I Married a Ranger | Page 5

a few days the young people gave a
party for me. It was my début, so to speak. The world-famous stone
building at Hermit's Rest was turned over to us for the evening by the
Fred Harvey people, and, attended by the entire ranger force, I drove
out the nine miles from Headquarters. We found the house crowded
with guides, cowboys, stage-drivers, and their girls. Most of the girls
were Fred Harvey waitresses, and if you think there is any discredit
attached to that job you had better change your mind. The girls there
were bookkeepers, teachers, college girls, and stenographers. They see
the world and get well paid while doing it.
The big rendezvous at Hermit's Rest resembles an enormous cavern.
The fireplace is among the largest anywhere in the world, and the cave
impression is further carried out by having flat stones laid for the floor,
and rock benches covered with bearskins and Navajo rugs. Many
distinguished guests from all parts of the globe have been entertained in
that room, but we forgot all about distinguished personages and had a
real old-fashioned party. We played cards and danced, and roasted
weenies and marshmallows. After that party I felt that I belonged there
at the Canyon and had neighbors.
There were others, however. The Social Leader, for instance. She tried
to turn our little democracy into a monarchy, with herself the sovereign.
She was very near-sighted, and it was a mystery how she managed to
know all about everything until we discovered she kept a pair of
powerful field-glasses trained on the scene most of the time. The poor
lady had a mania for selling discarded clothing at top prices. We used
to ask each other when we met at supper, "Did you buy anything
today?" I refused point-blank to buy her wreckage, but the rangers were
at a disadvantage. They wanted to be gentlemen and not hurt her
feelings! Now and then one would get cornered and stuck with a
second-hand offering before he could make his getaway. Then how the
others would rag him! One ranger, with tiny feet, of which he was
inordinately proud, was forced to buy a pair of No. 12 shoes because

they pinched the Social Leader's Husband's feet. He brought them to
me.
"My Gawd! What'll I do with these here box cars? They cost me six
bucks and I'm ruined if the boys find out about it."
An Indian squaw was peddling baskets at my house, and we traded the
shoes to her for two baskets. I kept one and he the other. Not long after
that he was burned to death in a forest fire, and when I packed his
belongings to send to his mother the little basket was among his
keepsakes.
There was a Bridge Fiend in our midst, too! She weighed something
like twenty stone, slept all forenoon, played bridge and ate chocolates
all afternoon, and talked constantly of reducing. One day she went for a
ride on a flop-eared mule; he got tired and lay down and rolled over
and over in the sand. They had some trouble rescuing her before she
got smashed. I told her the mule believed in rolling to help reduce. She
didn't see the joke, but the mule and I did. Grand Canyon life was too
exciting for her, so she left us.
A quaint little person was the rancher's wife who brought fresh eggs
and vegetables to us. She wore scant pajamas instead of skirts, because
she thought it "more genteel," she explained. When a favorite horse or
cow died, she carefully preserved the skull and other portions of the
skeleton for interior-decoration purposes.
Ranger Fisk and I took refuge in her parlor one day from a heavy rain.
Her husband sat there like a graven image. He was never known to say
more than a dozen words a day, but she carried on for the entire family.
As Ranger Fisk said, "She turns her voice on and then goes away and
forgets it's running." She told us all about the last moments of her
skeletons before they were such, until it ceased to be funny. Ranger
Fisk sought to change the conversation by asking her how long she had
been married.
"Ten years; but it seems like fifty," she said. We braved the rain after
that.

Ranger Fisk was born in Sweden. He ran away from home at fourteen
and joined the Merchant Marine, and in that service poked into most of
the queer seaports on the map. He had long since lost track of his
kinsfolk, and although he insisted that he was anxious to marry he
carefully kept away from all marriageable ladies.
Ranger Winess was the sheik of the force. Every good-looking girl that
came his way was