Chapter 14

We went to the assay building the other day to see a brick of gold taken from the furnace. The mold was run out on its little track soon after we got there, and I never dreamed of what "white heat" really means, until I saw the oven of that awful furnace. We had to stand far across the room while the door was open, and even then the hot air that shot out seemed blasting. The men at the furnace were protected, of course. The brick mold was in another mold that after a while was put in cold water, so we had to wait for first the large and then the small to be opened before we saw the beautiful yellow brick that was still very hot, but we were assured that it was then too hard to be in danger of injury. It was of the largest size, and shaped precisely like an ordinary building brick, and its value was great. It was to be shipped on the stage the next morning on its way to the treasury in Washington.

It is wonderful that so few of those gold bricks are stolen from the stage. The driver is their only protector, and the stage route is through miles and miles of wild forests, and in between huge boulders where a "hold-up" could be so easily accomplished.

CAMP ON MARIAS RIVER, MONTANA TERRITORY, September, 1878.

AN old proverb tells us that "All things come to him who waits," but I never had faith in this, for I have patiently waited many times for things that never found me. But this time, after I had waited and waited the tiresome summer through, ever hoping to come to Fort Benton, and when I was about discouraged, "things come," and here I am in camp with Faye, and ever so much more comfortable than I would have been at the little old hotel at Benton.

There are only two companies here now--all the others having gone with regimental headquarters to Fort Shaw--otherwise I could not be here, for I could not have come to a large camp. Our tents are at the extreme end of the line in a grove of small trees, and next to ours is the doctor's, so we are quite cut off from the rest of the camp. Cagey is here, and Faye has a very good soldier cook, so the little mess, including the doctor, is simply fine. I am famished all the time, for everything tastes so delicious after the dreadful hotel fare. The two horses are here, and I brought my saddle over, and this morning Faye and I had a delightful ride out on the plain. But how I did miss my dear dog! He was always so happy when with us and the horses, and his joyous bounds and little runs after one thing and another added much to the pleasure of our rides.

Fort Benton is ten miles from camp, and Faye met me there with an ambulance. I was glad enough to get away from that old stage. It was one of the jerky, bob-back-and-forth kind that pitches you off the seat every five minutes. The first two or three times you bump heads with the passenger sitting opposite, you can smile and apologize with some grace, but after a while your hat will not stay in place and your head becomes sensitive, and finally, you discover that the passenger is the most disagreeable person you ever saw, and that the man sitting beside you is inconsiderate and selfish, and really occupying two thirds of the seat.

We came a distance of one hundred and forty miles, getting fresh horses every twenty miles or so. The morning we left Helena was glorious, and I was half ashamed because I felt so happy at coming from the town, where so many of my friends were in sorrow, but tried to console myself with the fact that I had been ordered away by Doctor Gordon. There were many cases of typhoid fever, and the rheumatic fever that has made Mrs. Sargent so ill has developed into typhoid, and there is very little hope for her recovery.

The driver would not consent to my sitting on top with him, so I had to ride inside with three men. They were not rough-looking at all, and their clothes looked clean and rather new, but gave one the impression that they had been made for other people. Their pale faces told that they were "tenderfeet," and one could see there was a sad lacking of brains all around.

The road comes across a valley the first ten or twelve miles, and then runs into a magnificent canon that is sixteen miles long, called Prickly-Pear Canon. As I wrote some time ago, everything is brought up to this country by enormous ox trains, some coming from the railroad at Corinne, and some that come from Fort Benton during the Summer, having been brought up by boat on the Missouri River. In the canons these trains are things to be dreaded. The roads are very narrow and the grades often long and steep, with immense boulders above and below.

We met one of those trains soon after we entered the canon, and at the top of a grade where the road was scarcely wider than the stage itself and seemed to be cut into a wall of solid rock. Just how we were to pass those huge wagons I did not see. But the driver stopped his horses and two of the men got out, the third stopping on the step and holding on to the stage so it was impossible for me to get out, unless I went out the other door and stood on the edge of an awful precipice. The driver looked back, and not seeing me, bawled out, "Where is the lady?" "Get the lady out!" The man on the step jumped down then, but the driver did not put his reins down, or move from his seat until he had seen me safely on the ground and had directed me where to stand.

In the meantime some of the train men had come up, and, as soon as the stage driver was ready, they proceeded to lift the stage--trunks and all--over and on some rocks and tree tops, and then the four horses were led around in between other rocks, where it seemed impossible for them to stand one second. There were three teams to come up, each consisting of about eight yoke of oxen and three or four wagons. It made me almost ill to see the poor patient oxen straining and pulling up the grade those huge wagons so heavily loaded. The crunching and groaning of the wagons, rattling of the enormous cable chains, and the creaking of the heavy yokes of the oxen were awful sounds, but above all came the yells of the drivers, and the sharp, pistol-like reports of the long whips that they mercilessly cracked over the backs of the poor beasts. It was most distressing.

After the wagons had all passed, men came back and set the stage on the road in the same indifferent way and with very few words. Each man seemed to know just what to do, as though he had been training for years for the moving of that particular stage. The horses had not stirred and had paid no attention to the yelling and cracking of whips. While coming through the canons we must have met six or seven of those trains, every one of which necessitated the setting in mid-air of the stage coach. It was the same performance always, each man knowing just what to do, and doing it, too, without loss of time. Not once did the driver put down the reins until he saw that "the lady" was safely out and it was ever with the same sing-song, "balance to the right," voice that he asked about me--except once, when he seemed to think more emphasis was needed, when he made the canon ring by yelling, "Why in hell don't you get the lady out!" But the lady always got herself out. Rough as he was, I felt intuitively that I had a protector. We stopped at Rock Creek for dinner, and there he saw that I had the best of everything, and it was the same at Spitzler's, where we had supper.

We got fresh horses at The Leavings, and when I saw a strange driver on the seat my heart sank, fearing that from there on I might not have the same protection. We were at a large ranch--sort of an inn--and just beyond was Frozen Hill. The hill was given that name because a number of years ago a terrible blizzard struck some companies of infantry while on it, and before they could get to the valley below, or to a place of shelter, one half of the men were more or less frozen--some losing legs, some arms. They had been marching in thin clothing that was more or less damp from perspiration, as the day had been excessively hot. These blizzards are so fierce and wholly blinding, it is unsafe to move a step if caught out in one on the plains, and the troops probably lost their bearings as soon as the storm struck them.

It was almost dark when we got in the stage to go on, and I thought it rather queer that the driver should have asked us to go to the corral, instead of his driving around to the ranch for us. Very soon we were seated, but we did not start, and there seemed to be something wrong, judging by the way the stage was being jerked, and one could feel, too, that the brake was on. One by one those men got out, and just as the last one stepped down on one side the heads of two cream-colored horses appeared at the open door on the other side, their big troubled eyes looking straight at me.

During my life on the frontier I have seen enough of native horses to know that when a pair of excited mustang leaders try to get inside a stage, it is time for one to get out, so I got out! One of those men passengers instantly called to me, "You stay in there!" I asked, "Why?" "Because it is perfectly safe," said a second man. I was very indignant at being spoken to in this way and turned my back to them. The driver got the leaders in position, and then looking around, said to me that when the balky wheelers once started they would run up the hill "like the devil," and I would surely be left unless I was inside the stage.

I knew that he was telling the truth, and if he had been the first man to tell me to get in the coach I would have done so at once, but it so happened that he was the fourth, and by that time I was beginning to feel abused. It was bad enough to have to obey just one man, when at home, and then to have four strange men--three of them idiots, too--suddenly take upon themselves to order me around was not to be endured. I had started on the trip with the expectation of taking care of myself, and still felt competent to do so. Perhaps I was very tired, and perhaps I was very cross. At all events I told the driver I would not get in--that if I was left I would go back to the ranch. So I stayed outside, taking great care, however, to stand close to the stage door.

The instant I heard the loosening of the brake I jumped up on the step, and catching a firm hold each side of the door, was about to step in when one of those men passengers grabbed my arm and tried to jerk me back, so he could get in ahead of me! It was a dreadful thing for anyone to do, for if my hands and arms had not been unusually strong from riding hard-mouthed horses, I would undoubtedly have been thrown underneath the big wheels and horribly crushed, for the four horses were going at a terrific gait, and the jerky was swaying like a live thing. As it was, anger and indignation gave me extra strength and I scrambled inside with nothing more serious happening than a bruised head. But that man! He pushed in back of me and, not knowing the nice little ways of jerkies, was pitched forward to the floor with an awful thud. But after a second or so he pulled himself up on his seat, which was opposite mine, and there we two sat in silence and in darkness. I noticed the next morning that there was a big bruise on one side of his face, at the sight of which I rejoiced very much.

It was some distance this side of the hill when the driver stopped his horses and waited for the two men who had been left. They seemed much exhausted when they came up, but found sufficient breath to abuse the driver for having left them; but he at once roared out, "Get in, I tell you, or I'll leave you sure enough!" That settled matters, and we started on again. Very soon those men fell asleep and rolled off their seats to the floor, where they snored and had bad dreams. I was jammed in a corner without mercy, and of course did not sleep one second during the long wretched night. Twice we stopped for fresh horses, and at both places I walked about a little to rest my cramped feet and limbs. At breakfast the next morning I asked the driver to let me ride on top with him, which he consented to, and from there on to Benton I had peace and fresh air--the glorious air of Montana.

Yesterday--the day after I got here--I was positively ill from the awful shaking up, mental as well as physical, I received on that stage ride. We reached Benton at eleven. Faye was at the hotel with an ambulance when the stage drove up, and it was amusing to look at the faces of those men when they saw Faye in his uniform, and the government outfit. We started for camp at once, and left them standing on the hotel porch watching us as we drove down the street. It is a pity that such men cannot be compelled to serve at least one enlistment in the Army, and be drilled into something that resembles a real man. But perhaps recruiting officers would not accept them.

FORT SHAW, MONTANA TERRITORY, October, 1878.

MY stay at the little town of Sun River Crossing was short, for when I arrived there the other day in the stage from Benton, I found a note awaiting me from Mrs. Bourke, saying that I must come right on to Fort Shaw, so I got back in the stage and came to the post, a distance of five miles, where General Bourke was on the lookout for me. He is in command of the regiment as well as the post, as Colonel Fitz-James is still in Europe. Of course regimental headquarters and the band are here, which makes the garrison seem very lively to me. The band is out at guard mounting every pleasant morning, and each Friday evening there is a fine concert in the hall by the orchestra, after which we have a little dance. The sun shines every day, but the air is cool and crisp and one feels that ice and snow are not very far off.

The order for the two companies on the Marias to return to the Milk River country was most unexpected. That old villain Sitting Bull, chief of the Sioux Indians, made an official complaint to the "Great Father" that the half-breeds were on land that belonged to his people, and were killing buffalo that were theirs also. So the companies have been sent up to arrest the half-breeds and conduct them to Fort Belknap, and to break up their villages and burn their cabins. The officers disliked the prospect of doing all this very much, for there must be many women and little children among them. Just how long it will take no one can tell, but probably three or four weeks.

And while Faye is away I am staying with General and Mrs. Bourke. I cannot have a house until he comes, for quarters cannot be assigned to an officer until he has reported for duty at a post. There are two companies of the old garrison here still, and this has caused much doubling up among the lieutenants--that is, assigning one set of quarters to two officers--but it has been arranged so we can be by ourselves. Four rooms at one end of the hospital have been cut off from the hospital proper by a heavy partition that has been put up at the end of the long corridor, and these rooms are now being calcimined and painted. They were originally intended for the contract surgeon. We will have our own little porch and entrance hall and a nice yard back of the kitchen. It will all be so much more private and comfortable in every way than it could possibly have been in quarters with another family.

It is delightful to be in a nicely furnished, well-regulated house once more. The buildings are all made of adobe, and the officers' quarters have low, broad porches in front, and remind me a little of the houses at Fort Lyon, only of course these are larger and have more rooms. There are nice front yards, and on either side of the officers' walk is a row of beautiful cottonwood trees that form a complete arch. They are watered by an acequia that brings water from Sun River several miles above the post. The post is built along the banks of that river but I do not see from what it derived its name, for the water is muddy all the time. The country about here is rather rolling, but there are two large buttes--one called Square Butte that is really grand, and the other is Crown Butte. The drives up and down the river are lovely, and I think that Bettie and I will soon have many pleasant mornings together on these roads. After the slow dignified drives I am taking almost every day, I wonder how her skittish, affected ways will seem to me!

I am so glad to be with the regiment again--that is, with old friends, although seeing them in a garrison up in the Rocky Mountains is very different from the life in a large city in the far South! Four companies are still at Fort Missoula, where the major of the regiment is in command. Our commanding officer and his wife were there also during the winter, therefore those of us who were at Helena and Camp Baker, feel that we must entertain them in some way. Consequently, now that everyone is settled, the dining and wining has begun. Almost every day there is a dinner or card party given in their honor, and several very delightful luncheons have been given. And then the members of the old garrison, according to army etiquette, have to entertain those that have just come, so altogether we are very gay. The dinners are usually quite elegant, formal affairs, beautifully served with dainty china and handsome silver. The officers appear at these in full-dress uniform, and that adds much to the brilliancy of things, but not much to the comfort of the officers, I imagine.

Everyone is happy in the fall, after the return of the companies from their hard and often dangerous summer campaign, and settles down for the winter. It is then that we feel we can feast and dance, and it is then, too, that garrison life at a frontier post becomes so delightful. We are all very fond of dancing, so I think that Faye and I will give a cotillon later on. In fact, it is about all we can do while living in those four rooms.

We have Episcopal service each alternate Sunday, when the Rev. Mr. Clark comes from Helena, a distance of eighty-five miles, to hold one service for the garrison here and one at the very small village of Sun River. And once more Major Pierce and I are in the same choir. Doctor Gordon plays the organ, and beautifully, too. For some time he was organist in a church at Washington, and of course knows the service perfectly. Our star, however, is a sergeant! He came to this country with an opera troupe, but an attack of diphtheria ruined his voice for the stage, so he enlisted! His voice (barytone) is still of exquisite quality, and just the right volume for our hall.

FORT SHAW, MONTANA TERRITORY, January, 1879.

THERE has been so much going on in the garrison, and so much for me to attend to in getting the house settled, I have not had time to write more than the note I sent about dear little Billie. I miss him dreadfully, for, small as he was, he was always doing something cunning, always getting into mischief. He died the day we moved to this house, and it hurts even now when I think of how I was kept from caring for him the last day of his short life. And he wanted to be with me, too, for when I put him in his box he would cling to my fingers and try to get back to me. It is such a pity that we ever cracked his nuts. His lower teeth had grown to perfect little tusks that had bored a hole in the roof of his mouth. As soon as that was discovered, we had them cut off, but it was too late--the little grayback would not eat.

We are almost settled now, and Sam, our Chinese cook, is doing splendidly. At first there was trouble, and I had some difficulty in convincing him that I was mistress of my own house and not at all afraid of him. Cagey has gone back to Holly Springs. He had become utterly worthless during the summer camp, where he had almost nothing to do.

Our little entertainment for the benefit of the mission here was a wonderful success. Every seat was occupied, every corner packed, and we were afraid that the old theater might collapse. We made eighty dollars, clear of all expenses. The tableaux were first, so the small people could be sent home early. Then came our pantomime. Sergeant Thompson sang the words and the orchestra played a soft accompaniment that made the whole thing most effective. Major Pierce was a splendid Villikins, and as Dinah I received enough applause to satisfy anyone, but the curtain remained down, motionless and unresponsive, just because I happened to be the wife of the stage manager!

The prison scene and Miserere from Il Trovatore were beautiful. Sergeant Mann instructed each one of the singers, and the result was far beyond our expectations. Of course the fine orchestra of twenty pieces was a great addition and support. Our duet was not sung, because I was seized with an attack of stage fright at the last rehearsal, so Sergeant Mann sang an exquisite solo in place of the duet, which was ever so much nicer. I was with Mrs. Joyce in one scene of her pantomime, "John Smith," which was far and away the best part of the entertainment. Mrs. Joyce was charming, and showed us what a really fine actress she is. The enlisted men went to laugh, and they kept up a good-natured clapping and laughing from first to last.

It was surprising that so many of the Sun River and ranch people came, for the night was terrible, even for Montana, and the roads must have been impassable in places. Even here in the post there were great drifts of snow, and the path to the theater was cut through banks higher than our heads. It had been mild and pleasant for weeks, and only two nights before the entertainment we had gone to the hall for rehearsal with fewer wraps than usual. We had been there about an hour, I think, when the corporal of the guard came in to report to the officer of the day, that a fierce blizzard was making it impossible for sentries to walk post. His own appearance told better than words what the storm was. He had on a long buffalo coat, muskrat cap and gauntlets, and the fur from his head down, also heavy overshoes, were filled with snow, and at each end of his mustache were icicles hanging. He made a fine, soldierly picture as he brought his rifle to his side and saluted. The officer of the day hurried out, and after a time returned, he also smothered in furs and snow. He said the storm was terrific and he did not see how many of us could possibly get to our homes.

But of course we could not remain in the hall until the blizzard had ceased, so after rehearsing a little more, we wrapped ourselves up as well as we could and started for our homes. The wind was blowing at hurricane speed, I am sure, and the heavy fall of snow was being carried almost horizontally, and how each frozen flake did sting! Those of us who lived in the garrison could not go very far astray, as the fences were on one side and banks of snow on the other, but the light snow had already drifted in between and made walking very slow and difficult. We all got to our different homes finally, with no greater mishap than a few slightly frozen ears and noses. Snow had banked up on the floor inside of our front door so high that for a few minutes Faye and I thought that we could not get in the house.