24. "A LITTLE ROMANCE" October 8, 1913.
MY DEAR FRIEND,—
I have had such a happy little peep into
another's romance that I think I should be
cheating you if I didn't tell you. Help in
this country is extremely hard to get; so when
I received a letter from one Aurelia Timmons,
saying she wanted a job,—three dollars
a week and not to be called "Relie,"—
my joy could hardly be described. I could
hardly wait until morning to start for Bridger
Bench, where Aurelia held forth. I was up
before the lark next morning. It is more
miles to the Bridger Bench country than the
"gude mon" wants his horses driven in a
day; so permission was only given after I
promised to curb my impatience and stay
overnight with Mrs. Louderer. Under ordinary
circumstances that would have been a
pleasure, but I knew at least a dozen women
who would any of them seize on to Aurelia
and wrest her from me, so it was only after it
seemed I would not get to go at all that I
promised.
At length the wagon was greased, some
oats put in, a substantial lunch and the kiddies
loaded in, and I started on my way.
Perhaps it was the prospect of getting help
that gilded everything with a new beauty.
The great mountains were so majestic, and
the day so young that I knew the night wind
was still murmuring among the pines far up
on the mountain-sides. The larks were trying
to outdo each other and the robins were so
saucy that I could almost have flicked them
with the willow I was using as a whip. The
rabbit-bush made golden patches everywhere,
while purple asters and great pink
thistles lent their charm. Going in that direction,
our way lay between a mountain stream
and the foothills. There are many ranches
along the stream, and as we were out so early,
we could see the blue smoke curling from
each house we passed. We knew that venison
steak, hot biscuit, and odorous coffee would
soon grace their tables. We had not had the
venison, for the "gude mon" holds to the
letter of the law which protects deer here,
but we begrudged no one anything; we were
having exactly what we wanted. We jogged
along happily, if slowly, for I must explain
to you that Chub is quite the laziest horse
in the State, and Bill, his partner, is so old he
stands like a bulldog. He is splay-footed and
sway-backed, but he is a beloved member of
our family, so I vented my spite on Chub, and
the willow descended periodically across his
black back, I guess as much from force of
habit as anything else. But his hide is thick
and his memory short, so we broke no record
that day.
We drove on through the fresh beauty of
the morning, and when the sun was straight
overhead we came to the last good water we
could expect before we reached Mrs. Louderer's;
so we stopped for lunch. In Wyoming
quantity has a great deal more to do with
satisfaction than does quality; after half a
day's drive you won't care so much what it is
you're going to eat as you will that there is
enough of it. That is a lesson I learned long
ago; so our picnic was real. There were no
ants in the pie, but that is accounted for by
there being no pie. Our road had crossed the
creek, and we were resting in the shade of a
quaking-asp grove, high up on the sides of
the Bad Land hills. For miles far below lay
the valley through which we had come.
Farther on, the mountains with their dense
forests were all wrapped in the blue haze of
the melancholy days. Soon we quitted our enchanted
grove whose quivering, golden leaves
kept whispering secrets to us.
About three o'clock we came down out of
the hills on to the bench on which the Louderer
ranch is situated. Perhaps I should explain
that this country is a series of huge terraces,
each terrace called a bench. I had just
turned into the lane that leads to the house
when a horseman came cantering toward me.
"Hello!" he saluted, as he drew up beside
the wagon. "Goin' up to the house? Better
not. Mrs. Louderer is not at home, and
there's no one there but Greasy Pete. He's
on a tear; been drunk two days, I'm tellin'
you. He's
full of mischief. 'T ain't safe
around old Greasy. I advise you to go some-'eres else." "Well," I asked, "where
can I
go?" "Danged if I know," he replied, "'lessen
it's to Kate Higbee's. She lives about
six or seven miles west. She ain't been here
long, but I guess you can't miss her place.
Just jog along due west till you get to Red
Gulch ravine, then turn north for a couple
of miles. You'll see her cabin up against a
cedar ridge. Well, so 'long!" He dug his
spurs into his cayuse's side and rode on.
Tears of vexation so blinded me that I
could scarcely see to turn the team, but ominous
sounds and wild yells kept coming from
the house, so I made what haste I could to
get away from such an unpleasant neighborhood.
Soon my spirits began to rise. Kate
Higbee, I reflected, was likely to prove to be
an interesting person. All Westerners are
likable, with the possible exception of Greasy
Pete. I rather looked forward to my visit.
But my guide had failed to mention the
buttes; so, although I jogged as west as I
knew how, I found I had to wind around a
butte about ever so often. I crossed a ravine
with equal frequency, and all looked alike.
It is not surprising that soon I could not
guess where I was. We could turn back and
retrace our tracks, but actual danger lay
there; so it seemed wiser to push on, as there
was, perhaps, no greater danger than discomfort
ahead. The sun hung like a big red ball
ready to drop into the hazy distance when
we came clear of the buttes and down on to
a broad plateau, on which grass grew plentifully.
That encouraged me because the
horses need not suffer, and if I could make
the scanty remnant of our lunch do for the
children's supper and breakfast, we could
camp in comfort, for we had blankets. But
we must find water. I stood up in the wagon
and, shading my eyes against the sun's level
light, was looking out in the most promising
directions when I noticed that the plateau's
farther side was bounded by a cedar ridge,
and, better yet, a smoke was slowly rising,
column-like, against the dun prospect. That,
I reasoned, must be my destination. Even
the horses livened their paces, and in a little
while we were there.
But no house greeted our eyes,—just a big
camp-fire. A lean old man sat on a log-end
and surveyed us indifferently. On the ground
lay a large canvas-covered pack, apparently
unopened. An old saddle lay up against a
cedar trunk. Two old horses grazed near.
I was powerfully disappointed. You know
misery loves company; so I ventured to say,
"Good-evening." He didn't stir, but he
grunted, "Hello." I knew then that he was
not a fossil, and hope began to stir in my
heart. Soon he asked, "Are you goin' somewheres
or jist travelin'?" I told him I had
started somewhere, but reckoned I must be
traveling, as I had not gotten there. Then he
said, "My name is Hiram K. Hull. Whose
woman are you?" I confessed to belonging
to the house of Stewart. "Which Stewart?"
he persisted,—"C. R., S. W., or H. C.?"
Again I owned up truthfully. "Well," he
continued, "what does he mean by letting
you gad about in such onconsequential
style?"
Sometimes a woman gets too angry to talk.
Don't you believe that? No? Well, they do,
I assure you, for I was then. He seemed
grown to the log. As he had made no move
to help me, without answering him I clambered
out of the wagon and began to take
the horses loose. "Ho!" he said; "are you
goin' to camp here?" "Yes, I am," I
snapped. "Have you any objections?"
"Oh, no, none that won't keep," he assured
me. It has always been a theory of mine that
when we become sorry for ourselves we make
our misfortunes harder to bear, because we
lose courage and can't think without bias;
so I cast about me for something to be glad
about, and the comfort that at least we were
safer with a simpleton than near a drunken
Mexican came to me; so I began to view the
situation with a little more tolerance.
After attending to the horses I began to
make the children comfortable. My unwilling
host sat silently on his log, drawing long
and hard at his stubby old pipe. How very
little there was left of our lunch! Just for
meanness I asked him to share with us, and,
if you'll believe me, he did. He gravely ate
bread-rims and scraps of meat until there was
not one bit left for even the baby's breakfast.
Then he drew the back of his hand across his
mouth and remarked, "I should think when
you go off on a ja'nt like this you'd have a
well-filled mess-box." Again speech failed
me.
Among some dwarf willows not far away
a spring bubbled. I took the kiddies there to
prepare them for rest. When I returned to
the fire, what a transformation! The pack
was unrolled and blankets were spread, the
fire had been drawn aside, disclosing a beanhole,
out of which Hiram K. was lifting an
oven. He took off the lid. Two of the plumpest,
brownest ducks that ever tempted any
one were fairly swimming in gravy. Two
loaves of what he called punk, with a box of
crackers, lay on a newspaper. He mimicked
me exactly when he asked me to take supper
with him, and I tried hard to imitate him in
promptitude when I accepted. The babies
had some of the crackers wet with hot water
and a little of the gravy. We soon had the
rest looking scarce. The big white stars were
beginning to twinkle before we were through,
but the camp-fire was bright, and we all felt
better-natured. Men are not alone in having
a way to their heart through their stomach.
I made our bed beneath the wagon, and
Hiram K. fixed his canvas around, so we
should be sheltered. I felt so much better
and thought so much better of him that I
could laugh and chat gayly. "Now, tell me,"
he asked, as he fastened the canvas to a wheel,
"didn't you think I was an old devil at
first?" "Yes, I did," I answered. "Well,"
he said, "I am; so you guessed right." After
I put the children to bed, we sat by the fire
and talked awhile. I told him how I happened
to be gadding about in "such onconsequential"
style, and he told me stories of
when the country was new and fit to live in.
"Why," he said, in a burst of enthusiasm,
"time was once when you went to bed you
were not sure whether you'd get up alive and
with your scalp on or not, the Injins were
that thick. And then there was white men a
durned sight worse; they were likely to plug
you full of lead just to see you kick. But
now," he continued mournfully, "a bear or an
antelope, maybe an elk, is about all the excitement
we can expect. Them good old days
are gone." I am mighty glad of it; a drunken
Pete is bad enough for me.
I was tired, so soon I went to bed. I could
hear him as he cut cedar boughs for his own
fireside bed, and as he rattled around among
his pots and pans. Did you ever eat pork and
beans heated in a frying-pan on a camp-fire
for breakfast? Then if you have not, there is
one delight left you. But you must be away
out in Wyoming, with the morning sun just
gilding the distant peaks, and your pork and
beans must be out of a can, heated in a disreputable
old frying-pan, served with coffee
boiled in a battered old pail and drunk from a
tomato-can. You'll never want iced melons,
powdered sugar, and fruit, or sixty-nine varieties
of breakfast food, if once you sit Trilbywise
on Wyoming sand and eat the kind of
breakfast we had that day.
After breakfast Hiram K. Hull hitched our
horses to the wagon, got his own horses
ready, and then said, "'T ain't more'n half a
mile straight out between them two hills to
the stage-road, but I guess I had better go
and show you exactly, or you will be millin'
around here all day, tryin' to find it." In a
very few minutes we were on the road, and
our odd host turned to go. "S'long!" he
called. "Tell Stewart you seen old Hikum.
Him and me's shared tarps many's the
nights. We used to be punchers together,
—old Clyde and me. Tell him old Hikum
ain't forgot him." So saying, he rode away
into the golden morning, and we drove on-ward,
too.
We stopped for lunch only a few minutes
that day, and we reached the Bridger community
about two that afternoon. The much
sought Aurelia had accepted the position of
lifetime housekeeper for a sheep-herder who
had no house to keep, so I had to cast about
for whatever comfort I could. The roadhouse
is presided over by a very able body of the
clan of Ferguson. I had never met her, but
formalities count for very little in the West.
She was in her kitchen, having more trouble,
she said, than a hen whose ducklings were in
swimming. I asked her if she could accomodate
the children and myself. "Yes," she
said, "I can give you a bed and grub, but I
ain't got no time to ask you nothing. I ain't
got no time to inquire who you are nor where
you come from. There's one room left. You
can have that, but you'll have to look out for
yourself and young'uns." I felt equal to that;
so I went out to have the horses cared for and
to unload the kiddies.
Leaning against the wagon was a man who
made annual rounds of all the homes in our
community each summer; his sole object was
to see what kind of flowers we succeeded
with. Every woman in our neighborhood
knows Bishey Bennet, but I don't think
many would have recognized him that afternoon.
I had never seen him dressed in anything
but blue denim overalls and overshirt
to match, but to-day he proudly displayed
what he said was his dove-colored suit. The
style must have been one of years ago, for I
cannot remember seeing trousers quite so
skimpy. He wore top-boots, but as a concession
to fashion he wore the boot-tops under
the trouser-legs, and as the trousers were
about as narrow as a sheath skirt, they kept
slipping up and gave the appearance of being
at least six inches too short. Although
Bishey is tall and thin, his coat was two sizes
too small, his shirt was of soft tan material,
and he wore a blue tie. But whatever may
have been amiss with his costume was easily
forgotten when one saw his radiant face. He
grasped my hand and wrung it as if it was a
chicken's neck.
"What in the world is the matter with
you?" I asked, as I rubbed my abused paw.
"Just you come here and I'll tell you," he
answered. There was no one to hear but the
kiddies, but I went around the corner of the
house with him. He put his hand up to his
mouth and whispered that "Miss Em'ly"
was coming, would be there on the afternoon
stage. I had never heard of "Miss Em'ly,"
and said so. "Well, just you go in and set on
the sofy and soon's I see your horses took
care of I'll come in and tell you." I went into
my own room, and after I rustled some water
I made myself and the kiddies a little more
presentable. Then we went into the sitting-room and sat on the "sofy." Presently
Bishey sauntered in, trying to look unconcerned
and at ease, but he was so fidgety he
couldn't sit down. But he told his story, and
a dear one it is.
It seems that back in New York State he
and Miss Em'ly were "young uns" together.
When they were older they planned to marry,
but neither wanted to settle down to the
humdrumness that they had always known.
Both dreamed of the golden West; so Bishey
had gone to blaze the trail, and "Miss Em'ly"
was to follow. First one duty and then another
had held her, until twenty-five years
had slipped by and they had not seen each
other, but now she was coming, that very
day. They would be married that evening,
and I at once appointed myself matron of
honor and was plumb glad there was no other
candidate.
I at once took the decorations in hand.
Bishey, Jerrine, and myself went out and
gathered armfuls of asters and goldenrod-like
rabbit-brush. From the dump-pile we sorted
cans and pails that would hold water, and
we made the sitting-room a perfect bower of
purple and gold beauty. I put on my last
clean shirt-waist and the children's last clean
dresses. Then, as there seemed nothing more
to do, Bishey suggested that we walk up the
road and meet the stage; but the day had
been warm, and I remembered my own appearance
when I had come over that same
road the first time. I knew that journey was
trying on any one's appearance at any time
of the year, and after twenty-five years to be
thrust into view covered with alkali dust and
with one's hat on awry would be too much
for feminine patience; so I pointed out to
Bishey that he'd better clear out and let Miss
Em'ly rest a bit before he showed up. At
last he reluctantly agreed.
I went out to the kitchen to find what
could be expected in the way of hot water for
Miss Em'ly when she should come. I found I
could have all I wanted if I heated it myself.
Mrs. Ferguson could not be bothered about
it, because a water company had met there
to vote on new canals, the sheep-men were
holding a convention, there was a more than
usual run of transients besides the regular
boarders, and supper was ordered for the
whole push. All the help she had was a girl
she just knew didn't have sense enough to
pound sand into a rat-hole. Under those
circumstances I was mighty glad to help. I
put water on to heat and then forgot Miss
Em'ly, I was enjoying helping so much, until
I heard a door slam and saw the stage drive
away toward the barn.
I hastened to the room I knew was reserved
for Miss Em'ly. I rapped on the
door, but it was only opened a tiny crack. I
whispered through that I was a neighbor-friend of Mr. Bennet's, that I had lots of hot
water for her and had come to help her if
I might. Then she opened the door, and I
entered. I found a very travel-stained little
woman, down whose dust-covered cheeks
tears had left their sign. Her prettiness was
the kind that wins at once and keeps you ever
after. She was a strange mixture of stiff reticence
and childish trust. She was in
such a
flutter, and she said she was ashamed to own
it, but she was so hungry she could hardly
wait.
After helping her all I could, I ran out to
see about the wedding supper that was to be
served before the wedding. I found that no
special supper had been prepared. It seemed
to me a shame to thrust them down among
the water company, the convention, the
regulars, and the transients, and I mentally
invited myself to the wedding supper and
began to plan how we could have a little privacy.
The carpenters were at work on a long
room off the kitchen that was to be used as
storeroom and pantry. They had gone for
the day, and their saw-horses and benches
were still in the room. It was only the work
of a moment to sweep the sawdust away.
There was only one window, but it was large
and in the west. It took a little time to wash
that, but it paid to do it. When a few asters
and sprays of rabbit-brush were placed in
a broken jar on the window-sill, there was a
picture worth seeing. Some planks were laid
on the saw-horses, some papers over them,
and a clean white cloth over all. I sorted the
dishes myself; the prettiest the house afforded
graced our table. I rubbed the glassware
until it shone almost as bright as Bishey's
smile.
Bishey had come when he could stay away
no longer; he and Miss Em'ly had had their
first little talk, so they came out to where I
was laying the table. They were both beaming.
Miss Em'ly took hold at once to help.
"Bishey," she commanded, "do you go at
once to where my boxes are open, the one
marked 7; bring me a blue jar you'll find in
one corner." He went to do her bidding, and
I to see about the kiddies. When I came
back with them, there was a small willow
basket in the center of our improvised table,
heaped high with pears, apples, and grapes
all a little the worse for their long journey
from New York State to Wyoming, but still
things of beauty and a joy as long as they
lasted to Wyoming eyes and appetites. We
had a perfectly roasted leg of lamb; we
had mint sauce, a pyramid of flaky mashed
potatoes, a big dish of new peas, a plate of
sponge-cake I will be long in forgetting; and
the blue jar was full of grape marmalade.
Our iced tea was exactly right; the pieces
of ice clinked pleasantly against our glasses.
We took our time, and we were all happy.
We could all see the beautiful sunset, its last
rays lingering on Miss Em'ly's abundant
auburn hair to make happy the bride the sun
shines on. We saw the wonderful colors—
orange, rose, and violet—creep up and fade
into darker shades, until at last mellow dusk
filled the room. Then I took the kiddies to
my room to be put to bed while I should wait
until time for the ceremony.
Soon the babies were sleeping, and Jerrine
and I went into the sitting-room. They were
sitting on the "sofy." She was telling him
that the apples had come from the tree they
had played under, the pears from the tree
they had set out, the grapes from the vine
over the well. She told him of things packed
in her boxes, everything a part of the past
they both knew. He in turn told her of his
struggles, his successes, and some of what he
called his failures. She was a most encouraging
little person, and she'd say to him, "You
did well, Bishey. I'll say that for you: you
did well!" Then he told her about the flowers
he had planted for her. I understood then
why he acted so queerly about my flowers.
It happens that I am partial to old-time
favorites, and I grow as many of them as I
can get to succeed in this altitude; so I have
zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks, and many
other dear old flowers that my mother loved.
Many of them had been the favorites of Miss
Em'ly's childhood, but Bishey hadn't remembered
the names; so he had visited us
all, and when he found a flower he remembered,
he asked the name and how we grew
it, then he tried it, until at last he had about
all. Miss Em'ly wiped the tears from her eyes
as she remarked, "Bishey, you did well; yes,
you did
real well." I thought to myself how
well we could
all do if we were so encourage.
At last the white-haired old justice of the
peace came, and said the words that made
Emily Wheeler the wife of Abisha Bennet. A
powerfully noisy but truly friendly crowd
wished them well. One polite fellow asked
her where she was from. She told him from
New York
State. "Why," he asked, "do
New Yorkers always say
State?" "Why, because,"
she answered,—and her eyes were
big with surprise,—
"no one would want to
say they were from New York
City."
It had been a trying day for us, so soon
Jerrine and I slipped out to our room. Ours
was the first room off the sitting-room, and a
long hallway led past our door; a bench sat
against the wall, and it seemed a favorite
roosting-place for people with long discussions.
First some fellows were discussing the
wedding. One thought Bishey "cracked"
because he had shipped out an old cooking-stove, one of the first manufactured, all the
way from where he came from, instead of
buying a new one nearer home. They recalled
instance after instance in which he had
acted queerly, but to me his behavior was no
longer a mystery. I know the stove belonged
somewhere in the past and that his every act
connected past and future. After they had
talked themselves tired, two old fellows took
possession of the bench and added a long discussion
on how to grow corn to the general
din. Even sweet corn cannot be successfully
grown at this altitude, yet those old men
argued pro and con till I know their throats
must have ached. In the sitting-room they
all talked at once of ditches, water-contracts,
and sheep. I was
so sleepy. I heard a tired
clock away off somewhere strike two. Some
sheep-men had the bench and were discussing
the relative values of different dips. I reckon
my ego must have gotten tangled with some
one's else about then, for I found myself
sitting up in bed foolishly saying,—
"Two old herders, unshaved and hairy,
Whose old tongues are never weary,
Just outside my chamber-door
Prate of sheep dips for ever more."
Next morning it was Bishey's cheerful
voice that started my day. I had hoped to
be up in time to see them off, but I wasn't.
I heard him call out to Mrs. Bishey, "Miss
Em'ly, I've got the boxes all loaded. We can
start home in ten minutes." I heard her clear
voice reply, "You've done well, Bishey. I'll
be ready by then." I was hurriedly dressing,
hoping yet to see her, when I heard Bishey
call out to bluff old Colonel Winters, who
had arrived in the night and had not known
of the wedding, "Hello! Winters, have you
met Miss Em'ly? Come over here and meet
her. I'm a married man now. I married Miss
Em'ly last night." The colonel couldn't
have known how apt was his reply when he
said, "I'm glad for you, Bishey. You've done
well." I peeked between the curtains, and
saw Bishey's wagon piled high with boxes,
with Miss Em'ly, self-possessed and happy,
greeting the colonel. Soon I heard the rattle
of wheels, and the dear old happy pair were
on their way to the cabin home they had
waited twenty-five years for. Bless the kind
old hearts of them! I'm sure they've both
"done well."