Chapter 9 No.9

Mrs. Yellett And Her "Gov'ment"

The buckboard drew up to the back or open-faced entrance of the Rodney house with a splendid sweep, terminating in a brilliantly staccato halt, as if to convey to the residents the flattering implication that their house was reached via a gravelled driveway, rather than across lumpish inequalities of prairie overgrown with cactus stumps and clumps of sage-brush. From the buckboard stepped a figure whose agility was compatible with her driving.

No sketchy outline can do justice to Mrs. Yellett or her costume. Like the bee, the ant, and other wonders of the economy of nature, she was not to be disposed of with a glance. And yet there was no attempt at subtlety on her part; on the contrary, no one could have an appearance of greater candor than the lady whose children Mary Carmichael had come West to teach. Her costume was a thing apart, suggesting neither sex, epoch, nor personal vanity, but what it lacked of these more usual sartorial characteristics, it more than made up in a passionate individualism; an excessively short skirt, so innocent of "fit" or "hang" in its wavering, indeterminate [pg 128] outline as to suggest the possible workmanship of teeth rather than of scissors; and riding-boots coming well to the knee, displaying a well-shaped, ample foot, perched aloft on the usual high heel that cow-punchers affect as the expression of their chiefest vanity. But Mrs. Yellett was not wholly mannish in her tastes, and to offset the boots she wore a bodice of the type that a generation ago used to be known as a "basque." It fitted her ample form as a cover fits a pin-cushion, the row of jet buttons down the front looking as if a deep breath might cause them to shoot into space at any moment with the force of Mauser bullets.

Such a garb was not, after all, incongruous with this original lady's weather-beaten face. Her skin was tanned to a fine russet, showing tiny, radiating lines about the eyes when they twinkled with laughter, which was often. No individual feature was especially striking, but the general impression of her countenance was of animation and activity, mingled with geniality and with native shrewdness.

"Howdy, Miz Yellett," called out old Sally, hitching her rocker forward, in an excitement she could ill conceal. "You-uns' gov'ment come, an' she ain't much bigger'n a lettle green gourd. Don't seem to have drawed all the growth comin' to her yit."

"In roundin' up the p'ints of my gov'ment, Mis' Rodney, you don't want to forget that green gourds and green grapes is mighty apt to belong to the sour fambly, when they hangs beyant your reach."

[pg 129] "Ai-yi!" grimaced old Sally. "It's tol'able far to send East for green fruit. We can take our own pep'mint."

The prospective advent of a governess in the Yellett family, moreover, one from that mysterious centre of culture, the East, had not only rent the neighborhood with bitter factions, but had submitted the Yelletts to the reproach of ostentation. In those days there were no schools in that portion of the Wind River country where the Yelletts grazed their flocks and herds. Parents anxious to obtain "educational advantages"-that was the term, irrespective of the age of the student or the school he attended-sent them, often, with parental blindness as to the equivocal nature of the blessing thus conferred, to visit friends in the neighboring towns while they "got their education." Or they went uneducated, or they picked up such crumbs of knowledge as fell from the scant parental board. But never, up to the present moment, had any one flown into the face of neighborly precedent except sturdy Sarah Yellett.

Old Sally, in her eagerness to convey that she was in no degree impressed with the pedagogical importation, like many another belligerent lost the first round of the battle through an excess of personal feeling. But though down, Sally was by no means out, and after a brief session with the snuff-brush she returned to the field prepared to maintain that the Yellett children, for all their pampering in the matter of having a governess imported for their benefit, were no better off than [pg 130] her own brood, who had taken the learning the gods provided.

"Too bad, Miz Yellett, that you-uns had to hire that gov'ment without lookin' over her p'ints. I've ben takin' her in durin' supper, and she'll never be able to thrash 'em past Clem. She mought be able to thrash Clem if she got plumb mad, these yere slim wimmin is tarrible wiry 'n' active at such times, but she'll never be able to thrash beyant her." And having injected the vitriolic drop in her neighbor's cup of happiness, Old Sally struck a gait on her chair which was the equivalent of a gallop.

But Mrs. Yellett was not the sort of antagonist to be left gaping on the road, awed to silence by the action of a rocking-chair, no matter how brilliant.

"I reckon I can thrash my own children when it's needed, without gettin' in help from the East, or hereabouts either, for that matter. If other folks would only take out their public-spirited reformin' tendencies on their own famblies, there'd be a heap less lynchin' likely to happen round the country in the course of the next ten years."

Old Sally let the home-thrust pass. "Who ever hearn tell of a good teacher that wasn't a fine thrasher in the bargain?" She swung the chair about with a pivotal motion, as if she were addressing an assemblage instead of a single listener, and then, bethinking herself of a clinching illustration, she called aloud to her daughter to bear witness. "Eudory! Eu-do-ry! You-do-ry!"

"Ye-'s ma'am," drawled the daughter, coming most unwillingly from the open-faced room opposite, [pg 131] where she had been inciting all four of the suitors to battle.

"What was it they called that teacher down to Caspar that larruped the hide off'n the boys?"

"A fine dis-a-ply-narian, maw."

"Yes, that's it-a dis-a-ply-narian. What kin a lettle green gourd like her know 'bout dis-apply-in?"

"Your remarks shore remind me of a sayin' that 'the discomfort of havin' to swallow other folks' dust causes a heap of anxiety over their reckless driving.'"

Mrs. Yellett flicked her riding-boot with her whip. Her voice dropped a couple of tones, her accent became one of honeyed sweetness.

"Your consumin' anxiety regardin' my gov'ment and my children shore reminds me of a narrative appertainin' to two dawgs. Them dawgs was neighbors, livin' in adj'inin' yards separated by a fence, and one day one of them got a good meaty bone and settled hisself down to the enj'yment thereof. And his intimate friend and neighbor on the other side of the fence, who had no bone to engage his faculties, he began to fret hisself 'bout the business of his friend. S'pose he was to choke hisself over that bone. S'pose the meat disagreed with him. And he begins to bark warnin's, but the dawg with the bone he keeps right on. But the other dawg he dashes hisself again the fence and he scratches with his claws. He whines pitiful, he's that anxious about his friend. But the dawg with the bone he went right on till he gnawed it down to the last morsel, and, goin' to the hole in the fence whar his [pg 132] friend had kep' that anxious vigil, he says: 'Friend, the only thing that consoled me while having to endure the anguish of eatin' that bone was the thought of your watchful sympathy!' Which bein' the case, I'd thank you to tell me whar I can find my gov'ment."

"Ai-yi!" said old Sally. "I ain't seein' no bone this deal. Just a lettle green gourd 's all I see with my strongest specs."

Mary Carmichael, in one of the inner rooms, was writing a home letter, which was chiefly remarkable for what it failed to relate. It gave long accounts of the scenery, it waxed didactic over the future of the country; but the adventures of the trip, with her incidental acquaintance with the Daxes and Chugg, were not recorded. Eudora announced the arrival of Mrs. Yellett, and Mary, at the news, dropped the contents of her portfolio and started up with much the feeling a marooned sailor might have on hearing a sail has been sighted. At this particular stage of her career Miss Carmichael had not developed the philosophy that later in life was destined to become her most valuable asset. Her sense of humor no longer responded to the vagaries of pioneer life. The comedy element was coming a little too thick and fast. She was getting a bit heart-sick for a glimpse of her own kind, a word with some one who spoke her language. And here, at last, was the woman who had written such a charming letter, who had so graciously intimated that there was room for her at the hearth-stone. Mary was, indeed, eager to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Yellett.

[pg 133] To the end of her life she never forgot that first meeting-the perfect confidence with which she followed Eudora to the open room, the ensuing blank amazement, the utter inability to reconcile the Mrs. Yellett of the letter with the Mrs. Yellett of fact. The lamp on the table, burning feebly, seemed to burst into a thousand shooting-stars as the girl struggled with her tears. Home was so far, and Mrs. Yellett was so different from what she had expected! And yet, as she felt her fingers crush in the grip of that hard but not unkindly hand, there was in the woman's rugged personality a sustaining quality; and, thinking again of Archie's prospects, Mary was not altogether sorry that she had come.

"You be a right smart young maverick not to get lost none on this long trail, and no one to p'int you right if you strayed," commented Mary's patroness, affably. "But we won't roominate here no longer than we can help. It's too hard on old Ma'am Rodney. She's just 'bout the color of withered cabbage now, 'long of me havin' you."

While she talked, Mrs. Yellett picked up Mary's trunk and bags and stowed them in the back of the buckboard with the ease with which another woman might handle pasteboard boxes. One or two of the male Rodneys offered to help, but she waved them aside and lashed the luggage to the buckboard, handling the ropes with the skill of an old sailor. The entire Rodney family and the suitors of Eudora assembled to witness the departure. "It's a heap friendly of you to fret so," was the parting [pg 134] stab of Sarah Yellett to Sally Rodney; and she swung the backboard about, cleared the cactus stumps in the Rodney door-yard, and gained the mountain-road.

"Ai-yi!" said old Sally. "What's this country comin' to?"

"A few more women, thank God!" remarked Ira. Eudora had just snubbed him, and he put a wealth of meaning into his look after the vanishing buckboard.

The night was magnificent. From horizon to horizon the sky was sown with quivering points of light. Each straggling clump of sage-brush, rocky ledge, and bowlder borrowed a beauty not its own from the yellow radiance of the stars.

They had gone a good two miles before Mary's patroness broke the silence with, "Nothing plumb stampedes my temper like that Rodney outfit-old Sally buckin' an' pitchin' in her rockin'-chair same as if she was breakin' a bronco, an' that Eudory always corallin', deceivin', and jiltin' one outfit of men after another. If she was a daughter of mine, I'd medjure her length across my knee, full growed and courted though she is. The only one of the outfit that's wuth while is Judith, an' she ain't old woman Rodney's girl, neither. You hyeard that already, did you? Well, this yere country may be lackin' in population, but it's handy as a sewin'-circle in distributin' news."

Mary mentioned Leander. "Yes," answered Mrs. Yellett, reflectively, "Leander's mouth do run about eight and a half octaves. Sometimes I don't blame his wife for bangin' down the lid."

[pg 135] They talked of Jim Rodney's troubles, and the growing hatred between sheep and cattle men, because of range rights.

"Now that pore Jim had a heap of good citizen in him, before that pestiferous cattle outfit druv' his sheep over the cliff. Relations 'twixt sheep and cattle men in this yere country is strained beyant the goin'-back place, I can tell you. My pistol-eye 'ain't had a wink of sleep for nigh on eighteen months, an' is broke to wakefulness same as a teethin' babe.

"Jim was wild as a coyote 'fore he marries that girl. She come all the way from Topeka, Kansas, thinking she was goin' to find a respectable home, and when she come out hyear and found the place was a dance-hall, she cried all the time. She didn't add none to the hilarity of the place. An' one day Jim he strolled in, an' seem' the girl a-cryin' like a freshet and wishin' she was dead, he inquired the cause. She told him how that old harpy wrote her, an', bein' an orphant, she come out thinkin' she was goin' to a respectable place as waitress, an' Jim he 'lowed it was a case for the law. He was a little shy of twenty at the time, just a young cockerel 'bout br'ilin' size. Some of the old hangers-on 'bout the place they see a heap of fun in Jim's takin' on 'bout the girl, he bein' that young that he had scarce growed a pair of spurs yet. An' one of 'em says to him,' Sonny, if you're afeerd that this yere corral is onjurious to the young lady's morals, we'll call in the gospel sharp, if you'll stand for the brand.' Now Jim hadn't a cent, nor no callin', nor a prospect to his back, but he struts up to the man that was doin' [pg 136] the talkin', game as a bantam, an' he says, 'The lady ain't rakin' in anythin' but a lettle white chip, in takin' me, but if she's willin', here's my hand.'

"At which that pore young thing cried harder than ever. Well, Jim he up an' marries the girl an' it turns out fine. He gets a job herdin' sheep on shares, an' she stays with the Rodney outfit till he saves enough to build a cabin. Things is goin' with Jim like a prairie afire. In a few years he acquires a herd of his own, a fine herd, not a scabby sheep in the bunch. Alida she makes him the best kind of a wife, them kids is the pride of his life, and then, them cursed cattle-men do for him. Of course, he takes to rustlin'; I'd do more'n rustle if they'd touch mine."

The pair of broncos that Mrs. Yellett was driving humped their backs like cats as they climbed the steep mountain-road. With her, driving was an exact science. It was a treat to see her handle the ribbons. Mary asked some trifling question about the children and it elicited the information that one of the girls was named Cacta. "Yes," she said, "I like new names for children, not old ones that is all frazzled out and folks has suffered an' died to. It seems to start 'em fair, like playin' cards with a new deck. Cacta's my oldest daughter, and I named her after the flowers that blooms all over the desert spite of everything, heat, cold, an' rain an' alkali dust-the cactus blooms right through it all. Even its own thorns don't seem to fret it none. I called her plain Cactus till she was three, and along came a sharp studyin' the flowers an' weeds out here, and [pg 137] he 'lowed that Cactus was a boy's name an' Cacta was for girls-called it a feeminin tarnation, or somethin' like that, so we changed it. My second daughter 'ain't got quite so much of a name. She's called Clematis. That holds its own out here pretty well, 'long by the willows on the creek. Paw 'lowed he was terrible afraid that I'd name the youngest girl Sage-brush, so he spoke to call her Lessie Viola, an' I giv' in. The boys is all plain named, Ben, Jack, and Ned. Paw wouldn't hear of a fancy brand bein' run onto 'em."

The temperature fell perceptibly as they climbed the heights, and the air had the heady quality of wine. It was awesome, this entering into the great company of the mountains. Presently Mary caught the glimmer of something white against the dark background of the hills. It gleamed like a snow-bank, though they were far below the snow-line on the mountain-side they were climbing.

"Well, here be camp," announced Mrs. Yellett. What Mary had taken for a bank of snow was a huge, canvas-covered wagon. Several dogs ran down to greet the buckboard, barking a welcome. In the background was a shadowy group, huge of stature, making its way down the mountain-path. "And here's all the children come to meet teacher." Mrs. Yellett's tone was tenderly maternal, as if it was something of a feat for the children to walk down the mountain-path to meet their teacher. But Mary, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of her little pupils, could discover nothing but a group of persons that seemed to be the sole survivors of some [pg 138] titanic race. Not one among them but seemed to have reached the high-water mark of six feet. Was it an optical illusion, a hallucination born of the wonderful starlight? Or were they as huge as they seemed? The young men looked giants, the girls as if they had wandered out of the first chapters of Genesis. Their mother introduced them. They all had huge, warm, perspiring hands, with grips like bears. Mary looked about for a house into which she could escape to gather her scattered faculties, but the starlight, yellow and luminous, revealed none. There was the huge covered wagon that she had taken for a snow-bank, there was a small tent, there were two light wagons, there were dogs innumerable, but there was no sign of a house.

"What do you think of it?" inquired Mrs. Yellett, smilingly, anticipating a favorable answer.

"It's almost too beautiful to leave." Mary innocently supposed that Mrs. Yellett referred to the starlit landscape. "But I'm so tired, Mrs. Yellett, and so glad to get to a real home at last, that I'm going to ask if you will not show me the way to the house so that I may go to bed right away."

This apparently reasonable request was greeted by a fine chorus of titanic laughter from Mary's pupils. Mrs. Yellett waved her hand over the surrounding landscape in comprehensive gesture.

"Ain't all this large enough for you?" she asked, gayly.

"You mean the mountains? They're wonderful. But-I really think I'd like to go in the house."

"I shore hope you ain't figgerin' on goin' into no [pg 139] house, 'cause there ain't no house to go into." She laughed merrily, as if the idea of such an effete luxury as a house were amusing. "This yere family 'ain't ever had a house-it camps."

Mary gasped. The real meaning of words no longer had the power of making an impression on her. If Mrs. Yellett had announced that they were in the habit of sleeping in the moon, it would not have surprised her.

"If you are tired, an' want to go to bed, you can shuck off and lie down any time. Ben, Jack, Ned, go an' set with paw in the tent while the gov'ment gets ready for bed. Cacta and Clem, you help me with them quilts."

Mary stood helpless in the wilderness while quilts and pillows were fetched somewhere from the adjacent scenery, and Mrs. Yellett asked her, with the gravity of a Pullman porter interrogating a passenger as to the location of head and foot, if she liked to sleep "light or dark." She chose "dark" at random, hating to display her ignorance of the alternatives, with the happy result that her bed was made up to leeward of the great sheep-wagon, in a nice little corner of the State of Wyoming. Mary was grateful that she had chosen dark.

As she dozed off, she was reminded of a certain magazine illustration that Archie had pinned over his bed after the aunts had given a grudging consent to this westward journey. There was a line beneath the pictorial decoy which read: "Ranch Life in the New West." And there were piazzas with fringed Mexican hammocks, wild-grass cushions, [pg 140] a tea-table with a samovar, and, last, a lady in white muslin pouring tea. The stern reality apparently consisted in scorching alkali plains, with houses of the packing-box school of architecture at a distance of seventy or eighty miles apart. No ladies in white muslin poured tea; they garbed themselves in simple gunny-sacking, and their repartee had an acrid, personal note. But Mary was glad to know that Archie had that picture, and that he thought of her in such ideal surroundings.

[pg 141]

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