Shortly before Bill’s death, Mrs. Dornan found the two brothers in San Diego, in a little hospital on Juniper Street. Bill was bedridden, but his mind was keen. He cursed the bed in which he lay, and talked of Jackson Hole. A sympathetic nurse had pinned on the wall at the foot of his bed a crude oil painting of the Teton Mountains.
Holiday was able to be up and about, but his mind had begun to fade. Mrs. Dornan took him mahogany “tansies” like those he once grew. Knowing he would never see her again, he gave her a handkerchief with his initials in one corner. H. H. M.
She knew that never again would she hear him say, “Now mind you, I’m telling you. This ain’t W. D. Menor talking, this is H. H. Menor talking, by God!”
The brothers died within a year of each other.
But living or dead they belonged to Jackson Hole. They were vivid, strong-grained men.
Holiday’s buildings are gone. But Bill’s low, whitewashed house still stands.
And the mad Snake rolls by, and the shadow of the great mountains moves over sage, and building, and river.
FOOTNOTES
[1]Years later a peak almost due west from this camp, at the head of Waterfalls Canyon, was named Doane Peak, in honor of the Lieutenant.
[2]Prior to the construction of Jackson Lake Dam, completed in 1916, the natural water level was some 39 feet below the present high water line.