Chapter VII: Part I: LETTER No. I (2)

"He turned out to be a miner returning from a camp through which I
had to go, but as he was too anxious to get on, I kindly asked him
if he would not take a drink, when suddenly I remembered the smashed
bottle. Ample excuses and convincing ones, as he had to go through
the same drift, and would there see the mangled remains of my dead
soldier; so we parted, he to continue his journey, and I to bed,
though yet only sundown.

"The next morning found me up early, only too anxious to get away
from this land of desolation. The preceding evening had landed me on
a bare knoll, and a slight wind having sprung up during the night
and obliterated the tracks of my unexpected visitor, I had to make
my way as well as I possibly could; old Jim now up and now down,
digging him out, unpacking and wearying along, passed the day, and
found me camped alongside a creek surrounded by heavy brush.

"It would have been hard to have awoke me when I did get to sleep,
as I had had a fairly rough day of it; still it could not have been
more than three hours after I had gone to sleep when I was awoke by
a horrible grunting, and the bushes round the tent were torn and
smashed round as if a young cyclone was at work. It could not be old
Jim this time; oh, no! it was a fine old bruin! so, hastily putting
on my pants, and at the same time giving a terrific yell, feeling
for my rifle, which, by the way, I had left at home, and skipping
out of the tent, took a very short space of time. As it was now
pitch dark, and plenty of roots of trees to run against and tumble
over, I had to pull up and listen, and I soon heard with
satisfaction the noise some distance past my tent. I evidently had
either scared him or he had gone to the tent, taken my bacon, and
walked off. Though not fifty yards off, I had a good deal of trouble
to find my tent again, and, when found, lay me down, but not to
sleep, for a while at least, until I could hear no more groanings.
Old bear-hunters since tell me that he would have done no harm if he
had intruded into my tent; if I had feigned being dead he would only
have nosed me round and given me a parting slap for old
acquaintance' sake, breaking one or two ribs. I think here again
discretion was better than valour. The funny part comes later on.
Next day I met two prospectors, and told them about the bear. They
told it in Bozeman, and next day it is in the paper, reading as
follows:—

"'A man out prospecting was aroused from his midnight slumbers by a
bear. The night being dark, and no ammunition at hand, he beat a
hasty retreat, running two miles, falling into a creek, and then
down a deep gully (fortunately sustaining no injuries) in but very
scanty clothing; staying out all night, and on returning in the
morning, he found his bacon and grub all gone,' &c.

"So much for newspaper reports! I have had several gentle surprises
since. I hope to do well in time, and do not expect to return home
until I have made a good stake.

"The remainder of my journey passed without further incident."

"_December 10, 1884._

"Why don't you send me a coloured plate now and then? People in my
low scale of life would hang it up on the wall in place of a
Millais....

"I can do well here. It is only a question of time, as I have before
said. If business were more flourishing, the prices would be better,
and this can only be remedied by time. 'Everything comes to him who
waits.'

"I am now getting out fencing poles, both for myself and to sell. It
is terribly hard work. A walk of three miles, completely up grade,
brings me to the top of the mountain range, back of the cabin, and
here I cut them on the now already six inches of snow, work them
down a 'shoot,' then haul them home on a sleigh. To-day I cut one
hundred, and put them in position with my others (three hundred
already cut). This may seem easy work, but in reality it is very
hard. Even if it snows a foot or two to-morrow, I must still stick
to it. I want about one thousand five hundred (a thousand to sell at
fourpence apiece), and it will keep me rushing to do it. What with
climbing up and slipping down, cutting and clearing the shoot each
fresh snow, walking home again, you may imagine I get pretty fagged
out by the end of the day.

"If we had not had such bad luck this summer we (B. and myself)
would have been some hundreds of dollars ahead this winter; but the
cattle breaking my garden fence down, and destroying the whole of
the garden stuff, and not getting paid for work, it put me a way
behind, besides the loss of one of my horses....

"My mule was looking poor when B. came. So we thought to trade him
off, and we exchanged him for a pony, and then exchanged the pony
for a mare (a good trade). Unfortunately, I lost the mare, but may
still get her back next summer; so I had to get another horse, for
which I gave eighty-five dollars.... The money you sent me helped to
pay for my former team, wagon, harness, tools, and furniture. Though
not elaborate, still it all mounted up.

"... This winter I shall earn all I can, though it is terribly hard
to make much this time of year. Boots (rubber) are continually
wearing out, and socks too; my heels are like boards.

"I have come to the conclusion I could learn some language, living
or dead, these long winter evenings, if you would send me some
books. I read continually of an evening.... Wishing you all a merry
Christmas and happy new year."

"_December 31, 1884._

"Since I last wrote we have had a terrible fall of snow, but now all
is clear again; that is to say, the tracks are all broken; good
sleighing and sharp, cold weather. Can you realise 47° below zero?
We had this for a day and a half, and it kept us pretty close to the
stove.

"B. calculates to buy a piece of railroad land adjoining my ranche,
and we can then fence together.... He can still live with me, and we
can work and help one another. The longer I stay here, the more I
like the life.... Cattle grow at a surprising pace here. My
neighbour, a mile north, sold ten steers at forty dollars a head,
for which he was only offered twenty dollars last spring. Thank all
round for Christmas cards.

"The hardest thing to do now is to keep warm, and much as we try
with patent socks, running round, eating fat bacon, &c., the cold
will creep to our toes.... A bottle of Crosse and Blackwell's
pickles, mixed with a little plum pudding of my own making, we had
on Christmas Day, quite made me ill for the time being; however, a
dose of horse specific soon put me right again. I really believe the
sight of a mince pie would turn my stomach. Life here is without any
of the festivities of Old England. If there is a dance, you invite
your lady love to go with you, and pay two dollars for the privilege
of dancing in a little cabin no bigger than mine (seventeen by
nineteen), crowded with cowboys and farmers' daughters. As I have no
lady love, nor the money to throw away, I have not given them the
pleasure of my society yet.

"Sister A. ought to come out and keep my house for me next summer.
Tell her I will build an addition to the mansion if she will come.
The mountain air will do her good."

"_March 14, 1885._

"I have been expecting to hear from you, I may say, very
anxiously.... _Any_ letter would be better than none at all. I feel
it all the more here, as I have been doing my very best to get
ahead. I am still convinced that I can do well here if I can once
get ahead. A little bunch of stock, and my debts cleared, and I can
then go right ahead.... To-day is my birthday. By next year, if I
live, I shall be gray-headed. Snow still a foot deep, though
disappearing."

"_May 17, 1885._

"We are now in full swing of spring work; grass, trees, and my
garden are pushing ahead wonderfully. The season is short here, so
vegetation has to hurry up to take advantage of the time.... I
verily believe I got the last piece of Government land in the valley
worth taking up with good grass on it, and water running through,
but it is too rocky to plough any extent of it. Thirty acres are the
most I could work, but as pasturage it will be worth considerable
some day.

"I am now in such a position that I hardly know how to look ahead. I
have my ranche, which still requires considerable fencing, and ought
to be done this spring, as grass is getting scarce, and the stock
not only eat it off, but tread it out, so that I ought to take
advantage of this spring to get it completely under fence. This, of
course, costs money. The barbed wire has to be bought. I have
already a good deal up, besides the 1,350 poles and 640 posts that I
cut and put up myself. All this takes time, of course, and prevents
my working out anywhere in the mountains.

"Now the question is, What am I to do? I still owe —— dollars. I
hardly like to say that I had better turn tail and come home, or get
a berth, if possible, in New York or somewhere. This is not my wish
at all. In truth, I would sooner stay and work on here. I like the
country immensely, and, with the aid of capital, can do well; but,
on the other hand, I can only go on as a day labourer, earning
enough, perhaps, this summer and winter to pay my debts, which are
piling up at a cent and a half a month interest (18 _per cent._). Of
course, you will take into account my early failure in Minnesota;
but though I know it was my own fault, I put it down to a run of bad
luck and want of experience. I assure you I have done nothing but
work since I have been out here, building up my home, and looking
out for a job as the chances came.... My debts paid and clear here,
I can, of course, make a living, but I want to do something more
than that.

"If you cannot possibly give me the necessary start, I must go off
and wander round from month to month. It seems to me that I have
done nothing but have money since I left England, but since the
first loss it has come in in rather small sums, that have been
swallowed up in odds and ends about the place.

"You need not think me grumbling or grasping. I long to get a fair,
clear start, and have done with it. Whatever you do, do not think I
am tired or want a change. The more I see of this life the more I
like it.

"My _Homestead Right_[1] lasts for five years, and until they have
expired I cannot get a title from the Government for my land, so
that I am not likely to throw up my work and right without a good
cause....

Footnote 1:

See Appendix.

"_P.S.—A trip out here would do you good, and you could see for
yourself how things stand._"

"_June 26, 1885._

"... You ask me whether my ranche does not produce anything—have I
no cattle to sell, &c. If you refer to my letters, you will see that
I mentioned having bought an old cow cheap (for £4), which gave us
milk last winter, but as she was a little too decrepit to raise a
calf, I traded her off this spring for a little mare, which, again,
I sold for 200 cedar posts, worth twenty cents apiece, or forty
dollars. Thus my old cow, which I gave £4 for, will, when the posts
are delivered and sold, bring me in £8. (As the spring has been
unusually wet, the man has not come up to time with the posts, but I
shall have them shortly.) My garden ought to bring me in £20. I have
the finest set of cabbages, peas, and potatoes in the valley, my
team, and this spring I have 130 chickens, 100 of which we raised
this spring, and more are hatching out now. Twenty-five acres broken
ready for a crop of wheat that is ready to sow by September, and one
mile and a half of fence, or 150 acres, enclosed. In addition to
this, I have just finished putting up a little milk house on the
creek, and am terribly proud of it; it looks like a Swiss châlet,
gabled ends, &c. I am all the more proud of it, as I have hewed the
logs and put it up at odd times of an evening. By next autumn, when
I hope to have everything complete, I shall have, if not the
prettiest, at least one of the nicest little ranches in Montana,
magnificent building spot, icy cold water all the year round, and
unrivalled panoramic view, also perfectly healthy. You will
understand from this that what with having bought my team, tools,
&c., it does not leave much for stock. One cow costs fifty dollars,
and _hard_ to get at that. A yearling calf costs from £3 to £5, and
if possible I must try and get some in the fall, as I have put about
seven acres into oats for hay, besides what hay I can cut (this
having been a splendid season for grass). Oats would hardly pay to
thresh on so small an acreage, though the yield ought to be between
fifty and seventy bushels to the acre. Crops are magnificent. On
lots of ranches _wheat_ will go as high as fifty bushels to the acre
this year (seventy-five have been raised). As my team, though
strong, are not very heavy, I have only averaged three-quarters of
an acre breaking sod a day. Three horses are generally used.

"With five cows I could keep twenty hogs, and what with my crop next
year, garden, and work at odd times, should be considered rich here,
and could put by money.

"You will perhaps remember my telling you that there was a saw-mill
up the cañon above my ranche some three miles. Well, the 'boss' came
down three weeks ago, and hired me to work for him at thirty dollars
a month until threshing time, or the 1st of September. This suited
me well, as on Sundays and after work, when not too tired, I could
run down home and see that things were all right. B. is still
staying with me, and is a great help.... I started to work two days
after, and stayed three weeks, whereas I had hoped to get a job till
September. He shut down the mill suddenly, and thus threw me out of
work. We have given him a piece of our mind, but as he was young,
and didn't know his own mind, we didn't quarrel about it. This job,
of course, suited me well, as it was handy to home; but the day
after to-morrow I am going after a three months' job on a sheep
drive some three hundred miles, at forty dollars a month. The sheep
are twenty miles from here, and have to be driven down beyond
Custer, which would bring me back home by threshing time.

"I am glad to say that wherever I have worked or am known at all I
can always get a job, as I am considered to be a 'rustler,' or
night-hawk, as I work early up to dark. The mill-owner is going to
move his mill down to mouth of the cañon, I hear; so this will to
some extent improve the value of my property."

In July, 1885, he wrote to a friend:—

"I have only just received your letter. It has been a long time on
the road, as I am now twenty miles away from home, working out at
'dipping sheep,' dirty and terribly hard work. As to your cousin
coming out, I can only say that _I_ certainly can do well, and I
should say that he could also if he will be content to rough it. I
have done nothing but rough it since I have been out, and find it
has done me no harm, but much good. I am getting as strong as a
horse.

"Thirty shillings (say five dollars) a week will keep your cousin in
good circumstances; and if he cares to come out to me I can show him
round, and he will be quite welcome. The climate is bracing, and it
is without exception the healthiest place I have ever struck.

"Try and get 'the Old Man' [meaning _me_] to come out with you; you
will enjoy the trip. I am sending this scrawl by a cowboy, and he
may or may not forget to post it, though I trust he will not."

LETTER No. VI.

My last letter before leaving for the United States by the good ship
"Cunardia."

_London, August 20, 1885._

Frank is now about twenty-six years of age. He has had four years of hard and varied experience, and although fortune has not yet smiled upon him, he does not seem inclined, so far as I am able to form an opinion from his correspondence, to succumb. I gather from his letters, by which alone I can at present judge, that he is still prepared to rough it. He has youth, health, and strength on his side, and I imagine there are few young fellows who have been brought up amidst the comforts and pleasures of a city life who would willingly have gone through so many hardships.

Circumstances make it desirable for me to visit New York and the other Eastern cities. I have, therefore, resolved to journey so far as the Rockies, in order to see for myself, and thus to form a clear opinion of what he is doing and what his chances of success really are.

I propose, therefore, to follow up the foregoing sketch of Frank's four years' struggles by sending occasional letters, giving you an account of whatever may turn up on my long journey, and to describe what I may see of his location and surroundings. I am also not without hope of finding opportunities for some further piscatorial exploits in the lakes and streams of Montana. If I meet with any adventures in this way, I shall not fail to record them.

END OF PART I.