Frank's Ranche; Or, My Holiday in the Rockies / Being a Contribution to the Inquiry into What We Are to Do with Our Boys

PART I.

LETTER No. I.

My bright anticipations—Melancholy forebodings—Bound for the Rockies—Frank's start for the Far West—Farming in Minnesota—A new scheme—Starting a creamery—Glowing hopes—Failure and disappointment.

London, July, 1885.

Last year I spent a pleasant time in Dovedale, and "The Amateur Angler" told you all about it. This autumn I had looked forward to a holiday in some retired nook in leafy Herefordshire or Shropshire. I had my eye on an old farmhouse at which to make my headquarters for fishing in The Teme, or The Lugg, or The Arrow.

As a boy, I knew that old house well; every corner of it, all the buildings, orchards, and lovely green meadows surrounding it; the woods, the ravines, the far-off mountains, and, above all, the pleasant river which ran through and around the farm, wherein I used to swim and fish for trout and grayling, are vividly before me now.

"I knew each lane and every alley green,
Dingle and bushy dell....
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walk and ancient neighbourhood."

But hard and inexorable fate has ordered me off in quite a different direction. All being well, my autumnal holiday will be spent in the Rocky Mountains! If I have called such a fate as that hard, it is only because of the uncertainty of it. A young man, I fancy, would see nothing but delight in it; but for an old man in his seventh decade, and one not accustomed to travel, it is like tearing up his roots and plunging down stream into the unknown.

I am going to fish in the Rockies. I shall take with me that immaculate tackle which last year inspired me with such hopes in Dovedale. I hear of places where you have only to cast your fly and you pull out a 5 lb. trout (nothing less) with positive certainty; and without taking him off your hook, you have simply to swing him a little behind you into a natural boiling geyser, and in ten minutes your 5-pounder is cooked and ready for your lunch. That is but a small specimen of the kind of sport I am anticipating! That's the sort of thing that inspires me!

But then there is the reverse of this pretty picture, which sometimes, in melancholy moments, makes me contemplate my enforced holiday as a hardship on the part of fate. Are there not mosquitoes on that side of the broad Atlantic? Are there not Red Indians and grizzly bears? I have pictured myself walking though a narrow glen, fishing-rod in hand, in the angler's contemplative mood, and suddenly finding myself confronted by a grizzly! Must, or rather will, he retire, or must I? I never fired a revolver in my life, so I should not think of carrying one; besides, I have no thirst for a grizzly's blood, and I only hope he has none for mine. I am sure if he will let me alone I won't meddle with him. Alas! I get a hug and a pat, and my fate and my fishing are ended!

Then, again, I dream of encountering a band of black-feet, or crow's feet, or spotted-tailed Indians, in feathers and war-paint, armed with tomahawk and scalping-knife. I yield my hoary, or I may say my bald scalp to that horrid knife, and so my fate is ended. When I think of things in that way, am I wrong in talking of it as a hard fate? Then there are six-shooters, bowie-knives, buffaloes, and rattlesnakes!

Nevertheless, to the Rockies I am bound, in spite of all such gloomy possibilities. My passage money is already paid and my berth secured in the good ship "Cunardia": which is, I am told, one of the finest vessels afloat; so I hope I shall be able to give a good account of her.

My youngest son Frank, who has always been somewhat of a rolling stone, and to whom, in the old country, neither wool nor pelf would stick, is now settled away up at the foot of the Rocky Mountains; and when he has sometimes written to me for money, and I have asked him how he has spent it, his answer has invariably been "Come and see!"

Year after year I have put off going, but now I am beginning to feel that if I am ever to go, I must delay no longer; so I am about to see with my own eyes where my money has gone to, and what may be the chances of any portion of it coming back to me.

Frank was always a peculiar youth to manage. He began life in my City counting-house, but he soon tired of it. He had formed the notion that he was better suited to the free life of the prairie than to the routine work of City business. Of course he knew nothing about prairie life, and he would not be persuaded that his notions were but the outcome of a disordered imagination; he was well off where he was, with fair chances before him; but he was quite prepared to throw those chances away, and to strike out into the Far West. He was a strong, healthy, good-looking youth, fond of society, and very popular, and consequently, was gradually being led into habits of extravagance which might have ended badly. I was therefore, willing to humour his wishes.

In the year 1880 I paid his passage to America, and he began his career by engaging himself to a farmer in Minnesota, who for a small stipend was to instruct him in farming and give him his board in exchange for his work.

When Frank began with the farmer, it is not too much to say that he was totally ignorant of everything belonging to a farm; but he had not been on this farm for six months before he became convinced that he had learnt everything there was to learn, and that he could give a few wrinkles to his master.

Then he told me that there was a wonderful farm to be had close at hand, dirt cheap, a chance not to be lost; it was a small place of about 200 acres with good house and building, and splendid feeding prairie-land adjoining. This, he said, was just the place for him to begin on; and he produced such elaborate figures to prove to me that, although the previous occupant had failed there, enormous profits—one hundred per cent. at least—could be made of it, if managed in accordance with his enlightened views, rather than in the humdrum way in which the previous farmer had come to grief. He wrote to me so urgently, so persistently, so enthusiastically, that I, although with many misgivings, found him the money wherewith to purchase and stock the place. More money was expended on that farm than I am now willing to acknowledge, but everything went along swimmingly for a short period.

As time went on things did not seem to thrive so well as was hoped. The corn crop was not up to the mark; the cattle did not fetch the expected price; two or three horses died, and, on the whole, the first year's work had not paid its expenses. But Frank was not disheartened; he wrote courageously home for more money, and worked hard, ploughing and planting, digging and hoeing. I was at least pleased to find him sticking to his work so bravely, and exhibiting no desire to "cave in," although it was evident that his life was a pretty hard one, and his daily fare rough enough.

One day I got a letter from him telling me that he was going to sell the farm, as he had got another scheme in view which would land him in a fortune in a very short time.

The scheme was something quite new in that part of the country, and was a safe success.

The idea was to sell his farm, and with the produce establish a Creamery, for the purpose of buying up all the cream from the farmers for many miles round, and supply all the western cities, and even eastward, as far as New York, with the best butter that could be made, and at prices of hitherto unknown moderation.

Frank supplied me with figures which proved conclusively that after estimating cost of plant, and interest thereon, horses and carts for driving round and collecting, wages of carters and butter-makers, and the prime cost of the cream, the best butter could be produced at a prime cost of sixpence a pound, while the very lowest at which it could possibly be sold was a shilling or 1s. 2d. a pound. This, after making ample allowance for cost of transit, &c., would clearly leave a very handsome profit; the success of the thing was too obvious to be for a moment questioned.

So Frank sold his farm at about what it had originally cost him, but with a total loss of his year's labour, and money sunk in improvements; and went to work in connection with a partner, a practical man, who joined him with no capital, but who, in consideration of his knowledge and experience, was to share equally in the profits, first allowing Frank fair interest for his capital. The local newspapers puffed the new enterprise, and spoke in glowing terms of the pluck and energy of the young Englishman: for a time things looked quite promising.

Frank wrote home with his usual buoyancy and asked for more money to purchase sundry articles and machinery absolutely needed to carry on the rapidly-growing business.

But, alas! for the glowing hopes of youth! At the end of a year it was found by a balance-sheet carefully, and I believe fairly, drawn up by the business partner, that there was nothing left but the plant; the working capital for purchases and expenses was gone. The price of butter had fallen enormously, and the price of cream and cost of collecting it had exceeded the original calculations, whilst the plant, except as a going concern, was not worth much.

It was found necessary either that Frank should put in 2,000 dollars more capital (which he said would set them right), or he must give up the creamery. He did give it up, and was left high and dry to begin the world again with a capital of about two hundred dollars.

I am told that the working partner still carries on the business, and having got hold of the plant at a nominal price, is now really making the thing pay.

But Frank was out of it, and Minnesota was no longer a place for him. With the small capital above mentioned he decided to strike out west for the Rockies.

How he fared I will tell you in my next letter.

LETTER No. II.

Frank's dearly-bought experience—A start for the Rockies—Magnificent scenery—Indian scouts and revolvers—Advice to parents—Frank's determination to "rough it."

London, August, 1885.

I have now given you a short account of how Frank managed to get through his two first years of farming life in Minnesota, and how he (or rather I) was worse off in the end than at the beginning.

He had purchased experience at my expense; his money was nearly all gone, and with what remained he resolved to start off for the Rocky Mountains with a friend. This friend was a young fellow, who had gone out from the City of London fired with the notion that the Great West was the proper place for him, that there was nothing like a life in the open prairie, where a little work would be diversified by a good deal of hunting, shooting, and riding about.

So this youth immediately on his reaching Frank, to whom he had been highly commended by friends at home, borrowed a hundred dollars from him, and they started off together to seek their fortunes in the Rockies.

I think I cannot do better than send you some extracts from Frank's letters, which will give you a fair notion of his progress from the year 1883 to this time, and show, at all events, that amid a good many ups and downs, and hardships of no ordinary character, he has up to this point "stuck to it;" while his friend who accompanied him to the Rockies, suddenly bolted, leaving Frank in the lurch, and minus the money he had lent him. The first letter is dated June, 1883.

"My dear Parents,

"I have just struck out here; I had nothing to do at M. The creamery business was finished up, and I can get better pay working out here than there. I started with S. on Monday, and we arrived here on Thursday, a distance of 1,100 miles, right through the Rockies.

"The view from our window looks out across a valley to the Rocky Mountains, and down the valley for a distance of fifty miles; the scenery is magnificent; the mountains are capped with snow. On Monday we start for a place called Clark's Forks, 120 miles S.W., just north of 'The National Park.' We stage it for sixty miles, and either walk or take ponies the rest, up to a height of 7,000 feet above sea level, to work on some fencing at two and a half dollars a day. There are lots of ways of making a living there, and I hope of saving money. The town here is full of Indian scouts, and every man carries a revolver; in fact, as you may suppose, it is a rough place, and we shall have to look sharp after ourselves with our revolvers. Bears (grizzlies) are thick in the district we are going to, also antelope, deer, and Indians.... We are in the roughest of countries, but I am determined to fight my way through, and in the end I hope to come out successful....

"My motive in coming here is simply to work hard and save money. If any thing should happen to either of us you will hear from one of us; we go with our lives in our hands.

"As we are green hands just yet, we only get two dollars, but after a little while we are to get three dollars a day.

"I have now just money enough to get to our destination."

Notwithstanding the fact that this boy had been losing my money all the time, I did not feel altogether disheartened; for I had found him as candid about his failures as he had been sanguine about his successes, and he always gave me sufficiently clear accounts as to how the money had gone. I was pleased with the pluck he had shown under difficulties from which many a young fellow would have shrunk.

I had found out by this time that I had acted very unwisely in supplying an inexperienced youth, however energetic and right principled, with capital to start farming in a new country without any practical knowledge whatever.

Hundreds of youths go out to America and the Colonies every year under circumstances very like those of my son. Indulgent parents supply them with money at once to start them in life in an occupation to which they bring nothing but conceit and ignorance combined, and their money is as certain to be lost as if it were thrown into the sea.

My advice to parents situated similarly to myself is never to give an unlimited supply of money to start with. Allow your son just so much as will keep him from starvation, and let him work out his luxuries for himself. Let him rough it for three or four years at least; by that time he will have discovered how far his boyish dreams have been realized by experience, and he will have shown the stuff he is made of. He will either have succumbed and gone home, or broken down in some more disastrous way, or he will have gained experience which may justify his starting in business with some hope of his being able to take care of himself and his money, and to pull through.

My son had gained experience at my expense, and now I decided that he should gain a little more at his own cost. I thought it better that he should rough it for himself, and this he had made up his mind to do.

LETTER No. III.

A hundred and twenty miles' walk—Axe, pick-axe, and shovel—A four-hundred-feet roll down the mountain—Rough living—An Indian scare—Deadly fumes—Working round a smelter—Fishing in Lake "Abundance"—Disturbed by a grizzly.

London, August, 1885.

I propose now to occupy a few pages with extracts from Frank's letters, which will give a fair notion of his progress up to the time of my sailing, and from that point I purpose to give you an account of my own adventures.

In his next letter, which is dated Cook's City, July 6, 1883, he says:—

"I started out from Minnesota, as there was nothing for me to do there that would pay me so well.... We walked from Bozeman, 120 miles through the Rockies, with a promise of work, but the roads and creeks, or rather mountain torrents, which we had to cross are so bad at present that the smelter cannot be got up here yet, and so we are employing ourselves in building a log cabin for the winter for ourselves. The trouble is that winter will soon be here ... and as I paid all S.'s expenses as well as my own, besides lending him 100 dollars, I am afraid I shall not have much left.... We are now 120 miles from the nearest neighbourhood, right in the heart of the Rockies, so that letters are scarce and far between. From Bozeman (where Mrs. Blackmore was buried) the carrier comes once a week, but in winter, I suppose, once a fortnight.

"The scenery here is magnificent; we are now in a gulch, with a range of mountains on each side of us; a small camp composed of log cabins, at present about fifty people, but a boom is expected, and we shall share it. We have already taken up a lot, which costs nothing, and are building a log cabin, which in two weeks we hope to finish.... We hope in winter to save by getting an elk or two, of which there are plenty, also bears, mountain lions, &c. The air is very fine and rare here, and happens to agree with us both."

WOODCHOPPER'S CABIN, FROM FRANK'S SKETCH.

"Clark's Fork, August 5, 1883.

"When we first came here (on foot, 120 miles from Bozeman) we were promised work, but on account of a misunderstanding between our employers, we had to wait a few days; however, we have both been working on a mountain pass, at two dollars and board a day. The work, swinging an axe, pick-axe, and shovel, is not so very hard, but the sleeping out in the open under our two blankets, sometimes pouring with rain, was not very clever. There were about twenty of us and a black cook, and the amount of bluebottle flies and other insects I have eaten would have turned my stomach but for having a marvellous appetite.

"Boiled elk, bear, and tea was the programme for two weeks. When the job was finished, we immediately got work fixing up and shovelling charcoal round a smelter at three dollars, without board; so we are now working at it, and come home at noon for our dinner in a little shack near the smelter; hours, seven to twelve; one to six. We cook our bread when we get through at six, generally boiling some buffalo meat for our next day's supply.

"I must not forget to mention that our appearance at night is somewhat similar to a coalheaver's.

"This is good, honest, though dirty work. Our intention at present is to save up 100 dollars, start off from here, and camp up at Bridger's, 130 miles from here (about twelve miles on the other side of Bozeman), and cut cordwood to supply Bozeman, and by hard work hope to make 1,000 dollars by next July.... I want you to think that I am doing my very best to make and save money. We have not had even potatoes for a month. Goods are too expensive here, as they have to be hauled from Bozeman.

AN AWKWARD ROLL.

"Before we went on to the road business we had a three days' job about five miles away, up on the side of a mountain covered with snow, and had to pack our blankets, grub, &c., across the snow, making sure of our footsteps, otherwise it might have been all up with us. Once we did slip, and went flying down the mountain for 400 feet; but there happened to be a curve which pulled us up. I shall never forget the sensation. We tried to get a horse across. He slipped, rolled over and over with our blankets, frying pan, and all on his back. We thought it was all over with him, but he got up after tumbling down 300 feet, shook himself, and walked off, leaving our teapot smashed in. I believe the old beast had been there before."

"August 19, 1883.

"... As long as my health keeps up I don't care. I can get along well; but this high altitude and the rough living, nothing but bread and elk meat, which is liable to give one dysentery, has stopped me working two or three days. However, I hope to be all right to-morrow.

"I have been working round a smelter (which has not yet actually begun to work) from seven o'clock to six, at three dollars a day, without board, so that, though I don't spend a cent except for meat, sugar, flour, and coffee, which, by the way, are frightfully dear, having to be hauled 120 miles, I cannot save much.... This is the roughest of lives, but as I can get good wages I can put up with it.

"My idea now is to work on as long as possible here. The smelter is run by water power, and when it freezes up work will stop, Then either go to a place near Bozeman and cut wood, or hire out somewhere else; and when the winter is through make my way out to Washington territory as soon as the snow will allow; take up a homestead claim somewhere the other side of the Columbia River, work in a lumber camp all the winter, and work the farm in the summer.... There was an Indian scare in camp last night. Ten Indians turned up fully armed, but they were only after some of their horses the whites had stolen; two men were arrested, but one escaped, tearing away with a horse and six-shooter at full gallop."

"August 26, 1883.

"... I can now fully appreciate the value of money, having worked hard for it lately. The 'boom' I mentioned meant simply that we staked out ground near town, built a log foundation on it (to hold it by homestead right), so that should this mining town turn out another Leadville, the lot would be valuable, though it did not cost a cent save our two days' labour.... You also mention that I said I was going to get 20 dollars a week. So I did, but have had to lay off two days, and still have plenty of money in hand; but laying off when work shuts down cannot be helped. Last night, for instance, I worked from seven o'clock to seven in the morning in the smelter here for 14s. at carrying bullion (silver and lead, 100 lbs. weight), but I am afraid I cannot work again to-night, as my feet are blistered and dried up. Besides, the fumes, which are deadly, have rather upset me. Though the wages are good, the risk is too great. Out of the 14s. (three and a half dollars) I have to pay 2s. a meal for board, as one has to live a little better than 'baching it' at this sort of work.

"Milk is a necessity, and at 1s. 6d. a quart runs away with money. I must not forget to mention that there is a fearful rush for the four cows owned by an old rancher here, whose spring is by far too handy.

"I would have sent you a little sketch, but the principal mixer of my oil colours is missing, and 120 miles too far to send.... Winter is fast coming on, and the snow lies from five to seven inches deep on the level, outside work being nearly shut off.

"S. left here two days ago to work on a ranche, and I am not very sorry for it, as he would neither save nor try and push along; so at present I am without a partner in this wild life.

"In my last I told you I was not feeling very well, so I went up on the mountains from the valley to Lake 'Abundance,' and I send you herewith a short account of my excursion.... I am sorry to say that churches are out of the question here. The old miners are a perfectly godless set, and if they were to catch sight of what they call a 'sky pilot' he would swing."

"Fishing among the Rocky Mountains.

"Just a line to tell you of a little fishing expedition that I went on with a friend. We started from here, Cook's City (? city, there are only a few log cabins), at daybreak on one of those mornings only known to early risers, cool, with slight delicious breezes fanning the valley of pines. We took with us a pack-horse to carry our blankets, grub, &c., and I must here mention that a man soon learns to pack, there being very little both as to quantity and size—two blankets each, ten pounds of flour, coffee, bacon, frying-pan, and coffee-pot completing the outfit.

"Our way took us over a steep mountain leading through forests, down again to a long plateau with a rushing torrent as its centre, until we again ascended to a high divide or rocky ridge, whence we caught sight of our lake, some four miles distant, shut in between the bases of surrounding mountains.

"I must not forget the charming view we had from the divide. Far away for the distance of quite eighty miles could be seen mountain after mountain rising in the clear, though mighty rare, atmosphere, some looking like ancient castles, others as flat as tables, all bare and rugged from above timber line. After a pipe and look to the trappings of our pack-saddle, we started to descend, and camped within a mile of the lake, near a creek of clear snow water. A breakfast the next morning of bacon, coffee, and bread cooked in frying-pan, at the cooking of which I am quite an expert, and we started for the lake, catching grasshoppers on our way before the sun had made them shed their overcoats and get too lively.

"The first throw I made was with a piece of red flannel, and hooked three nice salmon trout in no time, weighing from a pound to two and a half; but they seemed as the morning advanced to fight shy of such indigestible stuff as flannel, and I treated them to some nice hoppers of a brownish tint, catching eight more. The hoppers went wrong after a little, and I was hard up for a new bait, when, happening to nearly land another fish, I pulled a piece of his jaw (do you anglers call it the jaw?) out, threw again with this, and caught two more; it was a small piece of the white gristly flesh, and wriggled like a worm in the water. Time for grub came on: we started a fire, fried some fish, ate it, smoked, of course, and I think went to sleep—I know I did; when my friend roused me up and told me to listen, and sure enough we could hear an old bear rolling rocks on the other side of the lake, some quarter of a mile distant. Both of us started with our rifles to have a shot, though, if within fifty yards and the shot is not fatal (and bears have been shot three times through the heart, and yet not killed), it is all up with you; if near a tree, up you go.

"However, we did not see the bruin, and perhaps it was lucky for us we did not, as the older the hunters, the more cautious and wary they are about these enormously strong brutes. Let me tell of my first bear story out here. We were then down at the mill creek, some eighty miles distant, when we met three hunters, who the night before had met a bear. They came upon her unawares, each discharging his Winchester, though only one slightly wounded her. She made a rush for the nearest of them, and then for a scatter—one jumped into a creek running fast enough to carry him off his legs; the other climbed up a tree, which, being rotten, fell with a crash. However, they all escaped, and lucky for them, as the strength and agility of these Rocky Mountain bears is marvellous; they can lift and roll about boulders of six hundred pounds, and tear up young trees from the ground in a surprising manner. To return to our fishing, we had good sport also the next day, catching forty-two; and on our nearing the lake saw two young elk. My friend fired, but missed, I having left my gun behind.

"As our mail carrier starts early to-morrow, I must conclude, and, should you want any information as to species of fish with their anatomical peculiarities, I will try and find them out and send you.—I am, &c.,

"F.

"Cook's City, Montana, August 30, 1883."

LETTER No. IV.

Starting afresh on a new farm—Wheat forty to seventy-five bushels to the acre—Felling trees and fencing—"Life here is deuced hard"—Somewhat despondent—Forty below zero—Ink and bacon frozen—Anxiety for General Gordon—Working in snow up to the waist.

London, August 15, 1885.

In September, 1883, Frank worked his way back into the more civilized regions of Montana, and with his usual enthusiasm he wrote to me:—

"This is the best country I have yet struck, and I am sure that I shall do well here. My idea now is to hack up 160 acres, get a team, wagon, and horses, build a small house, plough forty acres this fall, put it into wheat, and ten acres of oats; ... if I only had the start now which I had when I went to Minnesota my fortune would soon be made I feel sure. Wheat goes from forty to even seventy-five bushels to the acre, and at 4s. a bushel, one ought to make plenty of money. A member of Parliament and several English gentlemen have lately visited this valley, and were surprised at the fertility of the soil. If a little later on you could send me some money to start with again, it will help me to get a home, and so far as I can see pave my way to a large thing.

"By chance I have run out a piece of land where I can secure the entire water right for a farm. I cannot see any thing but success before me.... I am going to work out with the team every day I can spare from the farm and earn money.... I would not ask you for a cent if I could possibly help it, and I only want you to think I am doing the very best for myself. I don't spend any money at all but what is absolutely necessary, and I must beg you to give me another small start to put me on my legs again.

"I worked on the thresher here two days ago, and the wheat on the farm I worked went forty-three bushels to the acre. On some stalks two heads; this is a second crop on same land and no manure."

The result of these appeals was that I supplied Frank with some more money, and he purchased the farm and other things partly on credit (at a ruinous interest), partly with his own savings, and partly with the cash I sent him.

In October of the same year (1883) he wrote—

FRANK'S CABIN, FROM A SKETCH BY HIMSELF.

"I have got my cabin up and ploughed up some land, and have these last five days been hauling logs down from the mountain to build my stable, and, in fact, have come to town to have my log chain mended....

"Don't imagine I am having a good time and spending money for the sake of spending. I am up long before daylight and working hard until dark. This winter I hope to get out 600 posts, and fencing for the farm, besides working round to earn money. I bought fifteen bushels of seed wheat at one dollar, and sowed and harrowed it in my neighbour's piece of breaking. This is called 'renting;' I receive two-thirds of the crop and he gets one-third. As I was not on my land in time to plough enough, this gives me a share in the winter wheat crop, and next year I hope to put in twenty acres of wheat and five of potatoes."

In December, 1883, he wrote to his brother:

"A letter from you now and again would do no positive injury to either party; send me a line when you can, as I don't expect to be home for some years, and I do not want to lose track of any of you. Many thanks for papers, send me any old magazines you can. I read for company's sake, as I am all alone here, and don't want to forget how to read.

"The life here is deuced hard, but I feel certain of reaping a good harvest, and am going to stick to it. At present I am working about two miles from home, cutting down trees for fencing. I then start them down the mountain on a small natural gulch on the snow; they go like greased lightning, and make a terrible noise, which is echoed and re-echoed through the mountains.

"I have just completed my stable which looks boss, logs with mud chinking; next year I intend putting in twenty acres of spring wheat.... As I have just bought some beef-bones I am making a fine stew; which makes my little kitten mew and skip round, being the first taste for her little sides."

"Jan. 1, 1884.

"I wanted, if possible, to begin the new year without having to write for money, but I am now having the hardest time I have ever had; weather excessively cold, and very little grub in the house.... I don't like to give up my best hopes, so if you can let me have the little balance I mentioned, it would make me even.... It was indeed a quiet Christmas for me, at work in the woods at my fencing; and now comes new year, just the same."

"A few days later."

"Sometimes I begin to despair, as the undertaking I have gone into requires more money than I really thought it would.... Don't think by this that I am getting discouraged with the work or prospects—far from it.... It seems to me that I cannot start to write a letter unless I make some allusion to money, but I am so anxious to get straightened up that I cannot help it.... The money has wholly been expended on the ranche, no folly or stupidities have been indulged in, and I feel fully competent to take care of anything I get now.... Winter has set in now nearly two months, and those who can, keep near the stoves. Every day is much the same to me, and all I hope is, that I don't get hurt, or become ill, as getting out timber alone is dangerous work; snow slides, bringing rocks and timber along, may occur at any moment.

"... Time is creeping along, and spring not far off, bringing back the horrid grizzlies and panthers."

"Jan. 10, 1884.

"I am obliged to write in pencil, as my ink has frozen, and adding water to it has taken away nearly all its colour. The snow is nearly three feet deep on the level, making it mighty hard work to get about; however, if it lets up it will make it all the better sleighing. I am still at work in the woods chopping; up to my waist in snow, getting down fencing and firewood; uncomfortable. Though when I have a good soup and get a refreshing sleep I forget all the discomforts. If it snows to-morrow I shall plaster up my shack inside, having bought a bushel of lime.... Every day I learn something new, and expect to do so for years to come. I look forward to a bright future. All farming operations have ceased long ago, and nothing can be done until the spring.

"... I have made several friends out here, but have been very careful who they were, and sometimes by moonlight I skip away five miles and have a chat with a good old timer.... My paint box has not come from Cook City yet; when it does I will try my hand at giving you some faint idea of this superb scenery."

"Feb. 8, 1884.

"I told you that S. had disappeared altogether, and with him my hundred dollars and other money he owed me. Young B. has now come out here, and has so far joined me that we go halves in expenses, and he helps me in all work.... The weather the last four days has been intensely cold, forty below zero. In fact, so cold, that we dared not go out to work, and though we have just put a floor in the shack, just in time, at night the cold wakes one up and sends the creeps down one's back. Our bacon freezes solid, saw and axe only having any effect. Is there no old aunt to die and leave me some money? I do hate to be always bothering you.... Of course we 'bache it' here, and as there is no great variety to cook, cooking is no great hardship.

"We have just finished our supper of bacon and beans, and some stray pieces of meat; and as Burnaby says in his book that tea stays longer by one than coffee, we have been teaing for some time.

"Now is the dull season, of course; but we are getting a few hens, hoping the weather will improve, to make them cackle. It does not seem like the same place now I have some one with me—much pleasanter and a great help in working.

"I must not forget to mention that I hurt my back a few days ago lifting some logs, and I get up every morning like an old man; however, B. has put a porous plaister on my back, and I really don't know which is the greater nuisance of the two, back-ache or plaister."

"March 5, 1884.

"Thanks for sending me the papers! I really don't know what we would do without them; the neighbours make regular calls, weather permitting, to borrow them. Our anxiety for General Gordon is as great here as I suppose it is with you.... Although life is hard and rough here, I like it more and more, and I trust to do well here: our plans for next year are as follows:—To put in about four acres of garden produce, onions, potatoes, &c., and sell the produce; and if we have luck we shall do well on this; not to put any crop in at all, as machinery is too expensive; a reaper, rake and thrashing expenses would eat up our profits, especially as the machinery would have to be bought on time, a system I am not going in for if I can help it. To fence the whole 160 acres in, the posts for which I have already cut (640), besides hen-house logs, &c., with barbed wire, will cost £23, but I hope to sell hay enough off the place to cover this. When the fencing is done, I shall start out somewhere to get work, and stay away six months (the law allows this under the Homestead Act), and B. will run the ranche.

"I hope to earn three dollars a day, but cannot figure on it, as all sorts of accidents may happen; I might not get paid, or I may hurt myself in some way. B. has already six cows from which we hope to make butter and raise the calves; this is the best and surest business, they increase rapidly. The natural grass (bunch grass) is not only good feed, but strengthening and fattening....

"During the season B. ought to have time to cut up at least fifty cords of wood, which left to the fall to season, readily brings in Bozeman six dollars a cord, or in all, 300 dollars.... As the 'Rheumatiz' has got a slight hold of me, the result of working in the snow up to my waist after fencing and timber, I must make an early start to bed.... A general thaw was followed last night by eight inches of snow, bringing the average up again to two feet ten inches on the level."

LETTER No. V.

Never had such a hard time—Camping out in the Rockies—Horses decamp—Left in the lurch—A terrible fright—Crossing a torrent—"Old Jim" taking a roll—Pack smashed—"Old Jim" in a snow-drift—Woke up by a grizzly—What the newspapers said of it—Cutting fencing poles in the snow—Christmas Day—Pickles and plum pudding—The consequences—A dance—Cowboys and farmers' daughters—"Shall I turn tail?"—A profitable old cow—The nicest little ranche in Montana—Start on a sheep drive 300 miles—"The healthiest place I ever struck."

London, August 20, 1885.

In the following May, 1884, he wrote: "I never had such a hard time of it in my life." And in September to his brother:—

"... The truth is, I have been some seventy miles away from home, and shall be gone again in a few days to look for a winter job. The new railway has knocked things topsy-turvy.

"Labour, when I first came here, was scarce, and well paid for, but now things are very dull here. However, there is a good prospect for better things. They all say that one railroad spoils a town, two bring it to par again, and three make it 'boom.' This seems the general rule throughout America. On my way out to the mountains after work, some three months back, I found a good prospect for copper, and since then we have taken up four distinct veins in the centre of a good mining camp; but we shall simply represent them each year to hold them so that it will not ruin us. (Representation is ten days' work each year on the mine for five years, then you can get your patent.) We may make a fortune from them, and we may not make a cent. However, we shall not let it interfere with our work. I could send one of your papers a decent article—'A Prospector's Life, or Hunting after Gold.' The newspapers come in mighty handy, and are read through and through.

"Camping out in the Rockies."

"Let me give you a short account of my little trip. Starting from my log cabin early in the spring, when the snow was still in drifts, in places fifteen feet deep, I made my way some seventy miles into the mountains. I had a little Indian pony, and a horse old enough in tricks, if not in years, to carry my pack, consisting of my blankets, tent, and grub. Grub! why, certainly. Fifty pounds of flour, a tin of self-raising flour, labelled 'absolutely pure' of course, (a lawsuit ought to follow up this libel,) two pounds of coffee, salt, frying-pan, cup, and a well-stocked box of matches. The above was to last me a month or more. I am forgetting the bacon. The day I set out was beautifully clear, and my journey progressed through ever-changing scenery. Before me and on each side were the snow-capped mountains, still white as they had been for six months past, and fringed along their sides by a massive belt of timber, at the foot of which my little pony and old carcase ahead were picking their way, treading lightly lest their weight should precipitate them through the hardened crust of snow.

"Looking back, I could see my little home nestled close against the mountains, and I fancied, too, that I could see my little kitten on the roof, perhaps mourning its late master, or more probably lamenting its cosy bed inside. I stayed but a short time to contemplate this scene, a fairer could not be found—a beautiful valley, surrounded on all sides by high-towering mountains of every shape and form. Three brooks teeming with trout wend their headlong way; I say headlong, for they rise from the very top of yon snowy peaks, and come tearing and roaring down at this season of the year, when the sun is getting the better of the snow, and feeding these streams, which eventually fall into the flowing Missouri.

"Continuing my journey for a short time, my ponies wanted to stop for a feed, and I felt the same inclination; so I unpacked, scratched a fire together, made some coffee, and while my gentle steeds were pawing and nibbling at grass in bare places, took to my pipe of 'Wills' Westward Ho' (supposed to be) tobacco, dried and cut fine, but it ought to be labelled 'Old Boot Tops,' instead of 'Uncle Sam.' So absorbed was I in my pipe, I did not notice that my Arabs had decamped, leaving me in the lurch. Ascending a higher point, I could just distinguish them a mile off, and had it not been for the snow, they would have been five miles away, making steadily for home, though why they wanted to go there I do not know. Certainly not for food; at least, I could very rarely find any luxuries there myself. A brisk walk, with much shouting, 'Whoa! where are you off to?' &c, brought me up to them. A hasty return, quickened by prodigious cudgellings, though my pack-horse has a hide like a rhinoceros, packing up, and giving old Jim a happy reminder, I again rode along. Towards evening it became excessively chilly. I had taken a little eau de vie with me, which, however, I always put in my pack, as its immediate presence on my person might tempt me too often; so starting my pony at a little quicker pace, and getting off, I made for old Jim, just a little ahead of me; but no sooner was I within reach of the old boy's tail than he started off at a brisk gambol. Nothing would induce him to stop till he had left me some distance behind. However, being persistent, and by making little detours, I secured him and the bottle.

"The place to which I was bound was some seventy miles from home, and through a rough and wild country, infested with bears, mountain lions, and wolves. The weather at night was very cold, and my fare not princely. At sundown I struck off into the timber, lighted my camp fire, secured one of the horses, and in a short time was fast asleep, dreaming of delightful trips by land or sea. Let me not forget a little incident which occurred this first night. It being a calm evening, the wind having lulled, before retiring for the night I did not put up my little tent. At somewhere between midnight and three o'clock I was awakened by a terrible (or it seemed so then) howl close to my head, which had got out of the blankets, and on looking up I saw an awful head not a foot from mine, teeth, jaws, and ears. It did not take as long as it does to recount to find my head where my toes were; I had performed a sort of double somersault, landing me in the snow, and then I looked back and found the terrible monster who was ready to devour me was off at a two-forty pace in the opposite direction. After all, it was only old 'Jim.' He must have been scared at a coyote (wolf) or other marauder, and sought my protection; but he was certainly scared far worse the second time. Shaking off the snow, and having another pipe between the blankets just to consider awhile as to whether the old animal was not going to cause me more trouble, I soon fell asleep again, dreaming of bears, tigers, and every other household pet.

"On waking, my blankets seemed heavier than on going to bed. It had snowed during the early hours, and they were converted into white ermine. One more snooze, and then to get up, shake my blankets, light my fire; breakfast through, and horses saddled, away I start to commence my second day. A few hours after starting I lost sight of the valley I had come from, but in front of me again was one of the finest panoramas I had ever seen. From my elevated position, and for a distance of fifty miles at least, I could see mountain after mountain towering one above another—high, sharp, rocky peaks, and undulating table-lands. Leaving this, I broke off down a narrow divide or caÑon, wending my way towards a bright stream, near which I could discern a small house, some fencing, and cattle ranging around.

"Two hours' ride brought me to the little stream, now a raging torrent. The farmer shouted to me not to attempt the crossing, but my motto is 'Excelsior.' I had terrible hard work to cross.

"My horses were very nearly carried away down the rushing stream. However, we succeeded at last; and a warm fire and a chat with a human being, for it seemed a month since starting, revived my hopes. I found the house to be owned by a cattle-man whom I met just before entering, ready saddled, and on his way to hunt up some game. The house is beautifully situated; the stream furnishes an abundant supply of fine mountain trout, many of which have been caught in a little irrigating ditch, which the rancher has run out from the stream to water his garden, and not having time to put them back in the stream, and time to eat them, I presume he prefers the latter. Here, 'midst the heart of the Rockies, lives a man and his wife all alone, not seeing a human being for a month at a time, perfectly happy and healthy, letting their cattle range on the vast undulating lowlands; and here, owing to the amount of wind in winter, they feed all the year round, bare places being thus kept open. Although a pressing invitation was given me to stay, I still journeyed on, following the creek along, and having to cross it no less than nine times until the route indicated to me took up a rough and dry caÑon, where, I have since found out, the gentle rattlesnake 'loves to lie a-basking in the sun.' Nothing happened worthy of mention, save old Jim, who, wanting to give his old back (made at an angle of forty-five degrees) a scratch, coolly—I may here use the word, as it was in the snow—squatted down and commenced to roll with my precious pack on his back. My coffee-pot was crushed square, frying-pan jammed into the hunch of bacon, and eau de vie bottle smashed. What did I say? Never mind. At length we got to what seemed to me an impassable barrier, a terribly deep snow-drift. If I had reached this place early in the morning all would have been well, but now the sun had softened the upper crust, and the first step old Jim took was up to his neck, his poor old front legs and nose were hidden altogether, presenting a comical picture which I should like to give you a sketch of. Unpacking him, letting him struggle backwards, carrying the pack by pieces nearly a half mile, and letting the horses swim rather than walk through, took me two good hours at least, landing me on a bare place, only to find that I had another drift almost as bad to go through. A repetition of the above landed me near two or three scattered pines, not knowing in the least where I was or which way to turn, my clothes wet, everything wet, bottle gone, and generally played out.

OLD JIM IN A SNOW-DRIFT.

"I soon made my camp, pitched my tent, heaped up all the wood I could find, and then sat down to brood over my folly in not waiting until a month later, or indeed in making such a risky journey at all. After awhile I was surprised to see, coming evidently from the opposite direction from which I had come, a man with two horses. This, at least, was a blessing, for were he white or black man he should answer me, and tell me all he knew concerning the route.

"He turned out to be a miner returning from a camp through which I had to go, but as he was too anxious to get on, I kindly asked him if he would not take a drink, when suddenly I remembered the smashed bottle. Ample excuses and convincing ones, as he had to go through the same drift, and would there see the mangled remains of my dead soldier; so we parted, he to continue his journey, and I to bed, though yet only sundown.

"The next morning found me up early, only too anxious to get away from this land of desolation. The preceding evening had landed me on a bare knoll, and a slight wind having sprung up during the night and obliterated the tracks of my unexpected visitor, I had to make my way as well as I possibly could; old Jim now up and now down, digging him out, unpacking and wearying along, passed the day, and found me camped alongside a creek surrounded by heavy brush.

"IT WAS A FINE OLD BRUIN!"

"It would have been hard to have awoke me when I did get to sleep, as I had had a fairly rough day of it; still it could not have been more than three hours after I had gone to sleep when I was awoke by a horrible grunting, and the bushes round the tent were torn and smashed round as if a young cyclone was at work. It could not be old Jim this time; oh, no! it was a fine old bruin! so, hastily putting on my pants, and at the same time giving a terrific yell, feeling for my rifle, which, by the way, I had left at home, and skipping out of the tent, took a very short space of time. As it was now pitch dark, and plenty of roots of trees to run against and tumble over, I had to pull up and listen, and I soon heard with satisfaction the noise some distance past my tent. I evidently had either scared him or he had gone to the tent, taken my bacon, and walked off. Though not fifty yards off, I had a good deal of trouble to find my tent again, and, when found, lay me down, but not to sleep, for a while at least, until I could hear no more groanings. Old bear-hunters since tell me that he would have done no harm if he had intruded into my tent; if I had feigned being dead he would only have nosed me round and given me a parting slap for old acquaintance' sake, breaking one or two ribs. I think here again discretion was better than valour. The funny part comes later on. Next day I met two prospectors, and told them about the bear. They told it in Bozeman, and next day it is in the paper, reading as follows:—

"'A man out prospecting was aroused from his midnight slumbers by a bear. The night being dark, and no ammunition at hand, he beat a hasty retreat, running two miles, falling into a creek, and then down a deep gully (fortunately sustaining no injuries) in but very scanty clothing; staying out all night, and on returning in the morning, he found his bacon and grub all gone,' &c.

"So much for newspaper reports! I have had several gentle surprises since. I hope to do well in time, and do not expect to return home until I have made a good stake.

"The remainder of my journey passed without further incident."

"December 10, 1884.

"Why don't you send me a coloured plate now and then? People in my low scale of life would hang it up on the wall in place of a Millais....

"I can do well here. It is only a question of time, as I have before said. If business were more flourishing, the prices would be better, and this can only be remedied by time. 'Everything comes to him who waits.'

"I am now getting out fencing poles, both for myself and to sell. It is terribly hard work. A walk of three miles, completely up grade, brings me to the top of the mountain range, back of the cabin, and here I cut them on the now already six inches of snow, work them down a 'shoot,' then haul them home on a sleigh. To-day I cut one hundred, and put them in position with my others (three hundred already cut). This may seem easy work, but in reality it is very hard. Even if it snows a foot or two to-morrow, I must still stick to it. I want about one thousand five hundred (a thousand to sell at fourpence apiece), and it will keep me rushing to do it. What with climbing up and slipping down, cutting and clearing the shoot each fresh snow, walking home again, you may imagine I get pretty fagged out by the end of the day.

"If we had not had such bad luck this summer we (B. and myself) would have been some hundreds of dollars ahead this winter; but the cattle breaking my garden fence down, and destroying the whole of the garden stuff, and not getting paid for work, it put me a way behind, besides the loss of one of my horses....

"My mule was looking poor when B. came. So we thought to trade him off, and we exchanged him for a pony, and then exchanged the pony for a mare (a good trade). Unfortunately, I lost the mare, but may still get her back next summer; so I had to get another horse, for which I gave eighty-five dollars.... The money you sent me helped to pay for my former team, wagon, harness, tools, and furniture. Though not elaborate, still it all mounted up.

"... This winter I shall earn all I can, though it is terribly hard to make much this time of year. Boots (rubber) are continually wearing out, and socks too; my heels are like boards.

"I have come to the conclusion I could learn some language, living or dead, these long winter evenings, if you would send me some books. I read continually of an evening.... Wishing you all a merry Christmas and happy new year."

"December 31, 1884.

"Since I last wrote we have had a terrible fall of snow, but now all is clear again; that is to say, the tracks are all broken; good sleighing and sharp, cold weather. Can you realise 47° below zero? We had this for a day and a half, and it kept us pretty close to the stove.

"B. calculates to buy a piece of railroad land adjoining my ranche, and we can then fence together.... He can still live with me, and we can work and help one another. The longer I stay here, the more I like the life.... Cattle grow at a surprising pace here. My neighbour, a mile north, sold ten steers at forty dollars a head, for which he was only offered twenty dollars last spring. Thank all round for Christmas cards.

"The hardest thing to do now is to keep warm, and much as we try with patent socks, running round, eating fat bacon, &c., the cold will creep to our toes.... A bottle of Crosse and Blackwell's pickles, mixed with a little plum pudding of my own making, we had on Christmas Day, quite made me ill for the time being; however, a dose of horse specific soon put me right again. I really believe the sight of a mince pie would turn my stomach. Life here is without any of the festivities of Old England. If there is a dance, you invite your lady love to go with you, and pay two dollars for the privilege of dancing in a little cabin no bigger than mine (seventeen by nineteen), crowded with cowboys and farmers' daughters. As I have no lady love, nor the money to throw away, I have not given them the pleasure of my society yet.

"Sister A. ought to come out and keep my house for me next summer. Tell her I will build an addition to the mansion if she will come. The mountain air will do her good."

"March 14, 1885.

"I have been expecting to hear from you, I may say, very anxiously.... Any letter would be better than none at all. I feel it all the more here, as I have been doing my very best to get ahead. I am still convinced that I can do well here if I can once get ahead. A little bunch of stock, and my debts cleared, and I can then go right ahead.... To-day is my birthday. By next year, if I live, I shall be gray-headed. Snow still a foot deep, though disappearing."

"May 17, 1885.

"We are now in full swing of spring work; grass, trees, and my garden are pushing ahead wonderfully. The season is short here, so vegetation has to hurry up to take advantage of the time.... I verily believe I got the last piece of Government land in the valley worth taking up with good grass on it, and water running through, but it is too rocky to plough any extent of it. Thirty acres are the most I could work, but as pasturage it will be worth considerable some day.

"I am now in such a position that I hardly know how to look ahead. I have my ranche, which still requires considerable fencing, and ought to be done this spring, as grass is getting scarce, and the stock not only eat it off, but tread it out, so that I ought to take advantage of this spring to get it completely under fence. This, of course, costs money. The barbed wire has to be bought. I have already a good deal up, besides the 1,350 poles and 640 posts that I cut and put up myself. All this takes time, of course, and prevents my working out anywhere in the mountains.

"Now the question is, What am I to do? I still owe —— dollars. I hardly like to say that I had better turn tail and come home, or get a berth, if possible, in New York or somewhere. This is not my wish at all. In truth, I would sooner stay and work on here. I like the country immensely, and, with the aid of capital, can do well; but, on the other hand, I can only go on as a day labourer, earning enough, perhaps, this summer and winter to pay my debts, which are piling up at a cent and a half a month interest (18 per cent.). Of course, you will take into account my early failure in Minnesota; but though I know it was my own fault, I put it down to a run of bad luck and want of experience. I assure you I have done nothing but work since I have been out here, building up my home, and looking out for a job as the chances came.... My debts paid and clear here, I can, of course, make a living, but I want to do something more than that.

"If you cannot possibly give me the necessary start, I must go off and wander round from month to month. It seems to me that I have done nothing but have money since I left England, but since the first loss it has come in in rather small sums, that have been swallowed up in odds and ends about the place.

"You need not think me grumbling or grasping. I long to get a fair, clear start, and have done with it. Whatever you do, do not think I am tired or want a change. The more I see of this life the more I like it.

"My Homestead Right^[1] lasts for five years, and until they have expired I cannot get a title from the Government for my land, so that I am not likely to throw up my work and right without a good cause....

1.See Appendix.

"P.S.—A trip out here would do you good, and you could see for yourself how things stand."

"June 26, 1885.

"... You ask me whether my ranche does not produce anything—have I no cattle to sell, &c. If you refer to my letters, you will see that I mentioned having bought an old cow cheap (for £4), which gave us milk last winter, but as she was a little too decrepit to raise a calf, I traded her off this spring for a little mare, which, again, I sold for 200 cedar posts, worth twenty cents apiece, or forty dollars. Thus my old cow, which I gave £4 for, will, when the posts are delivered and sold, bring me in £8. (As the spring has been unusually wet, the man has not come up to time with the posts, but I shall have them shortly.) My garden ought to bring me in £20. I have the finest set of cabbages, peas, and potatoes in the valley, my team, and this spring I have 130 chickens, 100 of which we raised this spring, and more are hatching out now. Twenty-five acres broken ready for a crop of wheat that is ready to sow by September, and one mile and a half of fence, or 150 acres, enclosed. In addition to this, I have just finished putting up a little milk house on the creek, and am terribly proud of it; it looks like a Swiss chÂlet, gabled ends, &c. I am all the more proud of it, as I have hewed the logs and put it up at odd times of an evening. By next autumn, when I hope to have everything complete, I shall have, if not the prettiest, at least one of the nicest little ranches in Montana, magnificent building spot, icy cold water all the year round, and unrivalled panoramic view, also perfectly healthy. You will understand from this that what with having bought my team, tools, &c., it does not leave much for stock. One cow costs fifty dollars, and hard to get at that. A yearling calf costs from £3 to £5, and if possible I must try and get some in the fall, as I have put about seven acres into oats for hay, besides what hay I can cut (this having been a splendid season for grass). Oats would hardly pay to thresh on so small an acreage, though the yield ought to be between fifty and seventy bushels to the acre. Crops are magnificent. On lots of ranches wheat will go as high as fifty bushels to the acre this year (seventy-five have been raised). As my team, though strong, are not very heavy, I have only averaged three-quarters of an acre breaking sod a day. Three horses are generally used.

"With five cows I could keep twenty hogs, and what with my crop next year, garden, and work at odd times, should be considered rich here, and could put by money.

"You will perhaps remember my telling you that there was a saw-mill up the caÑon above my ranche some three miles. Well, the 'boss' came down three weeks ago, and hired me to work for him at thirty dollars a month until threshing time, or the 1st of September. This suited me well, as on Sundays and after work, when not too tired, I could run down home and see that things were all right. B. is still staying with me, and is a great help.... I started to work two days after, and stayed three weeks, whereas I had hoped to get a job till September. He shut down the mill suddenly, and thus threw me out of work. We have given him a piece of our mind, but as he was young, and didn't know his own mind, we didn't quarrel about it. This job, of course, suited me well, as it was handy to home; but the day after to-morrow I am going after a three months' job on a sheep drive some three hundred miles, at forty dollars a month. The sheep are twenty miles from here, and have to be driven down beyond Custer, which would bring me back home by threshing time.

"I am glad to say that wherever I have worked or am known at all I can always get a job, as I am considered to be a 'rustler,' or night-hawk, as I work early up to dark. The mill-owner is going to move his mill down to mouth of the caÑon, I hear; so this will to some extent improve the value of my property."

In July, 1885, he wrote to a friend:—

"I have only just received your letter. It has been a long time on the road, as I am now twenty miles away from home, working out at 'dipping sheep,' dirty and terribly hard work. As to your cousin coming out, I can only say that I certainly can do well, and I should say that he could also if he will be content to rough it. I have done nothing but rough it since I have been out, and find it has done me no harm, but much good. I am getting as strong as a horse.

"Thirty shillings (say five dollars) a week will keep your cousin in good circumstances; and if he cares to come out to me I can show him round, and he will be quite welcome. The climate is bracing, and it is without exception the healthiest place I have ever struck.

"Try and get 'the Old Man' [meaning me] to come out with you; you will enjoy the trip. I am sending this scrawl by a cowboy, and he may or may not forget to post it, though I trust he will not."

LETTER No. VI.

My last letter before leaving for the United States by the good ship "Cunardia."

London, August 20, 1885.

Frank is now about twenty-six years of age. He has had four years of hard and varied experience, and although fortune has not yet smiled upon him, he does not seem inclined, so far as I am able to form an opinion from his correspondence, to succumb. I gather from his letters, by which alone I can at present judge, that he is still prepared to rough it. He has youth, health, and strength on his side, and I imagine there are few young fellows who have been brought up amidst the comforts and pleasures of a city life who would willingly have gone through so many hardships.

Circumstances make it desirable for me to visit New York and the other Eastern cities. I have, therefore, resolved to journey so far as the Rockies, in order to see for myself, and thus to form a clear opinion of what he is doing and what his chances of success really are.

I propose, therefore, to follow up the foregoing sketch of Frank's four years' struggles by sending occasional letters, giving you an account of whatever may turn up on my long journey, and to describe what I may see of his location and surroundings. I am also not without hope of finding opportunities for some further piscatorial exploits in the lakes and streams of Montana. If I meet with any adventures in this way, I shall not fail to record them.

END OF PART I.

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