Castle Frewen, as the superior log building was facetiously called by the Americans, was 212 miles from Rock Creek station, and we were well pleased upon arrival to accept their thoroughly appreciated hospitality. Their house had an upper floor, and a staircase rising from a hall, the walls of which were boarded, but were ornamented with heads and horns of a variety of wild animals; these were in excellent harmony with the style of the surroundings. Here we had the additional advantage of a kind and most charming hostess in Mrs. Moreton Frewen, in whose society it seemed impossible to believe that we were so remote from what the world calls civilisation. There was a private telephone, 22 miles in length, to the station at Powder River, and the springing of the alarm every quarter of an hour throughout the day was a sufficient proof of the attention necessary to conduct the affairs successfully at that distance from the place of business.
Our kind friends afforded us every possible assistance for the arrangements that were necessary, and we regarded with admiration the energy and perseverance they exhibited in working with their own hands, and in KNOWING HOW TO USE THEIR OWN HANDS, in the absence of such assistance as would be considered necessary in civilised countries.
There were about 8000 head of cattle upon the Frewens' ranche, all of which were in excellent condition. It was beyond my province to enter upon the question of successful ranching, but the Americans confided to me that the prairie grass, instead of benefiting by the pasturing of cattle, became exhausted, and that weeds usurped the place of the grass, which disappeared; therefore it would follow that a given area, that would support 10,000 head of cattle at the present time, would in a few years only support half that number. It might therefore be inferred that the process of deterioration would ultimately result in the loss of pasturage, and the necessary diminution in the herds.
From the Frewens' ranche, a ride of 25 miles along the course of the
Powder river brought us to the last verge of civilisation; the utmost
limit of the cattle ranches was owned by very nice young people, Mr. and
Mrs. Peters, Americans, and Mr. Alston, an English partner.
We had been hospitably received by these charming young settlers, whose rough log-house was in the last stage of completion, and I fear we must have caused them great personal inconvenience.
On the following morning we started for the wilds of the Big Horn, and crossing the Powder river, we at once commenced the steep ascent, for a steady pull of 4000 feet above the dell in which the house was situated. We left them, with the promise to pay them a few days' visit on our return.
It was then that we quickly discovered the peculiarities of our four attendants, whom I had expected to be examples of stern hardihood, that would represent the fabled reputation of the backwoodsman.
Although they were fine fellows in a certain way, they astonished me by their luxurious habits. In a country that abounded with game, I should have expected to exist upon the produce of the rifle, as I had done so frequently during many years' experience of rough life. A barrel of biscuits, a few pounds of bacon, and a good supply of coffee would have been sufficient for a crowned head who was fond of shooting, especially in a country where every kind of animal was fat. My men did not view this picture of happiness in the same light; they required coffee, sugar, an immense supply of bacon, an oven for baking bread, flour, baking-powder, preserved apples (dried), ditto peaches, ditto blackberries, together with the necessaries of pepper, salt, etc.
It was always my custom to drink a pint of cafe au lait and to eat some toast and butter at about 6 A.M. before starting for our day's work; after this I never thought of food throughout the day, until my return in the evening, which was generally at five or six o'clock.
My people were never ready in the morning, but were invariably squatted in front of the frying-pan, frizzling bacon, when I was prepared to start. Jem Bourne was a chronic grumbler because we hunted far away from camp, instead of returning at mid-day to luncheon. Excellent fresh bread was baked daily, and I insisted upon the people supplying themselves with sufficient food packed upon their saddles, if they were not hardy enough for a day's work after a good breakfast.