LETTER No. XIII.
Livingston to Bozeman—Bozeman City—Arrival at Frank's ranche—Frank's progress—The shanty—Kitten and mice—Aroused by a ground squirrel—Variation of climate—A snowstorm—Our beds drenched—"Baching" it—Shaving under difficulties—Situation—Fertility of the soil—Cultivation of strawberries—Fine grazing district—Climate—Story of our holiday on the ranche—Fishing in West Gallatin river—New bridge and old canoe—"The coloured aristocracy"—Three bear stories.
Frank's Ranche, Oct., 1885.
The railroad from Livingston to Bozeman runs through very picturesque scenery, and after a steep grade of 116 feet to the mile, passes through a tunnel in the mountain at an elevation of 5,565 feet above the ocean. The train then runs down the western slope through a remarkably grand cañon, and passes out into the broad valley of West Gallatin: in a few minutes more Bozeman is reached.
CAÑON NEAR BOZEMAN.
This delightful little city of about 3,000 inhabitants is seated on the East Gallatin river at the eastern end of the Gallatin Valley, and is the county seat of Gallatin. It has a fine court house, three hotels, a fine opera house, seven public halls, five churches, and two well-conducted newspapers.
The streets are well laid out, and there are many very fine, handsome buildings in the town, and pretty villas in its suburbs.
Unfortunately, time did not admit of my making any stay in the town, or of calling upon persons to whom I had introductions; it was necessary to hurry on to get to Frank's ranche before dark. We hired a handsome waggonette, and, with a spanking pair of horses, we drove along a perfectly level well-trodden road across the prairie for twelve miles, and eventually pulled up at Frank's mansion while there was light enough to enable us to see it, but not to criticise it too severely.
Here, then, at last, after nearly six weeks of hard travelling by sea and land, I had reached the chief goal of my journey.
I have already taken you so completely into my confidence by telling you of Frank's disasters and misfortunes, that it is but fair to him that I should now describe to you his small successes; not that he has very much to show at present, but he seems to me to be on the right track. He already possesses by homestead right 160 acres of very good land, which will be absolutely his freehold in two years' time; he also owns a hundred acres of good railroad feeding land on the foothills; he has fenced round the whole of this with strong posts, rails, and barbed wire; he has built himself a log hut; he has purchased a fair set of agricultural implements, including wagons, and a handsome buggie; he has a pair of strong horses, a number of pigs, some poultry, and a few cows and calves; he has a well-stocked garden, which produces all the vegetables he requires, and he has laid down about half an acre of land with strawberries: next summer this will produce a large crop.
When I remind you that he has acquired this little property with only trifling assistance from me, and mainly by the labour of his own hands, in the space of three years, you will understand that I am inspired with some hopes for his future.
FRANK'S CABIN, FROM A SKETCH BY HIMSELF.
Frank's shanty originally consisted of one room nineteen feet by seventeen, but in anticipation of his visitors, he and B. built an additional room of about the same size. The old room having a boarded floor was breakfast, dining, drawing-room, and library combined, and was also the visitors' bedroom. Our beds were made upon planks laid upon four logs, and consisted of a bundle of straw laid on the planks, a blanket on the straw, and a couple of rugs to roll ourselves in. These beds were placed one on each side of the room, and when bed-time came, a cotton curtain was suspended across the middle, and thus each lodger had a bedroom to himself.
Our beds being those usually occupied by Frank and his friend, they rigged up for themselves a sort of long manger or bunk in the new (or kitchen) compartment, and slept in it feet to feet.
I cannot boast that I slept soundly under these novel circumstances. The first night Frank's kitten was left in the room to scare the mice away, and proved to be a greater nuisance than the mice; the next night she was excluded, and I was aroused out of my sleep by a crash among some empty bottles. I struck a light, and after searching about for some time, I caught sight of a little ground squirrel which had come in through a hole in the floor. The next night I was aroused by this little wretch running over my face in a playful mood, and I sat up slipper in hand for over an hour waiting for a chance to fling it at him, but he did not afford me one. This little squirrel and a few mice were our only troubles; otherwise we should have slept quite as comfortably as in our own beds at home.
The weather during the first six days and nights had been most delightful, very hot by day and pleasantly cool by night; on the seventh and last night of our stay, the thermometer, by way of giving us a taste of the variation of climate here, suddenly dropped from 78° to 34°, and snow and rain fell all night. This wintry blast is always looked for just at this time, and lasts for about twenty-four hours; then the Indian summer resumes its reign till far on into November. Months of dry and very hot weather had dried the mud covering of the shanty into powder, and when my friend M. awoke in the morning, he found that the roof above him had proved a sieve, and he and his bed were thoroughly soaked. I had fared only a little better; but we didn't mind these trifling inconveniences. I found my umbrella very useful to sit under at breakfast, and M. managed very well when wrapped up in his macintosh.
SHAVING OUTSIDE THE CABIN.
Frank and his friend had, from long practice, acquired the art of baking and cooking to perfection. While the one lighted the stove, made the hot cakes, and broiled the bacon, the other started off to milk the cow and collect some new-laid eggs—the result being an excellent and plentiful breakfast, eaten with the splendid appetite due to abundant exercise on these health-giving hills.
Whilst these preparations were going on M. and I washed by turns; our basin was a miner's old iron washpan, and our shaving operations were performed outside.
Dinner demanded greater efforts, to which our hosts proved quite equal. They roast, boil, and stew to perfection, and make very nice puddings. There is but one glass tumbler in the establishment, so we drank pure water out of teacups; of these there are four, but Frank boasts only one saucer.
In the matter of crockery I am sorry to say Frank was sadly deficient; the kitten and the invading little squirrel had recently played havoc in his china closet; we managed, however, very well. We had no change of plates, but we washed them as we progressed with our meals.
I should tell you that the shanty is situated at the foot of the foothills of the mountains, and is about 5,000 feet above sea level, overlooking towards the west an expanse of level country of from twenty to thirty miles in extent; the whole circumference being the jagged ranges of the mountains. Some parts of the great plain are rather rocky and thin, but the nutritious bunch-grass grows everywhere; other parts, again, are of a deep, loamy, dark-coloured soil, which produces crops of wheat of forty to sixty bushels to the acre year after year. All had been cut and gathered before our arrival, but we could easily see by the stacks and the stubble what the crops must have been.
LOOKING TOWARDS BOZEMAN.
Oats have been grown there this last season which reached 100 bushels to the acre.
The following sensible remarks, cut from the excellent paper I have already quoted, entirely confirm my own impression of this country:—
"This is pre-eminently the land for the poor man, but only for the poor man who is willing to work hard. He can raise enough to support his family, and if he has a few cows their increase will in the course of a few years make him well-to-do. I spent a night a short time since in the cabin of a settler who, with his wife and four children, had located about forty miles from the railroad. He had ten cows, a team of horses, and a mowing machine. From the cows his wife made enough butter to pay the living expenses of the family. He puts up hay for the stock in summer, and then hires himself out to neighbours at good wages. His calves and colts were in fine condition, and everything pointed to a most comfortable future for this sturdy, energetic settler.
"Who can tell how many families there may not be scattered over the broad West, who from similar small beginnings have attained by industry and thrift a competence, or even wealth."—Forest and Stream.
I was so well pleased with the absolute truthfulness of Frank's reports, and satisfied with the progress he had made, that I was glad to place him in a position to acquire an adjoining ranche of 250 acres, so that he may now be said to possess a capital farm of 500 acres, capable of carrying at a moderate computation fifty head of cattle, ten pigs, fifteen to twenty horses, and two hundred chickens. The farm includes about a hundred and fifty acres of excellent arable land, which may at a very moderate estimate be expected to produce 3,000 bushels of wheat, barley, and oats. His garden produces many marketable vegetables, and he has milk, butter, and eggs.
Strawberries grow on the land to a large size and of excellent flavour, and the half acre now planted would, it was calculated, produce a clear net profit of at least 200 dollars for the first year. Strawberries, I was told, produce from 250 to 500 bushels to the acre after the first year—say 250 bushels @ 10 cents a quart. Thirty-two quarts to bushel @ 10 cents = $3 20c. or $750 60c. an acre. Expenses of gathering, 2 cents a quart = 150 dollars; cost of cultivation, 120 dollars = 270 dollars; this deducted from product, $750 60c., leaves net profit $480—say £100 sterling.
Strawberries are too perishable to be conveyed a long distance, but the immense mining population in the vicinity can consume all that can be grown. In course of time strawberry jam may be made here, and sent even to England, to compete with the English farmer in the new article of commerce which Mr. Gladstone has suggested for him.
Frank's neighbour McD. has planted a number of apple and other fruit trees in and around his garden, and these young trees are thriving, and give promise in a year or two of bearing much fruit. Frank's land is equally suited for similar trees.
On the whole, it appears to me that Frank has now only to go on with the same dogged perseverance he has hitherto shown, and he will soon be in a very comfortable position, and make up for his early losses in Minnesota. I should add that the farm is well watered by a perpetual little stream which runs down from the mountains, and never freezes or diminishes.
This district has the reputation of being the best grazing country in the world. Cattle rarely require any other food during the winter than what the native grasses supply. The bunch-grass grows abundantly, not only in the valleys and on the benches, but on the foothills and mountain slopes. Cattle do not require housing in the winter, but are foddered sometimes, or rather allowed to browse round the straw-stacks. Horses maintain themselves by pawing up the snow as the reindeer do in Northern Europe.
The climate of Montana is peculiarly mild considering its altitude; this is doubtless owing to the influence of the great warm Japan current of the Pacific Ocean and the prevailing westerly Chinook wind. This warm pleasant breeze was distinctly perceptible by us as we ascended the hills, even in the then hot weather. The atmosphere is singularly dry, pure, and exhilarating, and this is especially the case on the spot where Frank has chosen his location. They never have the bitter cold "blizzards" which one hears of in other states and territories; and when the thermometer stands at 20º, 30º, and even 45° below zero, as it sometimes does in the winter months, the cold is endurable.
Now let me give you a little history of our short "Holiday in the Rockies."
Sunday.—There being no church or place of worship of any kind, I regret to say, within many miles, we had to content ourselves with some quiet reading at home. The Church Missionary Societies should look after these boys scattered about here and there in these mountain wilds. The day was calm and bright, but by no means cool; the thermometer stood at 125º in the sun. In the afternoon we walked a considerable distance in the shade of the cañon, and then somewhat foolishly scrambled up one side of it in order to make a short cut over the mountain towards home, and a risky climb it was; but on reaching the top we were rewarded by a fine new view of the whole valley.
There is a remarkable echo up this cañon, equal, I have no doubt, to that celebrated one at Killarney which, if asked "How do you do, Paddy Blake?" will answer "Pretty well, I thank you."
Monday we walked up the foothills to look for some grouse and prairie chickens to shoot, but could not see any, greatly to my friend M.'s disappointment; he had come well provided with ammunition, both for large and small game. Unfortunately our time did not admit of very extended wanderings in search of sport. We then called upon neighbour McD., an old rancher who has had many rough experiences, and who tells long stories of perils he had undergone in the early Californian gold diggings and in fights with Indians. On his ranche he has built a nice little house, of which I made the accompanying sketch. A house of this description, of wood planking, comprising two good-sized rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, and two bedrooms, can be built for about 250 dollars.
NEIGHBOUR McD.'s COTTAGE.
He compelled us to stay to dinner. His wife, an active good-looking Canadian body, bustled about and prepared us an excellent dinner of hashed chicken, sweet cakes, coffee, and apple tart. She waited upon us at table and urged us to eat, and was pleased to see with what excellent appetites we fell to. She was gratified at the well-merited praise we lavished on her cooking.
After dinner, we had what I may call a musical evening. Frank gave us some songs, and his friend accompanied him on the guitar.
On Tuesday we drove for fifteen miles across the prairie to the West Gallatin River, where I was told good fishing may be had. We stayed at a comfortable hotel which had no licence for strong drinks, and we had to content ourselves with tea and coffee.
We immediately started for the river—a really fine stream, well stocked with trout and other fish. You already know something of my enthusiasm, as well as my bad luck, in matters piscatorial. I caught no trout, but you will perhaps be surprised to hear I brought home half-a-dozen half-pound fish called "White fish." I caught these with a large black fly with a red body. The fish takes this fly freely, but he has no pluck whatever; no sooner is he hooked than he succumbs at once, and one has nothing to do but pull him out of the water—there is no sport or fight in him. Our jolly landlord had taken us to a favourite spot, where he himself fished with a pole and twine, sitting on the stump of a tree;
"There sat my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill."
Sir H. Wotton.
he baited his hook with grasshoppers and locusts, and with this bait he was usually very successful, but on that particular evening he caught nothing, and soon gave up.
FISHING IN THE WEST GALLATIN.
My own success had so much surprised me that next morning I was up at six o'clock, and had caught six more white fish before breakfast.
They were cooked for us, and certainly if they afford poor sport, they are very pleasant, delicate eating. I cannot honestly take much credit to myself for these feats. Our hostess, a very severe hard-featured Calvinistic person, took all the conceit out of me at once by solemnly telling the company at the breakfast table that she could go down to the river and catch as many white fish as she wanted with a worm hooked on to a pin.
I was reminded of the angler in "The Sketch Book":—
"I recollect that after toiling and watching and creeping about ... with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm—and in half-an-hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day!"
Our host, a wealthy rancher as well as innkeeper, was of a more jovial turn, especially when he was not awed by the presence of his austere wife. He had been a slave-owner in pre-emancipation days, and so had his fathers before him; and he vowed the niggers were far better off then than they are now. "God Almighty," said he, "made the niggers black and unthrifty, and do what you will you can never make them anything else. The utmost height of a nigger's ambition is to drive a coach or to be a waiter in an hotel; and it is just all he is good for."
This reminded me of the many members of the "coloured aristocracy" I had met with as waiters at hotels and in railroad dining-cars. I remember one especially—the head-boss of a small army of black waiters at one of the largest hotels in an Eastern city—a tall portly fellow in evening dress, diamond shirt studs, and white kid gloves. He stands at the entrance of the saloon, and receives the guests with a dignified bend and a patronizing wave of his hand which my Lord Mayor at a grand reception could not surpass. We, unshaven and dust-stained travellers, were quite awed in his presence, as he loftily passed us on to another diamond-studded and gold-chained nigger, who condescended to find us a table. We soon learned that if you expect to get any decent attention from a negro, you had better slip a "quarter" into his ready and expectant palm; then he will wait upon you quickly and well. Pay him beforehand, and he will serve you in anticipation of further tips—a quarter in hand is worth to him a good deal more than a possible dollar in the end, which may never come.
These negro waiters generally speak good Yankee English; they don't say "Massa;" and if one may judge by the eagerness with which they will lean over one's shoulder to peruse a letter one may be writing or reading, I suppose they have been tolerably well educated. Here is an account of an aristocratic wedding cut from a Southern paper:—
"A wedding took place in South Carolina recently, the bride belonging to one of the oldest families of the coloured aristocracy and the groom being presumably a man of means and evidently of much respectability. When the fateful question was asked by the officiating clergyman (also coloured) it was thus translated by him, possibly with an eye to the intensely respectable nature of the whole affair: 'N., wilt thou have this lady to be thy wedded wife?' &c., and the blushing bride, when her turn came, was asked if she would have 'this young gentleman.'"
We returned across the prairie on Wednesday morning, noting as we passed that the whole route was dotted here and there with substantial farmhouses; some of these were large and handsome, surrounded by buildings as good and substantial-looking as any to be seen in the old country.
The West Gallatin is all very well if one's only object in fishing is to catch fish, but I would rather have one day on the pleasant "Dove," with only a brace of trout in my creel, or, indeed, without any trout at all, than a hundred days on the brown prairie-bound banks of the Gallatin with creels full of the stupid white fish. I want buttercups and daisies, water-ouzels, king-fishers, green meadows, and the songs of birds when "I go a-fishing."
On passing over the new bridge we saw an old Indian canoe rotting and half hidden in the mud. If I were given to moralizing, "the new bridge and the old canoe" should form a melancholy theme; but I will leave my readers to compose it for themselves.
Frank's companion B. being of an inquiring mind, knew every farm and every farmer on the route, or perhaps in the whole valley. He knew the value of every man's estate, and how he stood with his banker; one was worth 50,000 dollars, another 20,000, and here and there an unthrifty "Rip Van Winkle" with an insuperable aversion to labour and hopelessly in debt. Amongst them were one or two millionaires. It is a characteristic of this community that everyone knows to a dollar how much everyone else is worth. Generally they seemed to be well-to-do and thriving; and when I looked at the numerous great ricks of wheat, the abundant stubble, the rich dark soil so easily and so cheaply cultivated, and the cattle and horses around, it was plain to my perception that a man of ordinary industry, intelligence, and thrift must inevitably become not merely well-to-do, but wealthy.
Thursday.—B. drove into town for our letters, but found none. By this time our fresh meat had given out, so Frank and M. went out and ran down a couple of chickens. Frank chopped their heads off, plucked, and roasted them very deftly. It was an excessively hot day, the thermometer standing at 125º in the sun. I remained indoors most of the day clearing off my correspondence, and in the evening we compared notes as to Frank's past adventures and future prospects.
Friday.—This being our last day, I wandered up the creek in the morning, and gathered a few wild flowers of bright hues, and packed them up to carry home. Of course the time for flowers is all but over now, but I am told that in the summer-time the whole hillside is ablaze with small wild roses and other flowers.
ROSS'S PEAK.
In the afternoon we had intended to do a little mountain climbing. We had gone a mile on the road to ascend Ross's Peak, a mountain (of which I made a sketch) about 10,000 feet above sea level, and at a distance of about seven miles; but on looking towards the mountains in the west we noticed that the bright sunshine in which we were walking was obscured in their direction by heavy, suspicious clouds. And presently a few drops fell. Before we could get back to our cabin the rain came down in torrents, with thunder and lightning; and, looking up to Ross's Peak, we found that he had already assumed his winter mantle of snow. This is the first rain we have had since our arrival in America, and as it was our last day we were sorry to miss the fine view to be obtained from the peak. The ascent, we were told, was in fine weather not difficult, though no doubt very laborious. In the evening the western mountains across the valley presented a very interesting appearance. They were now clad with snow, and a thick black cloud hung just above them, leaving a clear-cut outline of white peaks; the sunset was glowing like a great fiery furnace behind them. It was a splendid sight.
Before night set in the thermometer had fallen from 78° in the shade, as it stood in the morning, to 34°, and during the night we had the deluge which I have already mentioned. To-morrow we start on our homeward journey.
I told you in my first letter that it was my intention to spend my holiday in this region, and here I am sitting in our little log cabin, overlooking a vast expanse of prairie valley, nearly six thousand miles away from my native land. So much of one's time is taken up in the railway trains that little is left for doing anything out of them. I told you that the three special horrors I expected to have to encounter would be mosquitoes, Indians, and bears! I saw one or two mosquitoes in New York, and I felt them in Chicago, but only slightly; the season is over for these pests, but the present unusual weather stirs up a few now and then. As for Indians, I have only seen a few wigwams and one or two horsemen, perfectly peaceable and friendly now, though a few years ago this Gallatin Valley was the scene of many a bloody engagement between them and the settlers, and old-timers have long tales to tell of many terrible affrays. Nor have I yet met with a grizzly, though there are plenty of these fellows, as well as "silver tips" and black bears, up in the mountains.
Last week a big black bear came down through this ranche and found his way to a slaughter-house in the neighbourhood of Bozeman, where he was discovered amusing himself by tearing about the offal. Two butchers in town armed themselves with a couple of rusty old rifles, and starting off on a moonlight night, kept watch for Master Bruin's appearance. Eventually they spied him on the top of the roof of the slaughter-house (a by no means easy roof to get on). They put two balls into him, and he rolled over dead. His skin was being exhibited in Bozeman as we passed through.
While I am on the subject of bears, I may as well tell you another tale just as an eyewitness told it to me.
A few weeks ago a party of miners, returning home after prospecting all summer, were encamped in a fine hunting-ground, up in the mountains near Ross's Peak, lately the favourite resort of Flat-head Indians. They started one morning on a deer and elk hunt, and having separated to scare out the game, one of them suddenly came upon a great grizzly basking in the sun in front of his den. The bear allowed him to approach within a few yards, being apparently in a drowsy state, and the hunter, being a "tenderfoot" (new-comer), did not take the ordinary precautions which experience teaches; but thinking all the bear stories he had ever heard were mere twaddle, imprudently fired in the animal's face, breaking his jaw. This at once aroused the fury of Bruin, and he rushed on the hunter, who succeeded in planting another ball in his shoulder, but this failed to stop him. Being now at such close quarters that another shot was impossible, he tried to jam his rifle down the bear's throat; they then became locked together in a deadly struggle. After wrestling for a few seconds, both hunter and bear fell over a log and down a steep ravine. At this juncture, a dog belonging to one of the party, hearing the row, came up barking, and distracted the bear's attention; the hunter thus succeeded in escaping from the deadly hug and regained his rifle, the stock of which had been split in the first struggle. The bear then started off, feeling, no doubt, that with a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder the odds were against him. The hunter renewed the chase, and being now joined by the rest of his party, they followed the quarry in this wounded state for eight miles, and eventually killed him.
A short time prior to this incident a man and a boy were up in a cañon a few miles to the north, cutting cordwood. The man saw a cinnamon bear, and fired at him, wounding him in the shoulder. The bear turned on him; and the man having no more ammunition—it being in the boy's charge—threw down his rifle and scrambled up the nearest tree; the bear rushed up after him, caught hold of his leg, and tore his boot off, at the same time tearing the flesh of his leg open to the bone. The man then succeeded in getting beyond the bear's reach.
"THE BEAR TORE HIS BOOT OFF."
Bruin then turned his attention to the boy, who was manfully engaged in reloading the rifle. He seized and hugged the lad, and, being on a steep incline, the two rolled over and over till they came to the bottom of the mountain, where the bear left his victim for dead, and then returned to the man, who was still treed. Probably feeling some stiffness from the wound in his shoulder, he could no longer climb, but having amused the man in the tree by leisurely walking round and round it for three or four hours, he then quietly departed.
It fortunately turned out that the boy was not killed, but terribly shaken. He eventually recovered from the fearful ordeal he had undergone.
These bear stories may be taken as facts, and as substantial proofs that, although we luckily did not encounter any bears, there are plenty of them up in the hills just above us.
