not anticipate, and so I will begin at the beginning. On the morning
of the eighth we held a council. The physician and the two students
had gone. All had their limit of elk except Mr. Haynes and myself. Our
licenses also entitled each of us to a deer, a mountain sheep, and a
bear. We had plenty of food, but it had snowed about a foot and I was
beginning to want to get out while the going was good. Two other
outfits had gone out. The doctor and the students hired them to haul
out their game. So we decided to stay on a week longer.
That morning Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I melted snow and washed the
clothes. It was delightful to have nice soft water, and we enjoyed our
work; it was almost noon before we thought to begin dinner. I suppose
you would say lunch, but with us it is dinner. None of the men had
gone out that day.
Mr. Harkrudder was busy with his films and didn't come with the rest
when dinner was ready. When he did come, he was excited; he laid a
picture on the table and said, "Do any of you recognize this?"
It looked like a flash-light of our camping ground. It was a little
blurry, but some of the objects were quite clear. Our tent was a white
blotch except for the outlines; the wagons showed plainly. I didn't
think much of it as a picture, so I paid scant attention. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy gave it close scrutiny; presently she said, "Oh, yis, I
see what it is. It's a puzzle picture and ye find the man. Here he is,
hidin' beyont the pine next the tent."
"Exactly," said Harkrudder, "but I had not expected just this. I am
working out some ideas of my own in photography, and this picture is
one of the experiments I tried the night of the storm. The result
doesn't prove my experiment either way. Where were you, Stewart,
during the storm?"
"Where should I be? I bided i' the bed," the Stewart said.
"Well," said Harkrudder, "I know where each of the other fellows was,
and none of them was in this direction. Now who is the seventh man?"
I looked again, and, sure enough, there was a man in a crouching
position outlined against the tent wall. We were all excited, for it
was ten minutes past one when Harkrudder was out, and we couldn't
think why any one would be prowling about our camp at that time of the
night.
As Mr. Stewart and I had planned a long, beautiful ride, we set
out after dinner, leaving the rest yet at the table eating and
conjecturing about the "stranger within our picture." I had hoped we
would come to ground level enough for a sharp, invigorating canter,
but our way was too rough. It was a joy to be out in the great, silent
forest. The snow made riding a little venturesome because the horses
slipped a great deal, but Chub is dependable even though he is lazy.
Clyde bestrode Mr. Haynes's Old Blue. We were headed for the cascades
on Clear Creek, to see the wonderful ice-caverns that the flying spray
is forming.
We had almost reached the cascades and were crossing a little
bowl-like valley, when an elk calf leaped out of the snow and ran a
few yards. It paused and finally came irresolutely back toward us. A
few steps farther we saw great, red splotches on the snow and the body
of a cow elk. Around it were the tracks of the faithful little calf.
It would stay by its mother until starvation or wild animals put an
end to its suffering. The cow was shot in half a dozen places, none of
them in a fatal spot; it had bled to death. "That," said Mr. Stewart
angrily, "comes o' bunch shooting. The authorities should revoke the
license of a man found guilty of bunch shooting."
We rode on in silence, each a little saddened by what we had seen. But
this was not all. We had begun to descend the mountain side to Clear
Creek when we came upon the beaten trail of a herd of elk. We followed
it as offering perhaps the safest descent. It didn't take us far.
Around the spur of the mountain the herd had stampeded; tracks were
everywhere. Lying in the trail were a spike and an old bull with a
broken antler. Chub shied, but Old Blue doesn't scare, so Mr. Stewart
rode up quite close. Around the heads were tell-tale tracks. We didn't
dismount, but we knew that the two upper teeth or tushes were missing
and that the hated tooth-hunter was at work. The tracks in the snow
showed there had been two men. An adult elk averages five hundred
pounds of splendid meat; here before us, therefore, lay a thousand
pounds of food thrown to waste just to enable a contemptible
tooth-hunter to obtain four teeth. Tooth-hunting is against the law,
but this is a case where you must catch before hanging.
Well, we saw the cascades, and after resting a little, we started
homeward through the heavy woods, where we were compelled to go more
slowly. We had dismounted, and were gathering some piñon cones from a
fallen tree, when, almost without a sound, a band of elk came trailing
down a little draw where a spring trickled. We watched them file
along, evidently making for lower ground on which to bed. Chub
snorted, and a large cow stopped and looked curiously in our
direction. Those behind passed leisurely around her. We knew she had
no calf, because she was light in color: cows suckling calves are of a
darker shade. A loud report seemed to rend the forest, and the beauty
dropped. The rest disappeared so suddenly that if the fine specimen
that lay before me had not been proof, it would almost have seemed a
dream. I had shot the cow elk my license called for.
We took off the head and removed the entrails, then covered our game
with pine boughs, to which we tied a red bandanna so as to make it
easy to find next day, when the men would come back with a saw to
divide it down the back and pack it in. There is an imposing row of
game hanging in the pines back of our tent. Supper was ready when we
got in. Mr. Haynes had been out also and was very joyful; he got his
elk this afternoon. We can start home day after to-morrow. It will
take the men all to-morrow to get in the game.
I shall be glad to start. I am getting homesick, and I have not had a
letter or even a card since I have been here. We are hungry for war
news, and besides, it is snowing again. Our clothes didn't get dry
either; they are frozen to the bush we hung them on. Perhaps they will
be snowed under by morning. I can't complain, though, for it is warm
and pleasant in our tent. The little camp-stove is glowing. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy is showing Jerrine how to make pigs of potatoes. Calvin
and Robert are asleep. The men have all gone to the bachelors' tent to
form their plans, all save Mr. Murry, who is "serenading" Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy. He is playing "Nelly Gray," and somehow I don't want to
laugh at him as I usually do; I can only feel sorry for him.
I can hardly write because my heart is yearning for my little Junior
boy at home on the ranch with his grandmother. Dear little Mother
Stewart, I feel very tender toward her. Junior is the pride of her
heart. She would not allow us to bring him on this trip, so she is at
the ranch taking care of my brown-eyed boy. Every one is so good, so
kind, and I can do so little to repay. It makes me feel very unworthy.
You'll think I have the blues, but I haven't. I just feel humble and
chastened. When Mr. Murry pauses I can hear the soft spat, spat of the
falling snow on the tent. I will be powerfully glad when we set our
faces homeward.
Good-night, dear friend. Angels guard you.
ELINORE STEWART.
IX
AN INDIAN CAMP
CLOUDCREST, October 13, 1914.
DEAR, DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
This is the very last letter you will receive dated from this camp. We
are leaving a few days earlier than we intended and I am pretty badly
on the fence. I want to laugh, and really I can hardly keep back the
tears. We are leaving sooner than we meant, for rather a good reason.
We haven't one bite to eat except elk meat.
After the men had brought into camp the elk we killed the other
afternoon, they began to plan a sheep hunt. As sheep do not stay in
the woods, the men had to go miles away and above timber line. They
decided to take a pack horse and stay all night. I didn't want Mr.
Stewart to go because the climbing is very dangerous. No accidents
have happened this year, but last season a man fell from the crags
and was killed; so I tried to keep the "good mon" at home. But he
would not be persuaded. The love of chase has entered his blood, and
it looks to me as if it had chased reason plumb out of his head. I
know exactly how Samantha felt when Josiah _would_ go to the "pleasure
exertion." The bald spot on the Stewart's head doesn't seem to remind
him of years gone by; he is as joyous as a boy.
It was finally decided to take Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the children and
myself to a neighboring camp about two miles away, as we didn't like
to risk being frightened by a possible intruder. Sorenson, the
game-warden, was in camp to inspect our game on the 12th, and he told
us he was on the trail of tooth-hunters and had routed them out on the
night of the storm; but what they could have been doing in our camp
was as much a mystery to him as to us.
Well, when we were ready to go, Mr. Murry and the Stewart escorted
us. It was a cloudy afternoon and often great flakes of snow fell
gently, softly. The snow was already about eighteen inches deep, and
it made sheep hunting slippery and dangerous work. On our way we came
upon an Indian camp. They were all huddled about a tiny fire;
scattered about were their wikiups made of sticks and pine boughs. The
Indians were sullen and angry. The game-warden had ordered them back
to Fort Washakie, where they belonged. Their squaws had jerked their
elk. You may not know what jerked means, so I will explain: it means
dried, cured. They had all they were allowed, but for some reason they
didn't want to go. Sorenson suspects them of being in with the
tooth-hunters and he is narrowing the circle.
At the camp where we were to stay, we found Mrs. Kavanaugh laid up
with a sore throat, but she made us welcome. It would be a mighty
funny camper who wouldn't. As soon as the men from the Kavanaugh camp
heard our men's plans, they were eager to go along. So it ended in us
three women being left alone. We said we were not afraid and we tried
not to feel so, but after dark we all felt a little timorous. Mrs.
Kavanaugh was afraid of the Indians, but I was afraid they would bring
Clyde back dead from a fall. We were camped in an old cabin built by
the ranger. The Kavanaughs were short of groceries. We cooked our big
elk steaks on sticks before an open fire, and we roasted potatoes in
the ashes. When our fear wore away, we had a fine time. After a while
we lay down on fragrant beds of pine.
We awoke late. The fire was dead upon the hearth and outside the snow
was piling up. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made a rousing fire and managed to
jolly us until we had a really happy breakfast hour. About three in
the afternoon all the men came trooping in, cold, wet, and hungry.
After filling them with venison, hot potatoes, and coffee, we started
to our own camp. The men were rather depressed because they had come
back empty-handed. The Indians were gone and the snow lay thick over
the place where their fire had been; they had left in the night.
When we came to camp, Mr. Struble started to build a fire; but no
matches were to be had. Next, the men went to feed grain to their
tired horses, but the oats were gone. Mr. Murry sought in vain for his
beloved accordion. Mr. Harkrudder was furious when he found his
grinding machine was gone. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made a dash for the
grub-box. It was empty. We were dumbfounded. Each of us kept searching
and researching and knowing all the while we would find nothing. Mr.
Struble is a most cheerful individual, and, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
says, "is a mighty good fellow even if he _is_ Dutch." "The Indians
have stolen us out," he said, "but after all they have left us our
tents and harness, all our meat, and the road home; so what matter if
we _are_ a little inconvenienced as to grub? Haynes may cry for sugar,
but that won't hurt the rest any. I'll saddle and ride over to
Scotty's and get enough to last us out."
We knew the Kavanaughs could not help us any, but we grew cheerful in
anticipating help from Scotty, who was from Green River and was camped
a few miles away. We wanted Mr. Struble to wait until morning, but he
said no, it would make breakfast late; so he rode off in the dark. At
two o'clock this morning he came in almost frozen, with two small cans
of milk and two yeast cakes. As soon as it was light enough to see,
the men were at work loading the game and breaking camp. As they are
ready now to take down this tent, I will have to finish this letter
somewhere else.
X
THE TOOTH-HUNTERS
AT SORENSON'S CABIN
ON GREEN RIVER.
Well, we're here, warmed and fed and in much better trim bodily and
mentally. We had mishap after mishap coming. First the Hutton horse,
being a bronco, had to act up when he was hitched up. We had almost
more game than we could haul, but at last we got started, after the
bronco had reared and pitched as much as he wanted to. There are a
great many springs,--one every few feet in these mountains,--and the
snow hid the pitfalls and made the ground soft, so that the wheels cut
in and pulling was hard. Then, too, our horses had had nothing to eat
for two days, the snow being so deep they couldn't get at the grass,
hobbled as they were.
We had got perhaps a mile from camp when the leading wagon, with four
horses driven by Mr. Haynes, suddenly stopped. The wheels had sunk
into the soft banks of a small, ditch-like spring branch. Mr. Stewart
had to stay on our wagon to hold the bronco, but all the rest, even
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, gathered around and tried to help. They hitched on
a snap team, but not a trace tightened. They didn't want to unload the
game in the snow. The men lifted and pried on the wheels. Still the
horses wouldn't budge.
Mr. Haynes is no disciple of Job, but he tried manfully to restrain
himself. Turning to Glenholdt, who was offering advice, he said, "You
get out. I know what the trouble is: these horses used to belong to a
freighter and are used to being cussed. It's the greatest nuisance in
the world for a man to go out where there's a bunch of women. If these
women weren't along I'd make these horses get out of there."
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Don't lay your poor driving to the women. If
you drive by cussin', then _cuss_. We will stop up our ears."
She threw her apron over her head. I held my fingers in Jerrine's
ears, and she stopped my ears, else I might be able to tell you what
he said. It was something violent, I know. I could tell by the
expression of his face. He had only been doing it a second when those
horses walked right out with the wagon as nicely as you please. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy said to Mr. Haynes, "It's a poor cusser you are. Sure,
it's no wonder you hesitated to begin. If Danny O'Shaughnessy couldn't
have sworn better, I'd have had to hilp him."
We got along pretty well after that. Mr. Haynes kept some distance
ahead; but occasionally a bit of "cussin'" came back to us and we knew
he was using freighter tactics.
The game-warden lives in a tiny little cabin. The door is so low that
I had to stoop to get in. It was quite dark when we got here last
night, but Mrs. Sorenson acted as if she was _glad_ to see us. I
didn't think we could all get in. A row of bunks is built along one
side of the cabin. A long tarpaulin covers the bed, and we all got
upon this and sat while our hostess prepared our supper. If one of us
had stirred we would have been in her way; so there we sat as thick as
thieves. When supper was ready six got off their perch and ate; when
they were through, six more were made happy.
Mr. Sorenson had caught the tooth-hunters. On the wall hung their
deadly guns, with silencers on them to muffle the report. He showed us
the teeth he had found in their possession. The warden and his deputy
had searched the men and their effects and found no teeth. He had no
evidence against them except their unlawful guns, but he knew he had
the right men. At last he found their contract to furnish two hundred
pair of teeth. It is a trick of such hunters to thrust a knife into
the meat of the game they have, and so to make pockets in which they
hide the teeth; but these fellows had no such pockets. They jeered at
the warden and threatened to kill him, but he kept searching, and
presently found the teeth in a pail of lard. He told us all about it
as we sat, an eager crowd, on his bed. A warden takes his life in his
hands when he goes after such fellows, but Sorenson is not afraid to
do it.
The cabin walls are covered with pen-and-ink drawings, the work of the
warden's gifted children,--Vina, the pretty eighteen-year-old
daughter, and Laurence, the sixteen-year-old son. They never had a
lesson in drawing in their lives, but their pictures portray Western
life exactly.
The snow is not so deep here as it was at camp, but it is too deep for
the horses to get grass. The men were able to get a little grain from
the warden; so we will pull out in the morning and try to make it to
where we can get groceries. We are quite close to where Elizabeth
lives, but we should have to cross the river, and it was dark before
we passed her home. I should like to see her but won't get a chance
to. Mrs. Sorenson says she is very happy. In all this round of
exposure the kiddies are as well as can be. Cold, camping, and elk
meat agree with them. We are in a tent for the night, and it is so
cold the ink is freezing, but the kiddies are snuggled under their
blankets as warm as toast. We are to start early in the morning.
Good-night, dear friend. I am glad I can take this trip _for_ you.
You'd freeze.
ELINORE STEWART.
XI
BUDDY AND BABY GIRL
IN CAMP, October 16, 1914.
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
The day we left the game-warden's was damp and lowering. It didn't
seem it could have one good thing to its credit, but there were
several things to be thankful for. One of them was that you were safe
at home in your warm, dry apartment. We had hardly passed the great
Block buttes when the biggest, wettest flakes of snow began to pelt
into our faces. I really like a storm, and the kiddies would have
enjoyed the snow; but we had to keep the wagon-sheet tied down to keep
the bedding dry, and the kiddies get sick under cover. All the
pleasure I might have had was taken away by the fact that we were
making a forced drive. We _had_ to go. The game-warden had no more
than enough food for his family, and no horse feed. Also, the snow
was almost as deep there as it had been higher up, so the horses could
not graze.
We made it to Cora that day. Here at last was plenty of hay and grain;
we restocked our mess-boxes and felt better toward the world. Next day
we came on here to Newfork, where we are resting our teams before we
start across the desert, which begins just across the creek we are
camped on.
We have added two to our party. I know you will be interested to know
how it happened, and I can picture the astonishment of our neighbors
when we reach home, for our newcomers are to be members of Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy's family. We had all been sorry we could not visit
Elizabeth or "Danyul" and his mother. We felt almost as if we were
sneaking past them, but we consoled ourselves with promises to see the
Burneys and Grandma Mortimer. Yesterday the children and I were riding
with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy in the buckboard. We were trotting merrily
along the lane that leads to Newfork, thankful in our hearts to be out
of the snow,--for there is no snow here. Just ahead of us two little
boys were riding along on their ponies. There was a wire fence on both
sides of the lane, and almost at the end of the lane an old cow had
her head between the wires and was nibbling the tall dead grass. The
larger of the two boys said, "That's old Pendry's cow, and she shan't
eat a blade of grass off Dad's meadow."
He rode up to the cow and began beating her with his quirt. That
frightened the cow, and as she jerked her head up, the top wire caught
her across the top of her neck; she jerked and lunged to free herself,
and was cruelly cut by the barbs on the wire. Then he began beating
his pony.
The small boy said, "You're a coward an' a fool, Billy Polk. The cow
wasn't hurtin' nothin', an' you're just tryin' to show off, beatin'
that pony."
Said the other boy, "Shut up, you beggar, or I'll beat you; an' I'll
take them breeches you got on off you, an' you can go without
any--they're mine. My ma give 'em to you."
The little fellow's face was scarlet--as much of it as we could see
for the freckles--and his eyes were blazing as he replied, "You ain't
man enough. I dare you to strike me or to tech my clothes."
Both boys were riding bareback. The small boy slid off his pony's
back; the other rode up to him and raised his quirt, but the little
one seized him by the leg, and in a jiffy they were in the road
fighting like cats. I asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy to drive on, but she
said, "If you are in a hurry you can try walkin'; I'm goin' to referee
this scrap."
It looked for a minute as if the small boy would get a severe beating,
but by some trick he hurled the other headlong into the green, slimy
water that edged the road; then, seizing the quirt and the opportunity
at the same time, he belabored Billy without mercy as that individual
climbed up the slippery embankment, blubbering and whipped. Still
sobbing, he climbed upon his patient pony, which stood waiting, and
galloped off down the lane. The other pony followed and the little
conqueror was left afoot.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was beaming with delight. "Sure, 'twas a fine
fight, a sight worth coming all this way to see. Ah! but you're the
b'y. 'Tis a dollar I'd be givin' ye, only me purse is in me
stockin'--"
"Oh," the boy said quickly, "don't let that stop you. I'll look off
another way."
I don't know if she would have given him the money, for just then some
men came into the lane with some cattle and we had to start. The boy
got up on the back end of the buckboard and we drove on. We could hear
our wagons rumbling along and knew they would soon catch up.
"Where is your home, b'y?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.
"Oh, just wherever Aunt Hettie has work," he said. "She is at Mr.
Tom's now, so I'm there, too,--me and Baby Girl."
"Where are your folks?" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went on.
"Ma's dead, an pa's gone to Alasky. I don't know where my brothers
are. Baby Girl an' me are with Aunt Het, an' that's all there are of
us." He grinned cheerfully in spite of the fact that one eye was fast
closing and he bore numerous bumps and scratches on his face and head.
Just then one of the men with the cattle galloped up and shouted,
"Hello!" It was Mr. Burney! "Where'd you get that kid? I guess I'll
have to get the sheriff after you for kidnapping Bud. And what have
you been doing to him, anyway?"
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy entered delightedly into a recital of the "mixup,"
and it turned out that Mr. Tom and Mr. Burney were one. It was like
meeting an old friend; he seemed as pleased as we and insisted on our
going up to his ranch; he said "the missus" would feel slighted if we
passed her by. So we turned into another lane, and presently drew up
before the ranch house. "The missus" came dancing out to meet us, and
right welcome she made us feel. Mr. Burney went back to bring the
rest, but they were already setting up the tents and had supper almost
ready. However, we stayed and had supper with the Burneys.
They are powerfully happy and talked eagerly of themselves and their
prospects. "It's just grand to have a home of your own and some one to
do for. I just _love_ to mend for Tommy, but I always hated to mend
before," said the missus.
"You bet," Mr. Burney answered, "it is sure fine to know there's
somebody at home with a pretty pink dress on, waitin' for a fellow
when he comes in from a long day in the saddle."
And so they kept up their thoughtless chatter; but every word was as a
stab to poor Aunt Hettie. She had Baby Girl on her lap and was giving
the children their supper, but I noticed that she ate nothing. It was
easy to see that she was not strong. Baby Girl is four years old and
is the fattest little thing. She has very dark blue eyes with long,
black lashes, and the shortest, most turned-up little nose. She is so
plump and rosy that even the faded old blue denim dress could not hide
her loveliness.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy could not keep her eyes off the children. "What is
the little girl's name?" she asked.
"Caroline Agnes Lucia Lavina Ida Eunice," was the astonishing reply.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy gasped. "My _goodness_," she exclaimed; "is that
_all_?"
"Oh, no," Aunt Hettie went on placidly; "you see, her mother couldn't
call her all the names, so she just used the first letters. They spell
Callie; so that is what she called her. But I don't like the name. I
call her Baby Girl."