Who refused a man before he axed her.
Her husband was the renowned Slade, who had the
reputation of having killed his three men. This pleasant individual “for an evening party” wore a revolver and bowie-knife here, there, and everywhere. It at once became evident that this station was not conducted for the public convenience. One of our party who had ventured into the kitchen was fiercely ejected by the “ladies,” and, asking for dormitories, we were informed that lady travellers were admitted into the house, but men could sleep where they could. We found a barn outside; it was hardly fit for a decently brought up pig: the floor was damp and knotty; there was not even a door to keep out the night breeze; and several drunken fellows lay about in different parts of it. Into this disreputable hole we were all thrust for the night. “May gracious Heaven,” I prayed, “keep us safe from all ‘ladies’ in future!” Better a hundred times the squaw, with her uncleanliness and her civility!
It was about the tenth day of our journey that the formation of the land began to warn us that we were approaching, as yet far off, the Rocky Mountains. We saw for the first time a train of Mormon waggons, twenty-four in number, slowly wending their way towards the Promised Land. The “captain” was young Brigham Young, a nephew of the Prophet—a fine fellow, with yellow hair and beard, an intelligent countenance, a six-shooter by his right, and a bowie-knife by his left side. It was impossible to mistake, even through the veil of freckles and sunburn with which a two months’ journey had invested them, the
nationality of these emigrants—“British-English” was written all over them. One young person concealed her facial attractions under a manner of mask. I though that perhaps she might be a sultana, reserved for the establishment of some very magnificent Mormon bashaw; but the driver, when appealed to, responded with contempt, “’Guess old Briggy won’t stampede many o’ that ere lot!” Though homely in appearance, they seemed to be healthy and well fed.
The same day, a little later, we crossed a war party of Arapahos; they looked less like warriors than a band of horse-stealers, and though they had set out with the determination of bringing back some Utah scalps and fingers, they had not succeeded. The war party consisted of some dozen warriors, with a few limber, lithe lads. They had sundry lean, sorry-looking nags, which were presently turned out to graze. Dirty rags formed the dress of the band; their arms were the usual light lances, garnished with leather at the handles, with two cropped tufts and a long loose feather dangling from them. They carried mangy buffalo robes; and scattered upon the ground was a variety of belts, baldricks, and pouches, with split porcupine quills dyed a saffron yellow. I found them sulky and not disposed to be communicative, a fact which, no doubt, was accounted for by the ill-success of their expedition.
I have given some account of the “ladies” we met en route; in fairness one must reverse the shield, for, at a station forbiddingly known as the Devil’s
Post-Office, we came across an Englishwoman, a “Miss” Moore (Miss is still used for Mrs. by Western men and negroes), who was a pattern of cleanliness, tidiness, civility, and housewifery in general. Her little ranche was neatly swept and garnished, papered and ornamented. The table-cloth was clean, so was the cooking, and so were the children, and I was reminded of Europe by the way in which she insisted upon washing my shirt, an operation which, after leaving the Missouri, had fallen to my own lot. This day also introduced me to the third novel sensation on the western side of the Atlantic. The first was to feel that all men were your equal; that you were no man’s superior, and that no man was yours. The second—this is spoken as an African wanderer—was to see one’s quondam acquaintance, the Kaffir or Negro, put by his grass kilt and coat of grease, invest himself in broadcloth, part his wool on one side, shave, and call himself, not Sambo, but “Mr. Scott.” The third was to meet in the Rocky Mountains with this woman, a refreshing specimen of that far-off Old World. “Miss” Moore’s husband, a decent appendage, had transferred his belief from the Church of England to the Church of Utah, and the good wife, as in duty bound, had followed in his wake. But when the Serpent came and whispered in “Miss” Moore’s modest, respectable, one-idea’d ear that the Abrahams of Great Salt Lake City were mere “Shamabrams,” and not content with Sarahs, but added to them an unlimited supply of Hagars, her
power of endurance broke down. Not an inch would she budge, not a step nearer to the City of the Saints would she take. She fought against the impending misfortune, and she succeeded in reducing her husband to submission and making him earn a good livelihood as station-master on the waggon-line—he who might have been a Solomon in the City of the Saints!
The evening of the next day, when we had reached Pacific Springs, the Wind River Mountains appeared in marvellous majesty. It was one of the sights of the journey. The huge purple hangings of rain-clouds in the northern sky set off their vast proportions, and gave prominence, as in a stereoscope, to their gigantic forms and their upper heights, hoar with the frosts of ages. The setting sun diffused a charming softness over their more rugged features, defining the folds and ravines with a distinctness which deceived every idea of distance. As the light sank beyond the far western horizon it travelled slowly up the mountain side, till, reaching the summit, it mingled its splendours with the snow. Nor was the scene less lovely in the morning hour, as the first effulgence of day fell upon the masses of dew-cloud, lit up the peaks, which gleamed like silver, and poured streams of light and warmth over the broad skirts reposing on the plain.