Letters on an Elk Hunt

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 could n’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 was n’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 could n’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 are n’t you mistaken when you say you have been saving for your mother’s tombstone for twelve years? She’s only been dead eight.’
She said, ‘Why no, I’m not. You see, at first it was n’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 Lucern 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 canons, 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, 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 did n’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 ² 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.
‘This is my Lennie,’ said Connie proudly.
I saw all the Ford family before I left, — the weak-faced, discouragedlooking 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 centre 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 did n’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.

IN CAMP ON THE DESERT,
Aug. 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 did n’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 did n’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 campstoves 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 in 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 Belle³ drove up to our door the first time. In a wobbly old buckboard sat a young couple completely engrossed with 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 did n’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.
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 does n’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 canon, — 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 did n’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.

IN CAMP, Aug. 28.
DEAR MRS. CONEY, - We are almost across the desert, and I am really becoming interested. The difficulties some folks work under is enough to make many of us ashamed. In the very centre 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 did n’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 did n’t have much feed and it was shore a hard winter. We hated to see old Nick and Fanny die. They was 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 did n’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 pore 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 red-top seed in the trash came up and growed. I’d like to have put some flowers there, but we had no seed.’
She wiped her face on her apron, and gathered up an armful of cabbage that 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 did n’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 sorefooted dog. Ella had a dime which a man had given her for filling his waterbag. They both hoped to pull wool off of 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 stiil 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 did n’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, fiat 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.

(To be continued.)