Letters on an Elk Hunt Part 3

"I don't know how I got to the house with him; I stumbled over clods and weeds, through the hot suns.h.i.+ne. 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 f.a.n.n.y 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.

"Indians were thick as fleas on a dog then; some were camped near us once, and among them was a Mexican woman who could jabber a little English. Once, when I was feeling particularly resentful and sorrowful, I told her about my little Dave; and it was her jabbered words that showed me the way to peace. I wept for hours, but peace had come and has stayed. Ambition came again, but a different kind: I wanted the same peace to come to all hearts that came so late to mine, and I wanted to help bring it. I took the only course I knew. I have gone to others' help every time there has been a chance. After f.a.n.n.y married and Dave died, I had an ambition to save up four hundred dollars with which to buy an entrance into an old ladies' home. Just before I got the full amount saved up, I found that young Eddie Carwell wanted to enter the ministry and needed help to go to college.

I had just enough; so I gave it to him. Another time I had almost enough, when Charlie Rucker got into trouble over some mortgage business; so I used what I had that time to help him. Now I've given up the old ladies' home idea and am saving up for the blue silk dress Dave would have liked me to have. I guess I'll die some day and I want it to be buried in. I like to think I'm going to my two Daves then; and it won't be hard,--especially if I have the blue silk on."

Just then a sleepy little bird twittered outside, and the baby stirred a little. The first faint light of dawn was just creeping up the valley. I rose and said I must get back to camp. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I had both wept with Mrs. Mortimer over little Dave. We have all given up our first-born little man-child; so we felt near each other.

We told Mrs. Mortimer that we had pa.s.sed under the rod also. I kissed her toilworn old hands, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy dropped a kiss on her old gray head as we pa.s.sed out into the rose-and-gold morning. We felt that we were leaving a sanctified presence, and we are both of us better and humbler women because we met a woman who has buried her sorrow beneath faith and endeavor.

This doesn't seem much like a letter, does it? When I started on this trip, I resolved that you should have just as much of the trip as I could give you. I didn't know we would be so long getting to the hunting-ground, and I felt you would _like_ to know of the people we meet. Perhaps my next letter will not be so tame. The hunting season opens to-morrow, but we are several days' travel from the elk yet.

Elizabeth behaves queerly. She doesn't want to go on, stay here, or go back. I am perfectly mystified. So far she has not told us a thing, and we don't know to whom she is going or anything about it. She is a likable little lady, and I sincerely hope she knows what she is doing. It is bedtime and I must stop writing. We go on to-morrow.

With affectionate regards, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.

V

DANYUL AND HIS MOTHER

IN CAMP ON THE GROS VENTRE, September 6, 1914.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--

I have neglected you for almost a week, but when you read this letter and learn why, I feel sure you will forgive me.

To begin with, we bade Mrs. Mortimer good-bye, and started out to find better fis.h.i.+ng than the pretty little stream we were on afforded us.

Our way lay up Green River and we were getting nearer our final camp-ground all the time, but we were in no hurry to begin hunting, so we were just loitering along. There were a great many little lakes along the valley, and thousands of duck. Mr. Stewart was driving, but as he wanted to shoot ducks, I took the lines and drove along. There is so much that is beautiful, and I was trying so hard to see it all, that I took the wrong road; but none of us noticed it at first, and then we didn't think it worth while to turn back.

The road we were on had lain along the foothills, but when I first thought I had missed the right road we were coming down into a gra.s.sy valley. Mr. Stewart came across a marshy stretch of meadow and climbed up on the wagon. The ground was more level, and on every side were marshes and pools; the willows grew higher here so that we couldn't see far ahead. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was behind, and she called out, "Say, I believe we are off the road." Elizabeth said she had noticed a road winding off on our right; so we agreed that I must have taken the wrong one, but as we couldn't turn in the willows, we had to go on.

Soon we reached higher, drier ground and pa.s.sed through a yellow grove of quaking asp.

A man came along with an axe on his shoulder, and Mr. Stewart asked him about the road. "Yes," he said, "you are off the main road, but on a better. You'll cross the same stream you were going to camp on, right at my ranch. It is just a little way across here and it's almost sundown, so I will show you the way."

He strode along ahead. We drove through an avenue of great dark pines and across a log bridge that spanned a noisy, brawling stream.

The man opened a set of bars and we drove into a big clean corral.

Comfortable sheds and stables lined one side, and big stacks of hay were conveniently placed. He began to help unharness the teams, saying that they might just as well run in his meadow, as he was through haying; then the horses would be safe while we fished. He insisted on our stopping in his cabin, which we found to be a comfortable two-room affair with a veranda the whole length. The _biggest_ pines overshadowed the house; just behind it was a garden, in which some late vegetables were still growing. The air was rather frosty and some worried hens were trying hard to cover some chirping half-feathered chicks.

It was such a homey place that we felt welcome and perfectly comfortable at once. The inside of the house will not be hard to describe. It was clean as could be, but with a typical bachelor's cleanliness: there was no dirt, but a great deal of disorder. Across the head of the iron bed was hung a miscellany of socks, neckties, and suspenders. A discouraging a.s.sortment of boots, shoes, and leggings protruded from beneath the bed. Some calendars ornamented the wall, and upon a table stood a smoky lamp and some tobacco and a smelly pipe. On a rack over the door lay a rifle.

Pretty soon our host came bustling in and exclaimed, "The kitchen is more pleasant than this room and there's a fire there, too." Then, catching sight of his lamp, he picked it up hurriedly and said, "Jest as sh.o.r.e as I leave anything undone, that sh.o.r.e somebody comes and sees how slouchy I am. Come on into the kitchen where you can warm, and I'll clean this lamp. One of the cows was sick this morning; I hurried over things so as to doctor her, and I forgot the lamp. I smoke and the lamp smokes to keep me company."

The kitchen would have delighted the heart of any one. Two great windows, one in the east and one in the south, gave plenty of sunlight. A s.h.i.+ning new range and a fine a.s.sortment of vessels--which were not all yet in their place--were in one corner. There was a slow ticking clock up on a high shelf; near the door stood a homemade wash-stand with a tin basin, and above it hung a long narrow mirror.

On the back of the door was a towel-rack. The floor was made of white pine and was spotlessly clean. In the center of the room stood the table, with a cover of red oilcloth. Some chairs were placed about the table, but our host quickly hauled them out for us. He opened his storeroom and told us to "dish in dirty-face," and help ourselves to anything we wanted, because we were to be his "somebody come" for that night; then he hurried out to help with the teams again. He was so friendly and so likeable that we didn't feel a bit backward about "dis.h.i.+n' in," and it was not long before we had a smoking supper on the table.

While we were at supper he said, "I wonder, now, if any of you women can make ap.r.o.ns and bonnets. I don't mean them d.i.n.ky little things like they make now, but rale wearin' things like they used to make."

I was afraid of another advertis.e.m.e.nt romance and didn't reply, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Indade we can, none better."

Then he answered, "I want a blue chambray bonnet and a bunch of ap.r.o.ns made for my mother. She is on the way here from Pennsylvania. I ain't seen her for fifteen years. I left home longer 'n that ago, but I remember everything,--just how everything looked,--and I'd like to have things inside the house as nearly like home as I can, anyway."

I didn't know how long we could stop there, so I still made no promises, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy could easily answer every question for a dozen women.

"Have you the cloth?" she asked.

Yes, he said; he had had it for a long time, but he had not had it sewn because he had not been sure mother _could_ come.

"What's your name?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.

He hesitated a moment, then said, "Daniel Holt."

I wondered why he hesitated, but forgot all about it when Clyde said we would stop there for a few days, if we wanted to help Mr. Holt.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's mind was already made up. Elizabeth said she would be glad to help, and I was not long in deciding when Daniel said, "I'll take it as a rale friendly favor if you women could help, because mother ain't had what could rightly be called a home since I left home. She's crippled, too, and I want to do all I can. I know she'd just like to have some ap.r.o.ns and a sunbonnet."

His eyes had such a pathetic, appealing look that I was ashamed, and we at once began planning our work. Daniel helped with the dishes and as soon as they were done brought out his cloth. He had a heap of it,--a bolt of checked gingham, enough blue chambray for half a dozen bonnets, and a great many remnants which he said he had bought from peddlers from time to time. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy selected what she said we would begin on, and dampened it so as to shrink it by morning. We then spread our beds and made ready for an early start next day.

Next morning we ate breakfast by the light of the lamp that smoked for the sake of companions.h.i.+p, and then started to cut out our work.

Daniel and Mr. Stewart went fis.h.i.+ng, and we packed their lunch so as to have them out of the way all day. I undertook the making of the bonnet, because I knew how, and because I can remember the kind my mother wore; I reckoned Daniel's mother would have worn about the same style. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth can both cross-st.i.tch, so they went out to Daniel's granary and ripped up some grain-bags, in order to get the thread with which they were sewed, to work one ap.r.o.n in cross-st.i.tch.

But when we were ready to sew we were dismayed, for there was no machine. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, however, was of the opinion that _some one_ in the country must have a sewing machine, so she saddled a horse and went out, she said, to "beat the brush."

She was hardly out of sight before a man rode up and said there had been a telephone message saying that Mrs. Holt had arrived in Rock Springs, and was on her way as far as Newfork in an automobile. That threw Elizabeth and myself into a panic. We posted the messenger off on a hunt for Daniel. Elizabeth soon got over her flurry and went at her cross-st.i.tching. I hardly knew what to do, but acting from force of habit, I reckon, I began cleaning. A powerfully good way to reason out things sometimes is to work; and just then I had to work. I began on the storeroom, which was well lighted and which was also used as a pantry. As soon as I began straightening up I began to wonder where the mother would sleep. By arranging things in the storeroom a little differently, I was able to make room for a bed and a trunk. I decided on putting Daniel there; so then I began work in earnest. Elizabeth laid down her work and helped me. We tacked white cheesecloth over the wall, and although the floor was clean, we scrubbed it to freshen it.

We polished the window until it sparkled. We were right in the middle of our work when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came, and Daniel with her.

They were all excitement, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is a real general and soon marshaled her forces. Daniel had to go to Newfork after his mother; that would take three days. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy pointed out to him the need of a few pieces of furniture; so he took a wagon and team, which he got a neighbor to drive, while he took another team and a buggy for his mother. Newfork is a day's drive beyond Pinedale, and the necessary furniture could be had in Pinedale; so the neighbor went along and brought back a new bed, a rocker, and some rugs. But of course he had to stay overnight. I was for keeping right on house-cleaning; but as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had arranged for us all to come and sew that afternoon at a near-by house, we took our sewing and clambered into the buckboard and set out.

We found Mrs. Bonham a pleasant little woman whose husband had earned her pretty new machine by chewing tobacco. I reckon you think that is a mighty funny method of earning anything, but some tobacco has tags which are redeemable, and the machine was one of the premiums. Mrs.

Bonham just beamed with pride as she rolled out her machine. "I never had a machine before," she explained. "I just went to the neighbors'

when I had to sew. So of course I wanted a machine awfully bad. So Frank jest chawed and chawed, and I saved every tag till we got enough, and last year we got the machine. Frank is chawin' out a clock now; but that won't take him so long as the machine did."

Well, the "chawed-out" machine did splendidly, and we turned out some good work that afternoon. I completed the blue bonnet which was to be used as "best," and made a "splint" bonnet. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth did well on their ap.r.o.ns. We took turns about at the machine and not a minute was wasted. Mrs. Bonham showed us some crochet lace which she said she hoped to sell; and right at once Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy's fertile mind begin to hatch plans. She would make Mrs.

Holt a "Sunday ap.r.o.n," she said, and she bought the lace to trim it with. I thought Mrs. Holt must be an old-fas.h.i.+oned lady who liked pillow-shams. Mrs. Bonham had a pretty pair she was willing to sell.

On one was worked, "Good Morning"; on the other, "Good Night"; it was done with red cotton. The shams had a dainty edge of homemade lace.

Elizabeth would not be outdone; she purchased a star quilt pieced in red and white. At sundown we went home. We were all tired, but as soon as supper was over we went to work again. We took down the bed and set it up in Dan's new quarters, and we made such headway on what had been his bedroom that we knew we could finish in a little while next day.

The next morning, as soon as we had breakfasted, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth went back to sew, taking with them a lot of white cheesecloth for lining for the bedroom we were preparing for Mrs.

Holt. Mr. Stewart had had fine luck fis.h.i.+ng, but he said he felt plumb left out with so much bustling about and he not helping. He is very handy with a saw and hammer, and he contrived what we called a "chist of drawers," for Daniel's room. The "chist" had only one drawer; into that we put all the gloves, ties, handkerchiefs, and suspenders, and on the shelves below we put his shoes and boots. Then I made a blue curtain for the "chist" and one for the window, and the room looked plumb nice, I can tell you. I liked the "chist" so well that I asked Mr. Stewart to make something of the kind for Mrs. Holt's room. He said there wouldn't be time, but he went to work on it.