brow just as his father would have

done. I petted him a little, but he was so mannish he didn't want me

to pet him any more. After he drank, he took up his lines again, and

said, 'Just watch me, mother; see how I can plough.' I told him that

we were going to have chicken and dumplings for dinner, and that he

must sit in his father's place and help us to berry-cobbler. As he had

only a few more rows to plough, I went back, telling myself how

foolish I had been to be afraid.

"Twelve o'clock came, but not Davie. I sent Fanny to the spring for

the buttermilk and waited a while, thinking little Dave had not

finished as soon as he had expected. I went to the field. Little Dave

lay on his face in the furrow. I gathered him up in my arms; he was

yet alive; he put one weak little arm around my neck, and said, 'Oh,

mammy, I'm hurt. The mule kicked me in the stomach.'

"I don't know how I got to the house with him; I stumbled over clods

and weeds, through the hot sunshine. I sank down on the porch in the

shade, with the precious little form clasped tightly to me. He smiled,

and tried to speak, but the blood gurgled up into his throat and my

little boy was gone.

"I would have died of grief if I hadn't had to work so hard. Big Dave

got too warm at work that day, and when Fanny went for him and told

him about little Dave, he ran all the way home; he was crazy with

grief and forgot the horses. The trouble and the heat and the overwork

brought on a fever. I had no time for tears for three months, and by

that time my heart was hardened against my Maker. I got deeper in the

rut of work, but I had given up my ambition for a home of my own; all

I wanted to do was to work so hard that I could not think of the

little grave on which the leaves were falling. I wanted, too, to save

enough money to mark the precious spot, and then I wanted to leave.

But first one thing and then another took every dollar we made for

three years.

"One morning big Dave looked so worn out and pale that I said, 'I am

going to get out of here; I am not going to stay here and bury _you_,

Dave. Sunrise to-morrow will see us on the road West. We have worked

for eighteen years as hard as we knew how, and have given up my boy

besides; and now we can't even afford to mark his grave decently. It

is time we left.'

"Big Dave went back to bed, and I went out and sold what we had. It

was so little that it didn't take long to sell it. That was years ago.

We came West. The country was really wild then; there was a great

deal of lawlessness. We didn't get settled down for several years; we

hired to a man who had a contract to put up hay for the government,

and we worked for him for a long time.