Camp Cloudcrest,
October 6, 1914.

Dear Mrs. Coney,—

It seems so odd to be writing you and getting no answers. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy just now asked me what I have against you that I write you so much. I haven’t one thing. I told her I owed you more love than I could ever pay in a lifetime, and she said writing such long letters is a mighty poor way to show it. I have been neglecting you shamefully, I think. One of the main reasons I came on this hunt was to take the trip for you, and to tell you things that you would most enjoy. So I will spend this snowy day in writing to you.

On the night of September 30, there was the most awful thunderstorm I ever witnessed,—flash after flash of the most blinding lightning, followed by deafening peals of thunder; and as it echoed from mountain to mountain the uproar was terrifying. I have always loved a storm; the beat of hail and rain, and the roar of wind always appeal to me; but there was neither wind nor rain,—just flash and roar. Before the echo died away among the hills another booming report would seem to shiver the atmosphere and set all our tinware jangling. We are camped so near the great pines that I will confess I was powerfully afraid. Had the lightning struck one of the big pines there would not have been one of us left. I could hear Mrs. O’Shaughnessy murmuring her prayers when there was a lull. We had gone to bed, but I couldn’t remain there; so I sat on the wagon-seat with Jerrine beside me. Something struck the guy ropes of the tent, and I was so frightened I was too weak to cry out. I thought the big tree must have fallen. In the lulls of the storm I could hear the men’s voices, high and excited. They, too, were up. It seemed to me that the storm lasted for hours; but at last it moved off up the valley, the flashes grew to be a mere glimmer, and the thunder mere rumbling. The pines began to moan, and soon a little breeze whistled by. So we lay down again. Next morning the horses could not be found; the storm had frightened them, and they had tried to go home. The men had to find them, and as it took most of the day, we had to put off our hunt.

We were up and about next morning in the first faint gray light. While the men fed grain to the horses and saddled them, we prepared a hasty breakfast. We were off before it was more than light enough for us to see the trail.

Dawn in the mountains—how I wish I could describe it to you! If I could only make you feel the keen, bracing air, the exhilarating climb; if I could only paint its beauties, what a picture you should have! Here the colors are very different from those of the desert. I suppose the forest makes it so. The shadows are mellow, like the colors in an old picture—greenish amber light and a blue-gray sky. Far ahead of us we could see the red rim rock of a mountain above timber line. The first rays of the sun turned the jagged peaks into golden points of a crown. In Oklahoma, at that hour of the day, the woods would be alive with song-birds, even at this season; but here there are no song-birds, and only the snapping of twigs, as our horses climbed the frosty trail, broke the silence. We had been cautioned not to talk, but neither Mrs. O’Shaughnessy nor I wanted to. Afterwards, when we compared notes, we found that we both had the same thought: we both felt ashamed to be out to deal death to one of the Maker’s beautiful creatures, and we were planning how we might avoid it.

The sun was well up when we reached the little park where we picketed our horses. Then came a long, hard climb. It is hard climbing at the best, and when there is a big gun to carry, it is very hard. Then too, we had to keep up with the men, and we didn’t find that easy to do. At last we reached the top and sat down on some boulders to rest a few minutes before we started down to the hunting ground, which lay in a cuplike valley far below us.

We could hear the roar of the Gros Ventre as it tumbled grumblingly over its rocky bed. To our right rose mile after mile of red cliffs. As the last of the quaking asp leaves have fallen, there were no golden groves. In their places stood silvery patches against the red background of the cliffs. High overhead a triangle of wild geese harrowed the blue sky.

I was plumb out of breath, but men who are most gallant elsewhere are absolutely heartless on a hunt. I was scarcely through panting before we began to descend. We received instructions as to how we should move so as to keep out of range of each other’s guns; then Mr. Haynes and myself started one way, and Mr. Struble and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy the other. We were to meet where the valley terminated in a broad pass. We felt sure we could get a chance at what elk there might be in the valley. We were following fresh tracks, and a little of the hunter’s enthusiasm seized me.

We had not followed them far when three cows and a “spike” came running out of the pines a little ahead of us. Instantly Mr. Haynes’s gun flew to his shoulder and a deafening report jarred our ears. He ran forward, but I stood still, fascinated by what I saw. Our side of the valley was bounded by a rim of rock. Over the rim was a sheer wall of rock for two hundred feet, to where the Gros Ventre was angrily roaring below; on the other side of the stream rose the red cliffs with their jagged crags. At the report of the gun two huge blocks of stone almost as large as a house detached themselves and fell. At the same instant one of the quaking asp groves began to move slowly. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I shut them a moment, but when I looked the grove was moving faster. It slid swiftly, and I could plainly hear the rattle of stones falling against stones, until with a muffled roar the whole hillside fell into the stream.

Mr. Haynes came running back. “What is the matter? Are you hurt? Why didn’t you shoot?” he asked.

I waved my hand weakly toward where the great mound of tangled trees and earth blocked the water. “Why,” he said, “that is only a landslide, not an earthquake. You are as white as a ghost. Come on up here and see my fine elk.”

I sat on a log watching him dress his elk. We have found it best not to remove the skin, but the elk have to be quartered so as to load them on to a horse. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and Mr. Struble came out of the woods just then. They had seen a big bunch of elk headed by a splendid bull, but got no shot, and the elk went out of the pass. They had heard our shot, and came across to see what luck.

“What iver is the matter with ye?” asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Mr. Haynes told her. They had heard the noise, but had thought it thunder. Mr. Haynes told me that if I would “chirk up” he would give me his elk teeth. Though I don’t admire them, they are considered valuable; however, his elk was a cow, and they don’t have as nice teeth as do bulls.

We had lunch, and the men covered the elk with pine boughs to keep the camp robbers from pecking it full of holes. Next day the men would come with the horses and pack it in to camp. We all felt refreshed; so we started on the trail of those that got away.

For a while walking was easy and we made pretty good time; then we had a rocky hill to get over. We had to use care when we got into the timber; there were marshy places which tried us sorely, and windfall so thick that we could hardly get through. We were obliged to pick our way carefully to avoid noise, and we were all together, not having come to a place where it seemed better to separate. We had about resolved to go to our horses when we heard a volley of shots.

“That is somebody bunch-shooting,” said Mr. Struble. “They are in Brewster Lake Park, by the sound. That means that the elk will pass here in a short time and we may get a shot. The elk will be here long before the men, since the men have no horses; so let’s hurry and get placed along the only place they can get out. We’ll get our limit.”

We hastily secreted ourselves along the narrow gorge through which the elk must pass. We were all on one side, and Mr. Haynes said to me, “Rest your gun on that rock and aim at the first rib back of the shoulder. If you shoot haphazard you may cripple an elk and let it get away to die in misery. So make sure when you fire.”

It didn’t seem a minute before we heard the beat of their hoofs and a queer panting noise that I can’t describe. First came a beautiful thing with his head held high; his great antlers seemed to lie half his length on his back; his eyes were startled, and his shining black mane seemed to bristle. I heard the report of guns, and he tumbled in a confused heap. He tried to rise, but others coming leaped over him and knocked him down. Some more shots, and those behind turned and went back the way they had come.

Mr. Haynes shouted to me, “Shoot, shoot; why don’t you shoot!”

So I fired my Krag, but next I found myself picking myself up and wondering who had struck me and for what. I was so dizzy I could scarcely move, but I got down to where the others were excitedly admiring the two dead elk that they said were the victims of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s gun. She was as excited and delighted as if she had never declared she would not kill anything. “Sure, it’s many a meal they’ll make for little hungry mouths,” she said. She was rubbing her shoulder ruefully. “I don’t want to fire any more big guns. I thought old Goliar had hit me a biff with a blackthorn shilaley,” she remarked.

Mr. Haynes turned to me and said, “You are a dandy hunter! you didn’t shoot at all until after the elk were gone, and the way you held your gun it is a wonder it didn’t knock your head off, instead of just smashing your jaw.”

The men worked as fast as they could at the elk, and we helped as much as we could, but it was dark before we reached camp. Supper was ready, but I went to bed at once. They all thought it was because I was so disappointed, but it was because I was so stiff and sore I could hardly move, and so tired I couldn’t sleep. Next morning my jaw and neck were so swollen that I hated any one to see me, and my head ached for two days. It has been snowing for a long time, but Clyde says he will take me hunting when it stops. I don’t want to go but reckon I will have to, because I don’t want to come so far and buy a license to kill an elk and go back empty-handed, and partly to get a rest from Mr. Murry’s everlasting accordion.

Mr. Murry is an old-time acquaintance of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s. He has a ranch down on the river somewhere. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy has not seen him for years,—didn’t know he lived up here. He had seen the game-warden from whom she had procured her license, and so hunted up our camp. He is an odd-looking individual, with sad eyes and a drooping mouth which gives his face a most hopeless, reproachful expression. His nose, however, seems to upset the original plan, for it is long and thin and bent slightly to one side. His neck is long and his Adam’s apple seems uncertain as to where it belongs. At supper Jerrine watched it as if fascinated until I sent her from the table and went out to speak to her about gazing.

“Why, mamma,” she said, “I had to look; he has swallowed something that won’t go either up or down, and I’m ’fraid he’ll choke.”

Although I can’t brag about Mr. Murry’s appearance, I can about his taste, for he admires Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. It seems that in years gone by he has made attempts to marry her.

As he got up from supper the first night he was with us, he said, “Mary Ellen, I have a real treat and surprise for you. Just wait a few minutes, an’ I’ll bet you’ll be happy.”

We took our accustomed places around the fire, while Mr. Murry hobbled his cayuse and took an odd-looking bundle from his saddle. He seated himself and took from the bundle—an accordion! He set it upon his knee and began pulling and pushing on it. He did what Mr. Struble said was doling a doleful tune. Every one took it good-naturedly, but he kept doling the doleful until little by little the circle thinned.

Our tent is as comfortable as can be. Now that it is snowing, we sit around the stoves, and we should have fine times if Professor Glenholdt could have a chance to talk; but we have to listen to “Run, Nigger, Run” and “The Old Gray Hoss Come A-tearin’ Out The Wilderness.” I’ll sing them to you when I come to Denver.

With much love to you,
Elinore Rupert Stewart.