Chapter 2

There are several varieties of sagebrush, and a person not well acquainted with the desert might easily mistake one for the other. There are the white sage, a good forage plant for sheep, and the yellow sage, which, when properly taken, can be made useful for cattle. Then there is the common variety, the sort named above. This is not to be mistaken for the prickly greasewood which infests the more alkaline regions; nor the rabbit-brush with its blossom so like the goldenrod, but with a very disagreeable odor. No man who knows will ever buy land where the greasewood grows thickly; it is unproductive because of the large percentage of alkali. But the ancient-looking sage is a pretty sure indication of fertility of soil. Mother Nature is sometimes hard pushed to find dresses for all her poorer areas; of course the better portions of the land east or west, north or south, care for their clothes better than do these arid stretches and the clothing is a richer vegetation.

This ever-gray, little hunger-pinched pygmy among trees looks about as much like an oak as does a diminutive monkey like a grown man.

A peculiarity of this individual in treedom is that it keeps its ash-colored leaf until it has a new set to put on in the spring, so that all winter long it presents the same color as it does in the summertime. Its bark is loose and shaggy, being shed rapidly, and gives one the thought of the old grape vine; hanging in bunches, the bole has always a ragged appearance. It is truly the dry-land plant, always found where the alkali or water is not too abundant; but in favored spots where there is only a little dampness and not too much fierceness of the summer heat it grows eight or ten feet high, making a body large enough for fence posts. This is extraordinary, for usually these Liliputian forests do not attain a height of more than four feet, and often much less. So diminutive are these solemn woods that the ordinary gang-plow can walk right through them, turning the shrubbery under like tall grass, although every tree is perfect, just like the dwarf creations produced by the resourceful Japanese.

The seed of this tiny tree grows on stiff, upright filaments like the broom-corn straws. These stems are very bitter and are often used by the range-riders on long rides or roundups to excite the flow of saliva when thirst overtakes them too far from water. Because of its bitterness it is often called wormwood.

Not many uses have been found for the wood of these primeval forests. In many sections the people have nothing but sagebrush for firewood. The whole tree is used, special stoves, or heaters, being made to accommodate the whole plant. It is gathered in the following manner: Two immense T-rails of railroad iron are laid side by side, one inverted, and securely fastened together; to the ends of these are hitched two teams of horses or mules, which pulling parallel to each other, are driven into the standing fairy forests and the swaths of fallen timber show the track of this unnatural storm. Its roots have such slight hold on the soil that it easily falls. Wagons and pitchforks follow, and the whole of the felling is hauled untrimmed to the home for hand-axing if too large; and it is all burned, top and root. There is so much vegetable oil in this queer plant that it makes a fine and very quick fire, green or dry.

After a summer rain there is no aromatic perfume surpassing that of the odor of sagebrush filling the newly washed air. The mountaineer who has had to make a trip East gladly opens his window, as his train pushes back into the habitat of these aromatic shrubs, to get an early whiff of the health-laden, sage-sweetened atmosphere of the beloved Westland and homeland.

THE IRON TRAIL

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In their houses of self-content; There are souls like stars that dwell apart In their fellowless firmament. There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran. But, let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. --Sam Walter Foss.

A RAILROAD SAINT IN IDAHO

The "railroad saint" was a locomotive engineer. His life was ever an open book, yet while careful and almost severe in his personal religious habits, he did not criticize the manners of his associates. He simply let his well kept searchlight shine.

Though born in Ohio, his boy life was spent mainly in Nebraska, when it was just emerging from the ragged swaddlings of rough frontierdom; and during his young manhood he lived in Wyoming, at the time when men "carried the law in their hip-pockets," as he graphically expressed it.

Early becoming an employee of the Union Pacific, he was a permanent portion of its westward intermountain extension, and he did his life's work among the scenic cliffs and clefts of the picturesque crags and corrugated cañons of the wrinkled ridges in the Rocky and the Wahsatch ranges. Opportunities for literary education were very limited to one so engaged, and little more than what was absolutely necessary to the railmen did he receive. But he was not ignorant by any means. In later years he read extendedly and with careful discrimination. He had a poet's soul, but was not visionary.

His mother had been a careful and sensible Christian. The indelible impress she left upon him was like to that given by Jochebed to her son Moses. He never wholly escaped from her hallowed influence, although he descended into vicious living and became a notorious and blatant blasphemer, sceptic, and drunkard.

Once when attending a national convention of railway engineers in an Eastern city he noticed a little flower boy vainly attempting to dispose of his roses. Our engineer (who always had a feeling for the "other fellow") paid the lad for all he had left and directed him to carry them to the hotel where the delegates were stopping, and give them to the ladies in the parlor. This act was repeated on successive days. It attracted attention finally, and one of the delegates asked him if he were a Christian. Characteristically he blurted out: "Do you see anything about me that indicates it? If so, I will take it off at once. Why do you ask such a question?"

"Because," said the questioner, "your kindness to that pale-faced little flower boy makes people think you are."

"Nothing at all queer about that," was the quick reply. "Common humanity should dictate such deeds. If I myself wanted a favor, I'd not go to any Christian for it; I'd rather tackle a bartender or a gambler."

"Well, Dr. T----, of the Methodist Church, has heard of you," remarked his questioner, "and he says he would like to meet you for an hour or so before you leave the city."

"But I've no desire to meet any preacher, though if it will afford the gentleman any pleasure, I will gladly do it for that reason and no other. What do you suppose he wants?"

The intermediary arranged a time of meeting, and after introducing the men, left the "eagle eye" in the pleasant study of the minister, a pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. After a few minutes of easy conversation, the minister abruptly cut all Gordian knots and said: "Mr.----, are you a Christian?"

"No, sir, not so you can notice it."

"Why are you not?"

"Why should I be?"

"It gives to every one who embraces true religion a better, broader, worthier view and conception of life."

"Wherein, mister?"

"It puts purpose into his life and interprets the end to which he is tending."

Then came up from the keen intellect-quiver of our Rocky Mountain engineman all the stock phrases, replies, and arguments of Voltaire, Rousseau, Ingersoll, and others whose writings he knew perfectly.

With Christian and cultivated patience the minister listened and then said with captivating and sympathetic tenderness: "But, my dear sir, that is all speculation on the part of those scholarly and eloquent men whom you quote so accurately. They know no better. The religion of Jesus is not speculation; it is practical knowledge. Would not you, sir, like to know personally as to its truth?"

"Yes, but how can I?"

His foot had been taken in the snare of the wise trapper.

Said the preacher: "You can; and this is the way. As you leave this city for your return to the West, get a cheap New Testament; indeed, here is a copy; please accept it. Tear it in two in the middle, retaining only the four Gospels--Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Read them; you will by yourself and by this means find the way to perfect knowledge."

He of the throttle, hungry for the deepest knowledge, did as directed and advised.

Back to his cab and engine he went, under the deepest conviction. Yet he declared that he needed no extraneous assistance to be as good as any Christian; Jesus he considered a superfluity, and said so. The negative influences of the atheistic authors yet warped him. He said: "I dare any of you to watch me. I can and will be as upright as any Christian on earth." But after a short time of exemplary conduct, he would wake up some morning only to discover to his hearty disgust that he had been on an extended period of dissipation. Later he would attempt another straightening-up and try to "be good" without the necessary becoming so, only to fall again and harder than before.

Once, after such humiliating debauch, he entered a saloon which contained the only barber shop in the village, the railway division point where he had his "layovers" for regular rest. He sat down for his daily shave. It was the morning after pay-day among the employees, and, as he stated it to the writer, "everybody, even the barber, had been drunk." Cigar stumps, empty bottles, cards, and other plentiful signs of the previous night's carousals covered the floor with bacchanalian litter. Lying there, eyes shut, an Armageddon was taking place on the stage of his perturbed soul. His story is this:

"While lying there that morning a voice said to me, 'You are not a square-dealer.' I opened my eyes on the barber, only to see a bloated face with impassive and mute lips; he had said nothing, I could easily see. I closed my eyes again, only to hear, 'You do not treat me as you would a gentleman.' I now knew that the voice was that of an unseen person, and I replied mentally but really. 'Who are you, and what do you want?' 'I am Jesus, whom you deny without having known, and condemn without having attempted to prove. You have been saying all the while you can succeed without my assistance, and you know you have failed every time. All I want is a chance in your life that I may prove myself to you.' Then I replied, 'If this is what you want, just come in and we will talk it over.' He then came in never to go out again. I went to my little shack-room and, locking the door, took out of a little old hair-covered trunk a Bible my mother had given me; it had lain there for thirty long years untouched. I opened it and read a while and then got down on my knees to pray. What I said was about like this: 'Lord, if it is really the Lord who was talking to me (I have my doubts), you know I am a man of my word, and you can trust me. I want to make you a proposition: I'll do the square thing by you if you'll do the same by me. Amen!'"

"This," said he, "was the beginning of the struggle for rest to my soul; and I found it."

An incident leading to his immediate, possibly ultimate safety, was a conversation in a saloon. It does not always transpire that we are benefited by the act of the talebearer, but in this case it was highly salutary. One of his engineer friends, drinking at the bar, said: "Never fear about H----. He will soon get over all this and be along with us as usual."

Hearing it, he became very righteously indignant and said: "By the grace of God, never! I'll go up to the church my wife attends and join with her, and when they know I am a church member they'll let me alone." He did so at once. He was saved. He lived for many years, always happy, always helpful, and without fear he ascended the snowy hills of old age, with their enveloping mists.

Afflicted with a creeping paralysis, he lingered long, ever cheerful, and interested in his friends, to whom he sent many messages. To his brothers of the Odd Fellows he sent this message: "Boys, I'll not see you any more. I am just like a boy at Christmas Eve, who with stocking hung up, is anxious for daylight. The shadows have come over me. My stocking is hung up by the Father's fireplace and I am almost impatient for the morning. I haven't the remotest idea what I will get, but I am sure it will be something good." A few days before his translation he was visited by one of his old-time railway associates, who said to him: "H----, you are now up against the real thing, according to your belief; and it looks to us the same, just as if you would have to go some one of these days. How does it seem? What is it like?"

Looking at the questioner lovingly, the dying man said, "Charley, you've worked for the railway company a long time, and never had many promotions, have you?"

"Yes, about twenty years--and no promotions."

"Well, Charley, suppose there'd come to you to-day a wire from headquarters saying there's a big promotion waiting for you on your arrival, and at the same time a pass for your free transportation. How do you think that would seem to you?"

"My soul, but that'd be fine," said he.

"Well, Charley, that's just my case exactly," said the radiant man. "I've been working for God and his company for about that same length of time and never had much promotion so far as I could see, and now I have a summons direct from the glory land telling me there's a big advancement for me, and it sounds mighty good."

He was dressed for the wedding, the Christmas morning, or whatever awaited him, and was anxious that the couriers of the King should come. When the moment came the old engineer's headlight was undimmed, the switch signals showed green, and when he called for the last board at the home station the signal came back: "All's well; come on in."

He had received his coveted promotion.

AN UNUSUAL KINDNESS

That best portion of a good man's life-- His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. --Wordsworth.

The Methodist locomotive engineer had died joyful. "I am so glad to go," he said. "I am like a boy when there's a circus in town; I've got the price, and my baggage is checked clear through."

I was holding a memorial service for him in his old home town, and at the close a big, broad-shouldered man came forward to the altar rail and quietly said, "You did not know that man."

The remark startled me a little, for I had been acquainted with him for many years; in fact, had once been his pastor.

"I thought I did," replied I.

"No, you never really knew him," was the insistent rejoinder; "let me tell you something about him. Years ago I was not living as I ought, and I had all sorts of trouble. My wife was very sick, and we were living in a bit of a shack back here a little way where she finally died. I was down and out. The fellows wanted to be good to me, and they were--in their way of thinking--but it did me no good. They would say, 'Come, brace up, old fellow, have a drink and forget your troubles.' But there are some troubles drink will not drown; mine was one of them.

"One night our friend came up to my shack, and having visited a while he said: 'Old man, you're up against it hard, ain't you?' I replied, 'Yes, I am, just up to the limit.' 'Well, let's pray about it.' I told him I didn't believe in prayer. 'All right,' said he, 'I do, and I'll pray any way.' You should have heard the prayer he made. It was about like this: 'God, here's my friend, Charley; he's in an awful fix. We'll have to do something for him. I've done all I can; now, it's up to you to see him through. Amen.'

"Then he arose from his knees and, handing me his check book, he said, 'My wife and I ain't got much, only a couple o' thousand in the bank; but here's this check book all signed up; take it and use it all if you need it, and God bless you!'

"But," added the narrator of the story, "I couldn't use money like that."

The tears were fast falling over his bronzed cheeks as he told with tenderness the story, and as I looked into his eyes I knew that through knowledge of the dead engineer's kingly kindness had come to him the knowledge of the new life.

INDIANS OF THE TRAIL

Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn. --_Burns_.

INTRODUCTORY WORDS

Indian character is human character because the Indian is human. Being human he is susceptible to all human teaching and experiences. None yields more readily to love and kindness.

Few can speak of the Indian with absolute propriety, for very few know him. To the mind of most Americans, I venture to say, the very name "Indian" suggests scalpings, massacres, outrages of all kinds and an interminable list of kindred horrors; all too true. But it must be remembered that the Indian presented to his first discoverers a race most tractable, tenderhearted, and responsive to kindness. He was indeed the child of the plain, but a loving child.

The chevaliers both of Spanish and English blood taught him in the most practical manner the varied refinements of deceit, treachery, and cruelty. He was an apt scholar, and the devotee of social heredity, which has here so striking an example, cannot curse the redman if the sins of the fathers are meted out to succeeding generations.

Under definite heads I am giving some very brief sketches of living, down-to-date aborigines, such as have come under my own observation in Utah and Idaho.

POCATELLO, THE CHIEF

The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger. --_Milton_.

Fort Hall Reservation, until 1902, embraced a large territory of which Pocatello was the center. These Idaho red people are the remnants of the once powerful tribes of the Bannocks and Shoshones, which ranged from the Blue Mountains in Oregon to the backbone of the Rocky Mountains. The compressing processes used by the aggressive white people have encircled, curtailed, and squeezed their borders so that now they are centered at Fort Hall, half way between Pocatello and Blackfoot. Here the government has a school for them, and the Protestant Episcopal Church a mission.

Pocatello is named for a wily old chief of that name, who became an outlaw to be reckoned with. He once led a cavalcade of his sanguinary followers against the newly made non-Mormon town of Corinne, Utah; but a Mormon who had been notified of the proposed massacre, by a coreligionist, likewise told a friend among the Gentiles, and a precautionary counter plan was formulated. Nothing more came of it than an evening visit from Brigham Young and his staff, who, as reported, pronounced and prophesied an awful and exterminating curse upon the town and people. However, because of the warning, his curses went elsewhere.

Until recently there lived in the region of the city of Pocatello an old squaw-man (white man with an Indian wife). His home was within the borders of the reservation, and he had been there since before the time when the boundary line between the United States and England (Canada) was settled. The old man was called "Doc," and once when visiting him I said, "Tell me about old Pocatello, Doc, and what became of him."

The old man, half reclining on the pile of household debris in one corner of his shanty, permitted me to sit by the door--for there were no chairs in the place. The four corners were occupied as follows: in one were his saddle and accouterments for range work; in another the accumulation of rags and blankets on which he slept (for he lived alone now, the wife being dead); in another was his little stove, and the last held the door where I sat. The air was fresher there, I thought. The veteran of eighty or more years, bronzed by the winds and roughened by the sweeping sands of the desert, lighted his pipe and said: "It war in the days o' them freighters who operated 'tween Corinne an' Virginny City when Alder Gulch was a-goin' chock full o' business. The Forwardin' Company hed a mighty big lot o' rollin' stock an' hosses to keep the traffic up. The hull kentry was Injun from put-ni' Corinne to that there Montanny town. The Bear Rivers an' the Fort Hall tribes, the Bannocks an' the Blackfeet uste to make life anything but a Fourth-o'-July picnic fer them fellers an' their drivers. Right h'yur was the natterelest campin' place fer the Company, or, ruther, a natterel spot fer the stage-station, where they could git the stock fresh an' new an' go on, as they hed to do, night an' day, so's to keep business a-movin', ye see. Fer 'twas a mighty long rout fer passengers.

"Now, Pocatello an' his bunch o' red devils got into the habit o' runnin' off the stock, an' sometimes the Company'd haf to wait half a day to git enough teams to go on north; or to wait till the fagged ones'd git a little rest an' then push on wi' the same ones. Mr. Salisbury, of Salt Lake, was the head o' the Forwardin' Company, an' he an' his people got mighty all-fired tired o' that sort o' business. Hosses was dear them days, but Injuns was cheap; so he told a lot o' us'ns he'd like tarnation well if this sort o' thing'd stop kind o' sudden like; an' we planned it might be done jist that way too.

"We kind o' laid low, an' nothin' happened fer quite a while; but one night a fine bunch o' hosses was run off jist when they's a big lot o' treasure goin' over the line, an' the management was sure mad. They told us 'uns agin somethin' had to be done, an' despert quick this time. So we got busy. We begun to round ol' Pocatello up, an' he seemed to smell a rat or somethin' wuss, an' started up Pocatello Crick yander, that there cañon, see? He went almighty fast too when he got started; so did we, now I tell you, an' we jist kep' a-foller'n', an' foller'n', an' foller'n', we did--a hull lot ov us--an'--an'--an' Pocatello never come back."

Then the old squaw-man tapped the ashes from his pipe, and rising said, "Well, I guess I'll cinch up the cayuse an' ride some this a'ternoon."

THE BABYLESS MOTHER

Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.--_Saint Matthew_.

One of the many signs that the Indian is human is his slowness to learn. Ever since 1492 the whiter man has been trying to force some supposedly useful things into the mind of him of the darker skin. One of these is that he of the blanket has no rights that he of the dress coat is bound to respect. The Indian rises in practical debate to this question. His arguments are not words, but the rifle and the scalping-knife. The whiter man demurs when he receives his justice dished up to him in redskin style.

It is unreasonable to the Indian that the white man should take from him his hunting grounds and limit his access to the very streams whence his people for ages uncountable filled their pantries for the winter. He has learned to his disgust (without place for repentance) that equivalents are equivocations, and that the little baubles the fathers of the tribes had for their broad acres were mostly worthless. The civilized trick of procuring the mystic sign manual known as signature had fastened on them the gyves of perpetual poverty.