LETTER No. VI.

"'Try not the pass!' the old man said,'Dark lowers the tempest overhead.The roaring torrent is deep and wide.'

"'Try not the pass!' the old man said,

'Dark lowers the tempest overhead.

The roaring torrent is deep and wide.'

"My horses were very nearly carried away down the rushing stream. However, we succeeded at last; and a warm fire and a chat with a human being, for it seemed a month since starting, revived my hopes. I found the house to be owned by a cattle-man whom I met just before entering, ready saddled, and on his way to hunt up some game. The house is beautifully situated; the stream furnishes an abundant supply of fine mountain trout, many of which have been caught ina little irrigating ditch, which the rancher has run out from the stream to water his garden, and not having time to put them back in the stream, and time to eat them, I presume he prefers the latter. Here, 'midst the heart of the Rockies, lives a man and his wife all alone, not seeing a human being for a month at a time, perfectly happy and healthy, letting their cattle range on the vast undulating lowlands; and here, owing to the amount of wind in winter, they feed all the year round, bare places being thus kept open. Although a pressing invitation was given me to stay, I still journeyed on, following the creek along, and having to cross it no less than nine times until the route indicated to me took up a rough and dry cañon, where, I have since found out, the gentle rattlesnake 'loves to lie a-basking in the sun.' Nothing happened worthy of mention, save old Jim, who, wanting to give his old back (made at an angle of forty-five degrees) a scratch, coolly—I may here use the word, as it was in the snow—squatted down and commenced to roll with my precious pack on his back. My coffee-pot was crushed square, frying-pan jammed into the hunch of bacon, andeau de viebottle smashed. What did I say? Never mind. At length we got to what seemed to me an impassable barrier, a terribly deep snow-drift. If I had reached this place early in the morning all would have been well, but now the sun had softened the upper crust, and the first step old Jim took was up to his neck, his poor old front legs and nose were hidden altogether, presenting a comical picture which I should like togive you a sketch of. Unpacking him, letting him struggle backwards, carrying the pack by pieces nearly a half mile, and letting the horses swim rather than walk through, took me two good hours at least, landing me on a bare place, only to find that I had another drift almost as bad to go through. A repetition of the above landed me near two or three scattered pines, not knowing in the least where I was or which way to turn, my clothes wet, everything wet, bottle gone, and generally played out.

OLD JIM IN A SNOW-DRIFT.

"I soon made my camp, pitched my tent, heaped up all the wood I could find, and then sat down to brood over my folly in not waiting until a month later, or indeed in making such a risky journey at all. After awhile I was surprised to see, coming evidently from the opposite direction from which I had come, a man with two horses. This, at least, was a blessing, for were he white or black man he should answer me, and tell me all he knew concerning the route.

"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 WAS A FINE OLD BRUIN!"

"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 intime, 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 mayimagine 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, coldweather. 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....Anyletter 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 gooddeal 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 (18per 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.

"MyHomestead 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....

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 littlemilk house on the creek, and am terribly proud of it; it looks like a Swisschâlet, 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, andhardto 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 rancheswheatwill 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 downthree 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 milesaway from home, working out at 'dipping sheep,' dirty and terribly hard work. As to your cousin coming out, I can only say thatIcertainly 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' [meaningme] 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."

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 acity 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.

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