sister wanted a girl, but there were six boys before this little one
came. Each time she hoped it would be a girl, and accordingly selected
a name for a girl. So there were six names saved up, and as there
wasn't much else to give her, my sister gave them _all_ to the baby."
After supper the Burneys rode down to camp with us. We had the same
camping ground that we had when we came up. The cabin across the
creek, where we met Grandma Mortimer, is silent and deserted; the
young couple have moved away with their baby.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy kept talking about the fight, and Mr. Burney gave
us the history of the children. "Their mother," he began, "has been
dead about eighteen months. She really died with a broken heart. Baby
Girl was only a few weeks old when the father went to Alaska, and I
guess he's dead. He was to 'a' been back in three years, and no one
has ever heard a word from him. His name was Bolton; he was a good
fellow, only he went bughouse over the gold fields and just fretted
till he got away--sold everything for a grub stake--left his wife and
seven kids almost homeless. But they managed some way till the mother
died. With her last breath she asked that the two youngest be kept
together; she knew the oldest ones would have to be separated. She
never did give up looking for Bolton and she wanted him to have the
babies.
"Her sister Hettie has worked around here for years; her and Rob
Langley have been going to marry ever since I can remember, but always
there has something cropped up. And now that Hettie has got to take
care of the kids I guess they won't never marry; she won't burden him
with them. It is hard for her to support them, too. Work is scarce,
and she can't get it, lots of times, because of the kids."
The Burneys soon went home and the rest of us went to bed,--all except
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who was so cranky and snappy that we left her by
the fire. It seemed hours after when I awoke. She was still sitting by
the fire; she was absently marking in the ashes with a stick. I
happened to be the first one up next morning and as I stirred up the
fire I saw "Baby" written in the ashes. We had breakfasted and the men
had gone their ways when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said to me,--
"It is a blessed old soul Mrs. Mortimer is. Do you mind any good
lesson that she taught us in the cabin beyont?" I did not remember.
"She said, 'The pangs of motherhood make us mothers not only of our
own, but of every child that needs mothering,--especially if our own
little children need us no longer. Fill their little places with ones
who do need us.' Them's her very words, and it's sweet truth it is.
Both my Katie and Sheridan have been grown and gone these many years
and my heart has ached for childher, and there's none but Cora Belle.
I am goin' to get them childher this day. What do you think about it?"
I thought so well of it that in about two minutes we were harnessing
the horses and were off to lay the plan before Hettie in
record-breaking time.
Poor Hettie: she wept quietly while the advantages of the scheme were
being pointed out. She said, "I love the children, dearly, but I am
not sure I can always feed and clothe them; that has worried me a lot.
I am almost sure Bolton is dead. I'll miss the little things, but I am
glad to know they are well provided for. You can take them."
"Now," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "you go on an' marry your man if he is
a decent sort. Do it right away before something else happens. It is
an illigant wedding present I'll be sendin' you. You must come to see
the childher often. What's the b'y's name?"
"We never did name him; you see we had kind of run out of boys' names.
We just called him Buddy."
"I can find a name for him," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Is there a
Joseph in the family?" Hettie said no. "Well, then, he is named
Joseph Bolton O'Shaughnessy, and I'll have them both baptized as soon
as we get to Green River."
So in the morning we start with two new members. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is
very happy. I am so glad myself that I can hardly express myself. We
are _all_ happy except Mr. Murry; he has at last given up hopes, and
gone. Mr. Haynes growls a little about having to travel along with a
rolling nursery, but he is just bluffing. I am longing to see Junior.
We have not heard one word since we left them, and I am so homesick
for mother and my boy. And _you_, best of friends, when shall I see
your beloved face? To-morrow night we shall camp at Ten Trees and we
shall be one day nearer home.
With much love,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XII
A STAMPEDE
IN CAMP ON THE DESERT,
October 19.
MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND,--
It is with a chastened, humble heart that I begin this letter; I have
stood face to face with tragedy and romance, and to me one is as
touching as the other, but you will know better when I tell you what I
mean. We _all_ bustled about to get started from Newfork. Now that we
had started, all were homesick. Just ahead of us was a drove of two
thousand steers being driven to the railroad to be shipped. I advise
you to keep ahead of such drives when you take such a trip, because
the trampling of so many feet makes a road almost impassable. What had
been snow in the mountains had been rain on the desert, and we found
the going decidedly bad. A rise of a hill would give us, now and
then, a glimpse of a slow-moving, dark-colored mass of heaving forms,
and the desert breezes brought to our ears the mournful lowing of the
poor creatures. Sometimes, too, we could hear a snatch of the cowboys'
songs. It was all very beautiful and I would have enjoyed it hugely
except that my desire to be home far outran the wagon and I felt like
a prisoner with clogs.
We nooned at the cabin of Timothy Hobbs, but no one was at home; he at
last had gone "back East" for Jennie. About mid-afternoon the boss of
the cow outfit came up on a splendid horse. He was a pleasant fellow
and he made a handsome picture, with his big hat, his great chaps and
his jangling spurs, as he rode along beside our wagons, talking.
He told us that a crazy duffer had gone about over the desert for
years digging wells, but at last he struck water. A few miles ahead
was a well flowing like an artesian well. There would be plenty of
water for every one, even the cattle. Next morning we could start
ahead of the herds and so the roads would be a little better.
It was quite early when we made camp in the same long draw where we
saw Olaf. There was a great change. Where had been dry, burning sand
was now a clear little stream that formed shallow pools where the sand
had blown away, so that harder soil could form a bottom less greedy
than the sand. Off to our left the uneasy herd was being held in a
wide, flat valley. They were grazing on the dry, sparse herbage of the
desert. Quite near the well the mess-wagon had stopped and the cook
was already preparing supper. Beyond, a few yards away, a freighter's
long outfit was stopped in the road.
Did you ever see the kind of freight outfit that is used to bring the
great loads across the desert? Then I'll tell you about the one we
camped near. Freight wagons are not made precisely like others; they
are very much larger and stronger. Several of these are coupled
together; then as many teams as is necessary are hitched on--making a
long, unbroken string of wagons. The horses are arranged in the same
manner as the wagons. Great chains are used to pull the wagons, and
when a camp is made the whole affair is stopped in the middle of the
road and the harness is dropped right where the horse that bore it
stood. Many freighters have what they call a coaster hitched to the
last wagon. The coaster is almost like other wagons, but it is a home
on wheels; it is built and furnished as sheep wagons are. This
freighter had one, and as we drove past I was surprised to see the
form of a woman and a small boy. We camped quite near them.
For an hour we were very busy preparing supper and arranging for the
night. As we sat at supper I thought I had never known so quiet and
peaceful an hour. The sun hung like a great, red ball in the hazy
west. Purple shadows were already gathering. A gentle wind rippled
past across the dun sands and through the gray-green sage.
The chain parts of the hobbles and halters made a clinking sound as
the horses fed about. Presently we heard a rumbling just like distant
thunder. The cowboys sprang into their saddles; we heard a shot, and
then we knew the terrible truth,--the steers had stampeded. For me,
the next few minutes were an eternity of frightful confusion. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy and I found ourselves with the children upon our largest
wagon; that was absolutely all the protection to be had. It would have
gone down like a house of cards if that heaving sea of destruction had
turned our way. I was scared witless. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knelt among
the children praying with white lips. I stood up watching the terrible
scene. The men hastily set the horses free. There was no time to mount
them and ride to safety with so many little children, and as there was
nothing to tie them to but the wagons; we _had_ to let them go so as
to have the wagons left for shelter. _This_ is why cowboys are such
well-loved figures of romance and in mentioning them romance is fact.
"Greater love hath _no_ man than this: that he lay down his life
for his brother." They knew nothing about us only that we were
defenseless. They rode boldly on their stanch little horses flanking
the frenzied steers, shooting a leader here and there as they got a
chance. If an animal stumbled it went down to its death, for hundreds
of pounding hoofs would trample it to pulp. So it would have been with
the boys if their horses had stepped into a badger hole or anything of
the kind had happened. So the tide was turned, or the steers kept of
themselves, I don't know which, on up the valley instead of coming up
our draw. The danger was past.
Presently the cowboys came straggling back. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy ran to
meet them. So when two on one horse came with a third riding close
beside, helping to hold an injured man on, we knew some one was hurt.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was, as usual, ready and able to help.
But the freighter's daughter was as quick and had a mattress ready
beside the coaster by the time the cowboys came up with the wounded
man. Gently the men helped their comrade to the mattress and gently
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the girl began their work. I quieted the
children and put them to bed. The men were busy rounding up the
horses. The cowboys kept talking together in low tones and coming and
going in twos and threes. They acted so queerly that I wondered if
some one else was not hurt. I asked the boss if any more of his men
were hurt. He said no, none of _his_ men were. I knew none of our men
or the freighter were harmed, so I dismissed fear and went to Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy.
"Poor boy," she said, "he has a broken thigh and he's hurt inside. His
belly is knocked into a cocked-hat. We will pull him through. A man
has already gone back to Newfork to get an automobile. They will take
him to Rock Springs to the hospital in the morning."
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the girl were doing all that could be done;
they sent me back to care for the children. To keep warm I crawled
under the blankets, but not to sleep. It didn't seem to me that I
could _ever_ sleep again. I could hear the men talking in subdued
tones. The boss was dispatching men to different places. Presently I
saw some men take a lantern and move off toward the valley. I could
see the light twinkling in and out among the sage-brush. They stopped.
I could see forms pass before the light. I wondered what could be the
matter. The horses were all safe; even Boy, Mr. Haynes's dog, was
safe, shivering and whining on his master's blankets. I could plainly
hear the hiccoughs of the wounded man: the click-cluck, click-cluck,
kept on with maddening persistence, but at last his nurses forced
enough hot water down him to cause vomiting. The blood-clots came and
the poor fellow fell asleep. A lantern was hung upon the wagon and the
two women went into the coaster to make some coffee.
It was three o'clock in the morning when the men of our outfit came
back. They put on their heavy coats and were seeing to their horses. I
asked Clyde what was the matter.
"Hush," he said; "lie still. It is Olaf."
"But I want to help," I said.
"You can't help. It's--all over," he replied as he started again to
where the lantern was gleaming like a star fallen among the sage.
I tucked the children in a little more snugly, then went over to the
coaster.
"Won't you come to bed and rest?" I asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.
"No, I'll not. Are me children covered and warm?"
"Yes," I answered.
"What are them fellys pow-wowing about down in the sage?"
"Olaf is dead," I said.
"Who says God is not merciful? Now all the poor felly's troubles are
done with. 'Twas him that caused the stampede, mayhap. God send him
peace. I am glad. He will never be hungry nor cold any more."
"Yes," said the girl; speaking slowly. "I am glad, too. He almost
lived in this draw. We saw him every trip and he _did_ suffer. Dad
left a little for him to eat and whatever he could to wear every trip.
The sheep-herders helped him, too. But he suffered. All the home he
had was an old, thrown-away sheep wagon down beyond the last ridge
toward the valley. I've seen him every two weeks for ten years. It's a
wonder he has not been killed before."
"I wonder," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "if he has any family. Where will
they bury him?"
"He has no people. If they will listen to Dad, they will lay him here
on the desert. He would want it so."
After breakfast Mrs. O'Shaughnessy lay down for a little rest. When
the wounded man awoke the girl gave him a little coffee.
"You're awful good to me," he said. "I'd like to have you around all
the time."
The girl smiled gravely. "Ain't you got nobody to take care of you?"
"No. What is your name?"
"Amy Winters. Now you must hush. Talkin' might make you worse."
"I'm not so tur'ble bad off. Where do you live?"
"In the coaster, somewhere on the road between Pinedale and Rock
Springs. Dad is a freighter."
"Huh! Do you like to live that way?"
"No; I want a house and a garden awful bad, but Dad can't do nothin'
but freight and we've got Jessie to raise. We ain't got no ma."
"Do women _have_ to change their names when they marry?"
"I don't know. Reckon they do, though. Why?"
"'Cause my name is Tod Winters. I know where there is a dandy little
place up on the Gros Ventre where a cabin would look mighty good to me
if there was some one to keep it for me--"
"Oh, say," she interrupted, "that is a awful pretty handkerchief
you've got around your neck."
Just then the automobile came up frightening our horses. I heard no
more, but the "awful pretty handkerchief" was missing when the hero
left for the hospital. They used some lumber from a load the freighter
had and walled up a grave for Olaf. They had no tools but axes and a
shovel we had along. By noon Olaf was buried. Glenholdt set a slab of
sandstone at the head. With his knife he had dug out these
words--"Olaf. The friend of horses."
We camped last night at Ten Trees. To-night we are at Eden Valley. The
mystery of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's sudden change about the license is
explained. She unloaded an elk at the Sanders cabin. "'Twas two I
aimed to bring you, but me own family has increased by twins whilst
I've been gone, so one ilk will have to do you."
So now, dear friend, I am a little nearer you. In one more week I
shall be home.
Sincerely, _thankfully_ yours,
E. R. S.
XIII
NEARING HOME
AT THE WELL IN THE DESERT,
October 21.
DEAR FRIEND,--
We shall reach Green River City to-night. We will rest the teams one
day, then start home. It will take us two days from Green River to
reach home, so this is the last letter on the road. When we made camp
here last night we saw some one coming on horseback along the cañon
rim on the opposite side. The form seemed familiar and the horse
looked like one I had seen, but I dared not believe my eyes. Clyde,
who was helping to draw water from the eighty-foot well without a
pulley, thought I was bereft as I ran from the camp toward the
advancing rider. But although I thought what I saw must be a mirage,
still I knew Mrs. Louderer on Bismarck.
Out of breath from my run, I grasped her fat ankle and panted till I
could speak.
"Haf they run you out of camp, you iss so bad?" she asked me by way of
greeting. Then, more kindly, "Your boy iss all right, the mutter also.
I am come, though, to find you. It iss time you are home with the
_kinder_. Haf you any goose-grease left?"
I had, all she had given me.
At camp, joy knew no bounds. Never was one more welcome than our
beloved neighbor. Her astonishment knew no bounds either, when her big
blue eyes rested upon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's "twins."
"Frau O'Shaughnessy," she said severely, "what have you here? You iss
robbed an orphan asylum. How haf you come by these?"
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is so full of life and good spirits and so
delighted to talk about her "childher" that she gave a very animated
recital of how she became a happy mother. In turn Mrs. Louderer told
how she grew more and more alarmed by our long absence, but decided
not to alarm the neighbors, so she had "made a search party out of
mineself," and had fared forth to learn our fate.
We had a merry supper; even Haynes became cheerful, and there was no
lagging next morning when we started for home. When people go on elk
hunts they are very likely to return in tatters, so I am going to
leave it to your imagination to picture our appearance when we drove
up to the rear of the hotel about sundown. Our friend Mrs. Hutton came
running to meet us. I was ashamed to go into her house, but she leaned
up against the house and laughed until tears came. "_What_ chased
you?" she gasped. "You must have been run through some of those barbed
wire things that they are putting up to stop the German army."
Mrs. Hutton is a little lady who bolsters up self-respect and makes
light of trying situations, so she "shooed" us in and I sneaked into
my room and waited until Clyde could run down to the store and
purchase me a dress. I feel quite clean and respectable now, sitting
up here in my room writing this to you. I will soon be at home now.
Until then good-bye.
E. R. S.
XIV
THE MEMORY-BED
October 25.
DEAR, DEAR FRIEND,--
Can you guess how happy I am? Be it _ever_ so humble there is no place
like home.
It is so good to sit in my creaky old rocker, to hold Junior, to
feel his dear weight; to look at my brave little mother. I do not
like the "in-law." She is _mother_ to me. Under the east window
of our dining-room we have a flower-bed. We call it our memory-bed
because Clyde's first wife had it made and kept pansies growing
there. We poured the water of my little lost boy's last bath onto the
memory-bed. I keep pansies growing in one side of the bed in memory of
her who loved them. In the other end I plant sweet alyssum in memory
of my baby. A few pansies and a tuft of sweet alyssum smiled a
welcome, though all the rest of my flowers were dead. We have a
hop-vine at the window and it has protected the flowers in the
memory-bed. How happy I have been, looking over the place! Some young
calves have come while we were gone; a whole squirming nest full of
little pigs. My chickens have outgrown my knowledge. There is no snow
here at all. Our experiences on our trip seem almost unreal, but the
wagon-load of meat to be attended to is a reminder of realities. I
have had a fine trip; I have experienced about all the human emotions.
I had not expected to encounter so many people or to get the little
inside glimpses that I've had, but wherever there are human beings
there are the little histories. I have come home realizing anew how
happy I am, how much I have been spared, and how many of life's
blessings are mine. Poor Mrs. Louderer, childless and alone, openly
envying Mrs. O'Shaughnessy her babies! In my bedroom there is a row of
four little brown heads asleep on their pillows. Four precious
kiddies all my own. And not the least of my blessings, _you_ to tell
my happiness to. Has my trip interested you, dear friend? I _hope_ you
liked it. It will lose a little of its charm for me if you find it
uninteresting.
I will write you again soon.
Your happy friend,
E. R. S.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.
End of Project Gutenberg's Letters on an Elk Hunt, by Elinore Pruitt Stewart