I Notice That Evans Is Never Quite Himself Or
Perfectly Comfortable When He Is There; And On The Part Of The
Other There Is A Sort Of Stiffly-Assumed Cordiality, Significant,
I Fear Of Lurking Hatred On Both Sides.
I was in the kitchen
after dinner making rolled puddings, young Lyman was eating up
the relics as usual, "Jim" was singing one of Moore's melodies,
the others being in the living-room, when Mr. Kavan and Mr.
Buchan came from "up the creek" to wish me good-bye.
They said
it was not half so much like home now, and recalled the "good
time" we had had for three weeks. Lyman having lost the ow, we
have no milk. No one makes bread; they dry the venison into
chips, and getting the meals at all seems a work of toil and
difficulty, instead of the pleasure it used to be to us. Evans,
since tea, has told me all his troubles and worries. He is a
kind, generous, whole-hearted, unsuspicious man, a worse enemy to
himself, I believe, than to any other; but I feel sadly that the
future of a man who has not stronger principles than he has must
be at the best very insecure.
I. L. B.
Letter XVII
Woman's mission - The last morning - Crossing the St.
Vrain - Miller - The St. Vrain again - Crossing the prairie - "Jim's"
dream - "Keeping strangers" - The inn kitchen - A reputed
child-eater - Notoriety - A quiet dance - "Jim's" resolve - The
frost-fall - An unfortunate introduction.
CHEYENNE, WYOMING, December 12.
The last evening came. I did not wish to realize it, as I looked
at the snow-peaks glistening in the moonlight. No woman will be
seen in the park till next May. Young Lyman talked in a
"hifalutin" style, but with some truth in it, of the influence of
a woman's presence, how "low, mean, vulgar talk" had died out on
my return, how they had "all pulled themselves up," and how Mr.
Kavan and Mr. Buchan had said they would like always to be as
quiet and gentlemanly as when a lady was with them. "By May," he
said, "we shall be little better than brutes, in our manners at
least." I have seen a great deal of the roughest class of men
both on sea and land during the last two years, and the more
important I think the "mission" of every quiet, refined,
self-respecting woman - the more mistaken I think those who would
forfeit it by noisy self-assertion, masculinity, or fastness. In
all this wild West the influence of woman is second only in its
benefits to the influence of religion, and where the last
unhappily does not exist the first continually exerts its
restraining power. The last morning came. I cleaned up my room
and sat at the window watching the red and gold of one of the
most glorious of winter sunrises, and the slow lighting-up of one
peak after another. I have written that this scenery is not
lovable, but I love it.
I left on Birdie at 11 o'clock, Evans riding with me as far as
Mr. Nugent's. He was telling me so many things, that at the top
of the hill I forgot to turn round and take a last look at my
colossal, resplendent, lonely, sunlit den, but it was needless,
for I carry it away with me. I should not have been able to
leave if Mr. Nugent had not offered his services. His chivalry
to women is so well known, that Evans said I could be safer and
better cared for with no one. He added, "His heart is good and
kind, as kind a heart as ever beat. He's a great enemy of his
own, but he's been living pretty quietly for the last four
years." At the door of his den I took leave of Birdie, who had
been my faithful companion for more than 700 miles of traveling,
and of Evans, who had been uniformly kind to me and just in all
his dealings, even to paying to me at that moment the very last
dollar he owed me. May God bless him and his! He was obliged to
return before I could get off, and as he commended me to Mr.
Nugent's care, the two men shook hands kindly.[21]
[21]Some months later "Mountain Jim" fell by Evans's hand, shot
from Evans's doorstep while riding past his cabin. The story of
the previous weeks is dark, sad, and evil. Of the five differing
versions which have been written to me of the act itself and its
immediate causes, it is best to give none. The tragedy is too
painful to dwell upon. "Jim" lived long enough to give his own
statement, and to appeal to the judgment of God, but died in low
delirium before the case reached a human tribunal.
Rich spoils of beavers' skins were lying on the cabin floor, and
the trapper took the finest, a mouse-colored kitten beaver's
skin, and presented it to me. I hired his beautiful Arab mare,
whose springy step and long easy stride was a relief after
Birdie's short sturdy gait. We had a very pleasant ride, and I
seldom had to walk. We took neither of the trails, but cut right
through the forest to a place where, through an opening in the
Foot Hills, the Plains stretched to the horizon covered with
snow, the surface of which, having melted and frozen, reflected
as water would the pure blue of the sky, presenting a complete
optical illusion. It required my knowledge of fact to assure me
that I was not looking at the ocean. "Jim" shortened the way by
repeating a great deal of poetry, and by earnest, reasonable
conversation, so that I was quite surprised when it grew dark.
He told me that he never lay down to sleep without prayer - prayer
chiefly that God would give him a happy death. He had previously
promised that he would not hurry or scold, but "fyking" had not
been included in the arrangement, and when in the early darkness
we reached the steep hill, at whose foot the rapid deep St. Vrain
flows, he "fyked" unreasonably about me, the mare, and the
crossing generally, and seemed to think I could not get through,
for the ice had been cut with an axe, and we could not see
whether "glaze" had formed since or not.
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