When we reached the Olive Hotel we were agreeably surprised. Everything was clean and comfortable, looking like Paradise after the dust and scorching sun of the plains. We were having our lunches put up by the hotel each morning, as there was absolutely nothing decent en route (shades of Medora!). I asked for the manager, Mr. Murphy.
“We shall be glad to put you up a lunch,” he said. “What would you like?”
“Anything but ham sandwiches. We have been so fed up on them that we can’t look a pig in the face for fear we will see a family resemblance.” Then I added, “May the bread be cut thin, and buttered?”
He laughed and assured us that it would be “all right.” Right! Ye gods, we had a feast! Oh, how we have blessed dear Mr. Murphy! May his shadow never grow less! As we were starting in the morning the head waitress came out with the lunch neatly done up, saying, “Mr. Murphy has had some extras put in. We like Easterners and try to please tourists.” We paid the modest price of $2.50 (for three people) and decided to curb our curiosity until noon. This was a real occasion, and just the proper spot must be found for our party. Some days we had driven many miles to find a clump of trees to lunch under. Today we went ten miles and never even saw a tree—the deadly monotony of the endless plains—heat, dust, sand, sagebrush the color of ashes, and only a jolly little prairie-dog scurrying to his hole or a hawk flying overhead. Not a tree—not even a big bush to give shade! We asked some ranchers where they got wood for fuel. “There ain’t no wood. Every fellow digs his coal in his own backyard.” It sounded simple, and I was glad to hear that nature had provided some compensations for the farmer, whose life at the best is not all “beer and skittles.”
On we drove until one o’clock—and still no trees! A wail from Toodles: “What about having lunch in the car?” There was a bend in the road over the top of a hill. “I have a hunch that there will be a tree around the bend,” ventured the bird-man. There was!—just one big, glorious cottonwood tree that would shelter a drove of cattle, and the only tree in sight on those plains as far as the eye could see. Out came the faithful old rug and the hamper—and then we unpacked the lunch! Three juicy melons, a whole broiled chicken for each one, thin bread and butter, a jar of potato salad, fresh tomatoes, three jars of marmalade, eggs, crisp lettuce, pickles, and the best chocolate-cake I ever tasted, besides peaches, pears, and hot coffee. You may think we were a lot of greedy pigs, but that was the banner lunch of the trip. May Mr. Murphy never go hungry! He has made three friends for life.
Miles City is the last and best of the representative “cow-towns” of early days. The annual “round-up,” a celebration of frontier days, is usually held on the 4th of July. Here our watches went back an hour. We were now in the land of silver dollars. It had been some years since we had seen them in New York. Out here, when you had a bill changed, you received nothing but silver dollars. A bit heavy, but all right, if you had enough of them.
That night we reached Billings. We had gone through some fertile ranches where the irrigation system had turned an arid waste of sand into fields of green crops. The country improved, as we neared this “Metropolis of Midland Empire,” as they term it, the center of the sugar-beet industry. Wherever we saw crops, there the sugar-beet flourished. They must raise many thousands of tons of them. The fair grounds and elaborate buildings are of interest. It is a real city rising out of the plains, like a living monument to the pioneers, men and women. The Northern Hotel was the finest we had seen since leaving the Twin Cities. We rested up for a day, had the car cleaned and oiled, and had ourselves laundered, shampooed, and manicured, starting refreshed and full of expectations on our last lap to the Yellowstone. In contrast to the Olive Hotel, our lunch here was the one real “hold-up” in any hotel. Six eggs, six tongue sandwiches, and four cups of coffee were $3.75. We protested, and they deducted seventy-five cents.
We had heard pleasing reports of Hunter’s Hot Springs being the French Lick of the West; anything that spelled water sounded good to us, although we had crossed the upper Yellowstone River only to see a little stream so low that the cattle were standing in the middle. There is nothing but the hotel—not even a garage. All the cars were parked in front and stood there all night. The place was crowded with tourists from all over the country. “Hello there!” greeted us, and to our surprise and great pleasure we found our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. H., of Fargo, with the glad tidings that she would go through the park with us. This place is unique—a low, rambling building, with a quarter of a mile of porches, a very large swimming pool of mineral water, hot from the springs, and private baths of all descriptions. The big plunge had been emptied and scrubbed, and the hot water was pouring in, but would not be sufficiently cool to swim in for another day.
Many charming people were here, taking the course of baths, resting, or just stopping en route, as we were. One celebrity was presented to us, the youthful editor of “Jim Jam Jems,” Mr. Sam H. Clark, of Bismarck, North Dakota, and his attractive wife. There were other ladies in his party, all going to the park. They were attired in the costume of khaki breeches, puttees, and coats, looking very Western and comfortable.
We remarked that we were unfortunate, in never having seen a copy of “Jim Jam Jems.” “You surprise me; it is on sale at six hundred news-stands in New York City.” Feeling like mere worms, we expressed the hope of seeing it in San Francisco. On our arrival, we asked for it at the news-stand in one of the largest hotels. “We get it only about once in two months,” we were told. Later we found the September issue, which we read with interest. In the “Monthly Preamble” he says, “Fact is, this good old U. S. A. seems to have slipped its trolley, politically, industrially, and socially, and generally things be out of joint.” That seemed to be the tone of the whole publication. I do not know the particular significance of the name of his magazine; but if he ever decided to make a change I wonder if he would consider “The Knocker Club in Session.” Mr. Clark is a reformer in embryo, and his talents are unquestioned. Perhaps, in the broad-minded, open West, he will in time find something constructive to write about. Let us watch and see.