I Married a Ranger | Page 8

our
honeymoon! I had to give the matter careful consideration; but while I
considered, the moon came up, and behind us in the Music Room
someone began to play softly Schubert's "Serenade." I said, "All right.
Next year we'll go!"

[Illustration]
Chapter III: "I DO!"
The Washington Office decided, by this time, that I was really going to
stay, so they sent another girl out to work with me. The poor
Superintendent was speechless! But his agony was short-lived. Another
superintendent was sent to relieve him, which was also a relief to me!

My new girl was from Alabama and had never been west of that state.
She was more of a tenderfoot than I, if possible. At first she insisted
one had to have a bathtub or else be just "pore white trash," but in time
she learned to bathe quite luxuriously in a three-pint basin. It took
longer for her to master the art of lighting a kerosene lamp, and it was
quite a while before she was expert enough to dodge the splinters in the
rough pine floor. I felt like a seasoned sourdough beside her!
We "ditched" the big cookstove, made the back room into sleeping
quarters, and turned our front room into a sort of clubhouse. White
Mountain gave us a wonderful phonograph and plenty of records. If
one is inclined to belittle canned music, it is a good plan to live for a
while where the only melody one hears is a wailing coyote or the wind
moaning among the pines.
We kept getting new records. The rangers dropped in every evening
with offerings. Ranger Winess brought us love songs. He doted on John
McCormack's ballads, and I secretly applauded his choice. Of course I
had to praise the Harry Lauder selections that Ranger Fisk toted in.
White Mountain favored Elman and Kreisler. The violin held him
spellbound. But when Pat came we all suffered through an evening of
Grand Opera spelled with capital letters!
Nobody knew much about "Pat." He was a gentleman without doubt.
He was educated and cultured, he was witty and traveled. His game of
bridge was faultless and his discussion of art or music authentic. He
was ready to discuss anything and everything, except himself.
In making up personnel records I asked him to fill out a blank. He gave
his name and age. "Education" was followed by "A.B." and "M.A."
Nearest relative: "None." In case of injury or death notify--"Nobody."
That was all. Somewhere he had a family that stood for something in
the world, but where? He was a striking person, with his snow-white
hair, bright blue eyes, and erect, soldier-like bearing. White Mountain
and Ranger Winess had known him in Yellowstone; Ranger Fisk had
seen him in Rainier; Ranger West had met him at Glacier. He taught
me the game of cribbage, and the old game of gold-rush days--solo.

One morning Pat came to my cabin and handed me a book. Without
speaking he turned and walked away. Inside the volume I found a note:
"I am going away. This is my favorite book. I want you to have it and
keep it." The title of the book was Story of an African Farm. None of
us ever saw Pat again.
The yearly rains began to come daily, each with more force and water
than the preceding one. Lightning flashed like bombs exploding, and
thunder roared and reverberated back and forth from Rim to Rim of the
Canyon. We sank above our shoes in mud every time we left the cabin.
The days were disagreeable, but the evenings were spent in the cabin,
Ranger Winess with his guitar and the other boys singing while we
girls made fudge or sea-foam. Such quantities of candy as that bunch
could consume! The sugar was paid for from the proceeds of a
Put-and-Take game that kept us entertained.
We had a girl friend, Virginia, from Washington as a guest, and she fell
in love with Arizona. Also with Ranger Winess. It was about arranged
that she would remain permanently, but one unlucky day he took her
down Bright Angel Trail. He provided her with a tall lank mule, "By
Gosh," to ride, and she had never been aboard an animal before. Every
time By Gosh flopped an ear she thought he was trying to slap her in
the face. On a steep part of the trail a hornet stung the mule, and he
began to buck and kick.
I asked Virginia what she did then.
"I didn't do anything. By Gosh was doing enough for both of us," she
said. Ranger Winess said, however, that she turned her mule's head in
toward the bank and whacked him with the stick she carried. Which
was the logical thing to do. Unfortunately