In a little while I went back to where I had left my pony browsing, with eight beauties.  We made a fire first, then I dressed my trout while it was burning down to a nice bed of coals.  I had brought a frying-pan and a bottle of lard, salt, and buttered bread.  We gathered a few service-berries, our trout were soon browned, and with water, clear, and as cold as ice, we had a feast.  The quaking aspens are beginning to turn yellow, but no leaves have fallen.  Their shadows dimpled and twinkled over the grass like happy children.  The sound of the dashing, roaring water kept inviting me to cast for trout, but I didn’t want to carry them so far, so we rested until the sun was getting low and then started for home, with the song of the locusts in our ears warning us that the melancholy days are almost here.  We would come up over the top of a hill into the glory of a beautiful sunset with its gorgeous colors, then down into the little valley already purpling with mysterious twilight.  So on, until, just at dark, we rode into our corral and a mighty tired, sleepy little girl was powerfully glad to get home.

After I had mailed my other letter I was afraid that you would think me plumb bold about the little Bo-Peep, and was a heap sorrier than you can think.  If you only knew the hardships these poor men endure.  They go two together and sometimes it is months before they see another soul, and rarely ever a woman.  I wouldn’t act so free in town, but these men see people so seldom that they are awkward and embarrassed.  I like to put them at ease, and it is to be done only by being kind of hail-fellow-well-met with them.  So far not one has ever misunderstood me and I have been treated with every courtesy and kindness, so I am powerfully glad you understand.  They really enjoy doing these little things like fixing our dinner, and if my poor company can add to any one’s pleasure I am too glad.

  Sincerely yours,
    Elinore Rupert.

Mr. Stewart is going to put up my house for me in pay for my extra work.

I am ashamed of my long letters to you, but I am such a murderer of language that I have to use it all to tell anything.

Please don’t entirely forget me.  Your letters mean so much to me and I will try to answer more promptly.

IV

A CHARMING ADVENTURE AND ZEBULON PIKE

     September 28, 1909.

Dear Mrs. Coney,—­

Your second card just reached me and I am plumb glad because, although I answered your other, I was wishing I could write you, for I have had the most charming adventure.