Nimrod's wife

Front matter

vV -A

^0^ no'

c

PART II— IN THE ROCKIES III The Grand Cafion and

What it Did to Nimrod 55

IV A Discursion on the Bron-

V On the March . . 93

VI A Fire Ride . . -115

VII Bear and Forbear . 125

CONTENTS

PAGE

VIII What I Know About

Mountain Goats — Bobbie's Story . . -145

IX A Jack Rabbit Dance and

the Fantail Ghost . 167

X A Sinew of the Law Dis-

played . . .195

XI On the Rosebud — Plenty

Coups's Peace-pipe . 213

XII At the Feast of the Dog

Dance — The Way of Arabella Horsetail . 229

PART III-ON THE OTTAWA XIII Te-vis-ca-bing . . .271

XIV A Canuck's Trick . 287

CONTENTS

PAGE

XV Concerning a New Acquaintance — The Muscalonge . . -311

XVI Several Things About Moose . . -321

XVII "Jest Travellin" In Wa-

XVIII One Moose in Particular 367

Part Iv— In Norway

XIX The New Hunting of Reindeer— When I Ate the Cake and Had It Too . . . 391

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

A bath tub for Suzanne to envy 21

He approached threatening, his face evil as boiling pitch . 45

The road led through the fragrant deep-shadowed pines . 71

The ride was becoming unpleasurably full of incident . 107

I lowered the gun and let him go 141

That ungrateful billy straightway made a vicious charge at his benefactor . . . 151'

A tawny shadow close against the red earth . . • 171

Hippity hop, around and around . . . .179

One actually sat on top of the camera . . . •183

ILLUSTRATIONS

Whiteswan. A portrait by himself

Plenty Coups' s ledger

Two squaws scolding their husbands, who have been out all night ....

Each in a canoe with a guide to paddle ....

We baled and baled with our foolish utensils . . -297

We all sat like graven images 361

Across the tiny lake loomed a magnificent animal . . 371

She looked at the fallen monarch and sniffed in alarm . 383

A reindeer drawing room . 403

Part I. In The Sierra

THE INN OF THE SILVER MOON fERE you ever in the open air through all the rounded day with not so much as a strip of canvas between you and the great space above? Have you ever watched that space put forth its round of blue — from palest grey at early morn— chill as Ophelia's brook-kissed tresses, to warmer — as the dove is grey, like the passion of anaemic youth, to steel — glittering as the mercenary eye, to drab — a brooding menace, to slate — even as Othello's sombre mien — a certainty storm?

Or, have you ever watched its gayer nature from that same chill tone at dawn peep forth, little spots of blue, like childish laughter dispelling sterner mood, until the whole wide dome is smiling — the blue of the asteria; warmer yet as the sun mounts — to turquoise, and at last the true cerulean, shimmering, blazing in all the ripe completed beauty of a June garden? Then have you, as the hours circled, watched this full-blooded light yield its radiance to the spirit of evening, gently drifting to the blue of the ancients, lapis lazuli — deeper, deeper yet, until the whole wonderful mantle is spread over you, a great dark-hearted sapphire ? Then, indeed you have found something good.

I am not asking you, the veteran, scarred with wounds and memories, nor you, the free-spirited mountaineer or plainsman; but you house-ridden dwellers in the cities, soul-sick ones, in church, in drawing-room, in office, or sweat-shop. Throw off your fetters for awhile, your prejudice, your narrow-mindedness, all the petty things that make your daily trappings and take a sunbath with me, give your starved soul a chance — the road to the outdoors is open to all. And as Providence is apparently over-busy administering to every feeble soul the necessary, properly-mixed tonic of self-sacrifice and recompense, come with me back to the woods, pry open your blind eyes and grow as the flowers grow.

STRONG breeze was stirring 'SskWi the tree-tops, the shining blue-eyed water of Lake Tahoe danced happily in its mountain home. The largest, fattest trout found shelter there, lucky the human who could float and dive with them. He might feel he was descended from the mer-folk, the sea his natural habitat, so buoyant is it, so deep, so bracing, so everything a water should be.

At least Nimrod said it was all these things, said it at great length as he stood, fully dressed, with no suspicious dampness to be discerned upon his locks, and flung chips to Undine, who rejoiced audibly while bringing them to shore. Undine was a black mongrel, a drifter in the high country, like ourselves. She had served many masters, cattlemen, even sheepmen, but the only law she permanently obeyed was that of the wild. She had attached herself to our cavalcade under circumstances unexpected as they were praiseworthy. But first it seems best to record that my "Yes" accompanied as it was by a variety of exclamation and interrogation points, caused Nimrod to say with a trace of haste in his manner:

"Look at Silverton "

And I did look at Silverton playing tag in the water with Undine, whose tail must have fairly loosened at the joints with joy.

Silverton was good to look at, six feet two; he was equally good to be with. He is dead now, poor chap, so I can say all the nice things about him that occur to me. Lou Silverton was the mountain type in its highest expression, a big man morally as well as physically, herculean strength at anybody's service (I have seen him break a big pebble in his hands) , his never-failing good humour, his homely philosophy and woodcraft lore made him the man of all others to go camping with. It was largely his courage and endurance that had made it possible to bring Monarch the biggest grizzly ever captured alive, to the Zoo at Golden Gate.

Whether my derision had urged him on, or whether his own remarks were a precursor to his present plan, I know not, but Nimrod disappeared behind some bushes and soon was splashing right merrily. How I envied them. My prim inheritance forbade that a towel should serve as a bathing garment. To my undoing, memory now presented a picture printed there only the day before when on the march; a jolly cascade of purest mountain vintage had scooped out in its eager course a granite slab, great boulders were piled about it. Here was a bath-tub smooth, unscarred by crack or pebble, a bath-tub for Susanne to envy.

It was not more than three miles. Surely I could find it. Leaving these brazen men with their brazen dog to take their shameless bath, wrapped in a cloak of modesty and sweet anticipations, I jumped upon the ever-ready horse, and trying to pretend that I was accustomed to going through these great solemn woods alone I started for the reality of that ablutionary picture. When at last it was found, the sun had already begun to pull down his shades, the pool, perhaps eight feet across and waist deep, looked black and cold — ^brrrrh! very cold. No, decidedly, Susanne would never have risked her satin flesh. As I hesitated the pines above sighed loudly:

" We love the pool so deep and cool, It is our child.

Step boldly in, dare all to win, 'Twill then be mild."

After that, the only polite thing to do was to become acquainted in the manner outlined. Unfortunately, wet rock is often like good intentions, most slippery. Not unaware of this I selected the least

A BATH TUB FOR SUZANNE TO ENVY sloping approach; a chilly wind swept by and through my Eve's costume most unpleasantly, when bump, bang-splash! I had slid full length, face downward into the water.

O mournful deceivers above — are you the unwilling servants of the monster my affrighted eyes now gazed upon? Life may hold worse moments, I pray not. What fiend had dashed me into that icy water to disturb, in frantic struggles for the life-giving air, the owner of this pool — a water-snake with darting tongue in a flattened head. It was not courage but sheer fright that tightened my hold on the rock rim near his writhing tail. There seemed yards of the squirming horror; in fact it filled the universe. It seemed to be enveloping me in swirling waves, as the dragon of the pool gradually glided under the rock. Then suddenly again the pines sang:

" dare all to win. "

I let go and managed to scramble out of the water, a frozen rag. It had been such a delightful bath!

Fortunately Nimrod had hunted me up and my courage being as absent as the chill was present, soon supplied some of the Dutch variety — such siren pines, yet do I love you.

Having revived the perishing, Nimrod, afterthe manner of husbands, proceeded to investigate. How long was the snake, how marked, what shaped head?

"Humph! Pituophis catenifer, a harmless Bull-snake! Doubtless more scared than you." -Could you have forgiven him? Later Silverton's philosophy smoothed my ruffled feelings.

' ' Why do you suppose I am such a coward ? Surely you have never been afraid in your life, have you?"

"Yes," a courteous lie, "but being afraid does not mean a coward. That's imagination. You see, I haven't much. It's what one does that counts. A fellar's feelings are his own job. I'll bet you've got more of the real article than I have. You get in a tight place, you hate it, but get out. Now I get in a tight place — I just get out — no frills — no credit."

He took off his sombrero, a huge affair with a plain leather band on the crown, and held it beside mine. It was like his but much smaller and the wide leather band was beautifully carved, a Mexican silver buckle held it.

' ' That's the difference— frills. It's just as useful."

We had been out in the Sierra for two weeks. There was one more of us, the cook. There ought to have been three more of us, for Sally and her husband were coming, but one of the children got the measles. Unless some other germs triumph, they will join us next month in Idaho. Sally's real name is Gulielma. She could not help it. There has always been one in the family. Her grandmother's name was Gulielma Mary Ann Sprigett Penn Wells Dean, so she got off with G. D. Rockingham, and now she is — you know — Tevis. So Bobby Tevis calls her "Pet," or "Petty," and I call her Sally. She does not care. She is hardened, she even looks with sweet unflinching eyes when her old-fashioned mother, going back to first principles, says, "Gu-liel-ma!"

I have never camped with a woman, but Bobbie Tevis has felt the call of the Red Gods and Sally has to come. She is very wise in the matter of husband keeping, is Sally. I have never seen her equal. Bobbie does everything for her, and adores her, and is not happy unless she is enjoying with him the same thing at the same moment. She has practically made herself over, perhaps a trifle strenuous for most, but it is beautiful to behold.

As for the cook, he was just an Ordinary Man who owned four horses and a wagon and some saddle horses, lived in Goldville, the place we wanted to start from — and could bake bread.

But to begin at the beginning : We left Sacramento, a light hearted trio, on the "mixed." At last we were started after much buying of provisions and camp necessaries. Perhaps you have never made the acquaintance of a ' 'mixed " ? This one had a moribund day coach very much frayed and moth-eaten in the matter of velvet seats, and very feeble in the springs ; we seemed to be riding chiefly on the trucks. Being the one daily train we had a caboose behind, and the rest of us was freight. With frequent stops for breath or water, the engine puffed, puffed up hill at least ten miles an hour. But no matter, for the iron horse toiled through a vast orchard and when it gave a long wheezing hiss and put on brakes to rest, merrily Silverton jumped off and foraged for the ripest figs and Nimrod for the rosiest peaches, until gorged with the best of California's cornucopia, we were glad to leave the fruit belt, puffing, blowing and bumping our way toward the Sierra, calm "sentinels of the sky." Once among them the engine banked its fires and expired. We were at the terminal, Goldville.

Nowhere is the air so clear, the sun so grateful, as in the mountains, but likewise never do the clouds seem so black nor human passions, stripped of some of their civilised trappings, show themselves more flagrantly. I am thinking of what happened during the two hours spent at Goldville. Nimrod and Silverton were busy with the Ordinary Man getting ready for the start that very afternoon into the mountains — we were to have no more roofs for a glorious while.

Being unoccupied, I drifted down the main street and into a little park surrounding the Court House. Several children and dogs were playing; on the benches were a few loafers and some women from the country with baskets — a long line beyond of dusty vehicles with horses hitched testified that it was market day. Selecting a vacant and shaded bench I sat thereon and extracting a tiny volume of verse from the crown of my hat began to read — I have no idea how long.

Fair lilies, roses red.

That once above my head Waved in a wealth of soft caressing splendour "

"Miss, did you ever see a dead man?" Shot into my ear like an arrow. Someone had whispered it sibilantly. My slow astonished gaze, thus torn from the contemplation of youth, love and beauty, saw beside me a small woman in shabby black, her eyes straight ahead, looking at something within, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. How had she got there?

"He's dead. I never saw one. He's there now."

She shot a sidelong glance at me.

"Where?"

"Over there," giving her right shoulder a hitch in the direction of Main Street.

"Wouldn't you like to see him?" She questioned in the same suppressed tone. Most assuredly I would not, but before I could say so she went on.

"They took him there this morning. He shot hisself yesterday. He lived next ranch — and I — want to see him. I can't go alone. Been

trying to . Now will you come ? ' *

She had risen and for a moment an eager look chased away the strained one.

"Why did he " She interrupted me.

"He's a widower. She's gone about a year. His step-daughter kept house for him, and folks say — well she's come to no good end, and he's shot hisself because folks said — but he and I — we — Ain't you comin' ? The old Man '11 be startin' back soon." She glanced at the long line of market wagons beyond the square.

"CominT'

"Very well."

I had much to do to keep pace with her. Once having gotten me, her moral force, started, she travelled swiftly out of the park, down Main Street, turned at the third block and halted abruptly in front of "there," which proved to be an * * Undertaking Parlour. ' '

"I dare n't — see him." It was a plea for reinforcement.

"Come!"

Once inside, she spoke to a man who appeared from the rear in his shirtsleeves.

" I — ^we want to see him.''

This speech appeared sufficiently normal to the gentleman of the undertaking.

"Come right back here," he said in a cheerful business-like tone" the coffin is most done, we're just engraving the plate. He spelt his name with two I's, I presume?"

The woman nodded. I essayed to wait for her, a grip on my sleeve showed that she still needed the human touch of sympathy. Together we followed to the workshop where loudly a hammer proclaimed a wooden case being put together, and somewhat apart, on a rough bier, under a sheet, lay the figure of ' ' him " who had not "made good, " as Silverton would put it. In a little house ten miles away a girl was cursing him, and the neighbours were helping. Here in the crude noisy shop was his one mourner — the other woman.

Dry-eyed she looked at him, bullet mark and all, looked long and looked again, then the vision held before her she sought the street and turned toward the market place and the "old Man."

She dropped me as one drops a shoe, she neither knew nor cared; and I scuttled back to Nimrod and pleasant things.

We slept that night on a strawstack in the Ordinary Man's ranch, a few miles out of Goldville. Of course, being an Ordinary Man he had forgotten something important, so we could get no farther. The overdome was violet black that night with a delicate all-over embroidery of silver. For a long time I lay looking at it, the straw slowly settling under my weight, making a cosy nest, amply protected from the crisp night air. I was floating in the sweet upper silence when a something set it all athrill, a long drawn melodious quavering weooooooo — followed by a few short, sharp shocks of sound, and then a chorus of rolling quavers, swelling and fading — wwwooooo woooowoo.

It did not really wake me. I knew it so well — the evening song of the coyotes. They were singing the song of the hills, and feeling that now indeed was I truly in the open, my lodging at "The Inn of the Silver Moon" lost reality and the silver wrought bowl slipped farther and farther away.

II. Real Dangers Of The Open Versus Popular Notion — Undine's Story

S already said, Undine had vagrantly answered to the will of many, and permanently to her own. During her nomadic career she had picked up several trades, such as cattle- and sheep-keeping, and at least three accomplishments, swimming, barking like a wolf, and deer-running, the last often much appreciated by the bacon-fed herder with whom she had consented awhile to tarry, taking his orders, doing his work and sharing his food and fire. Undine hated salt pork and "camp sinkers," so if possible she provided her own sustenance — any unlucky field mouse or chipmunk not agile enough to escape her spring.

Sheep had always been associated in my mind with great green stretches of rolling park land whereon a handful of these well-kept woolly things fed picturesquely, yielding at uncertain times and in obscure ways, white fleece; so I had small sympathy with the prejudice in the West, encountered universally, against ' ' sheepmen. ' ' Why class them among the despised? And the herders as creatures beyond the pale — outcasts ? — Why? We must have food, and mutton is most delectable.

We had been travelling about a week, each day gliding by as eventless and delightful as another until I had come to the comfortable belief that in well-regulated "outfits" nothing did happen; when the accumulated bolts of Jove struck among us right busily. On a certain well-remembered day we began to pass through some very extraordinary country, unclean, desolate.

The dust was incredible. It covered us like the shower from a volcano. Nimrod was transformed into a disgusted looking Santa Claus, hair, mustache, eyebrows, even eyelashes had disappeared under a reddish coating. Over the road (the Sierra are much more man-claimed than the Rockies, one finds roads instead of trails) it hung like a blanket ten feet high of ever changing particles; the horses ploughed through it eight inches thick or more, blinding, choking, intolerable. It was the dry season, but we had seen nothing like this.

''Why is it?" I questioned and the Ordinary Man answered —

"Sheep."

Silverton elaborated — "It's a pity they've got hold of so much of these mountains. But suppose they've got to go somewhere. Gov'ment ought to regulate 'em, so many to the square mile, and not let them wipe out th' hull country. Isn't a green thing left when they get through. Worse'n a plague o' locusts. We 're gettin' close to some now."

I wondered how he knew, but I had given up trying to fathom Silverton's woodcraft, perhaps he saw tracks or the breeze brought tidings.

Yes, there was something peculiar on the wind, very peculiar and very unpleasant. Was it burning rubber.? No, much worse. It was growing stronger and stronger, and the dust ! Every one of the million particles bore its unspeakably malodorous freight. Oh! for the power that cleaned the Augean stables! The Ordinary Man whipped up his horses. I was seated at the time on a big roll of bedding at the back of the wagon, leading my horse by the bridle. The four horses shot forward and I had the choice of loosening the hold on my horse or myself. A lost horse seemed preferable to a lost equilibrium and that overpowering dust and smell made me indifferent.

Nimrod caught the horse but I declined to be burdened with it. I longed for a fragrant terrace far away where clematis, and oleanders and day-lilies scented the clear air.

"Pretty nearly out," he encouraged.

"Out of what?" I snapped gently. "Sheep." I think his expression would have showed surprise if it could have penetrated the layer of dirt on his visage. "They are some distance off on the right, must be several thousands!"

I had not seen a thing. But now I heard voices, muffled sounds and bleats. So this particular brand of smell and this deluge of dust meant "sheep." We were on the necessary thoroughfare for these poor beasts to reach higher pasture lands. They were making a forced march in order to get food, for this region had already been devastated by their predecessors. The streams were defiled, the vegetation gone, nothing but dust and ruin.

Just then, a darting ball of red shot into the road, turned toward us one end from which two gleaming eyes shone, the other end was stiff for an instant and then waggled.

"Oh, you poor little doggie, what a sight you are! " It gave two short barks and several hard waggles and was off. ' ' That is the sheep herders' mainstay," said Silverton, "the dog does most of the work. The herders are a ornery lot, mostly Mexican trash, no decent man would take such a job."

So now I understood the prejudice. At best a herder's life represents long weeks alone, his only and constant company sheep, sheep, silly, smelly sheep. At last we left them behind and the air became humanly possible again. Being still in sheep country we were obliged to make camp where we could find water fit to drink.

A little spring in the enclosure of a deserted ranch (owner driven out by the sheep) had escaped pollution. It was sweet by its means to recover a normal appearance, and the little emerald patch was as welcome to us as the oasis to a desert traveller.

The Ordinary Man was preparing supper when a small red object crawled, rather than walked, toward us from the road. It lifted its nose from the ground and evidently seeing the object of its tracking, stretched out on the grass, a very tired dog.

After a time the eyes opened and looked at me.

"You are surely the sheep-herders' dog." The animal gave itself a shake as much as to disclaim anysuch connection, and with a bark of joy perceived the spring and jumped in. It was gone a long time. Had I been mistaken, was it a suicide.? when up came a creature in black coat, shining and curly, emitting little yelps of pleasure as it paddled about. Then vigorously drying herself Undine went to the fire and suggested that food would be most appreciated.

She ate starvedly and then fell to licking a long cut on the body. Perhaps it was resentment of this that had made Undine change her allegiance, for change it she had, as subsequent events proved.

I have often been struck by the flimsiness of the threads from which that curious fabric "popular notion" is woven. I have never been able to examine it closely without it falling to pieces in my hands. Perhaps it is a thankless task to destroy it: it is the way half of the world wins its living from the other half. But I am tempted to poke holes in a tiny section of it which maligns the Wild Ones. A word should be said for them. I have camped in a region where bears prowled unceasingly, where the smaller fourfoots, wolves, foxes, lynxes, knew very well of my presence. A mountain lion once walked half way around my bed as I lay peacefully sleeping, his nose not a hand's breadth from mine, as the great padded tracks next morning amply testified. I had much time to study them, as the very smell of their owner had stampeded the horses miles away. Hundreds of antelope, deer, wapiti, caribou I have seen and have never been in danger from them unless they were being molested and therefore on the defensive. In short the wild animals are no longer a menace to peaceful man.

The real dangers of the wilds that have seriously threatened my life were a common bull, and a little creature no bigger than a thumbnail — a yellow- jacket wasp!

Rarely if ever does a dangerous wild animal in the woods "hit first," and having said this for the wild ones, I may add that in spite of these fine words, still shackled by remnants of tradition, I am always expecting them to, and thereby prove myself a creature not wholly open to reason.

However, if something must inspect camp at night, I would far rather take chances on lion or bear, for at least they have a care where their feet are going, but a bull would as soon trample on one as on the grass alongside. He cares not a jot. A horse will carefully step over a human form but a bull has not a shred of noblesse oblige. He is a blatant, stupid, brutal bully.

As for yellow jackets, there is no creature more dreaded in horse country. Many a poor pack-horse on the trail has missed his footing and gone to his death because of them. I remember a certain "Lost Horse Cafion," the entrance of which they guarded, and where our faithful Midnight, in pain and fright, bucked himself off the trail, plunging nearly a thousand feet to the torrent below, a horrible performance which my horse came perilously near repeating. We were only saved by my being able to grasp an overhanging branch, and thus relieved of his burden the horse scrambled up on to the trail not a second too soon. Possibly the Creator had for long been making children, cubs, puppies and other young things then; of a sudden fearing that the world might become too sweet a place, balanced by fashioning the wasp — all venom, sting and temper.

(This is really the story of Undine, but the propeller blade has to be in the air some of the time, you know.)

After supper the long twilight still lingered. Nimrod, who had been sweeping the foothills with glasses, gave utterance to this cryptic remark:

"I think I see a milk wagon! Fresh milk for breakfast, a good idea! Come Silverton, Cook, bring a pail," and the three rode away toward a small "bunch" of range cattle that had come into view on the edge of the sheep-ruined country.

Undine and I were getting acquainted. She was not a lap dog, had evidently no conception of the part, but lay nose between paws watching me as I sang, perhaps liking the sound that the Poet had made when he strung the words together —

'Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of night !

Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear, —

Swiftbe thy flight! ..."

The little dog raised her nose and sniffed tentatively, then arose in an attitude of attention. A horseman was galloping towards us. Undine sniffed again, gave a low growl, and crawled out of sight under a pile of canvas. A dirty swarthy little man drew rein, almost pulled the poor creature to its haunches. Flecked with foam, it stood trembling, breathing heavily.

"The Mexican sheep-herder of course," I thought, "cruel to everything, beware of little black men, all devil — soul like a pin-point," where had I heard that!

"Giv'-a the dog," he demanded, scowling down at me. Something inside got^ uncomfortably large and thumped. I said nothing. Flinging himself to the ground, he pointed to Undine's track.

"He's here — sacre! You can no' keep!" He approached threatening, his face evil as boiling pitch. The deserted aspect of the place now penetrated to his consciousness. His darting black eyes searched about cunningly, but he failed to see a black nose and two shining beads, noting his every movement.

"Ah; mia bella!"

I retreated. He advanced, one hand outstretched. It was the signal for Undine to launch herself upon him.

"Santa Maria sacre"

A torrent of "hog" Spanish followed. The little dog snarled and growled at the approaching man. He kept her off by kicking as he edged toward a big stick, murder written on every line of him — poor little Undine! Running as fast as the ground would allow, for it seemed to jump up and down, I got to the bed, some distance off, and grabbed a gun. How it stuck in the scabbard ! At last the hateful thing was out.