I Married a Ranger | Page 2

scores of road
builders and rangers? When I tell part of my experiences with him, I do
so only because he has long been out of the Service and I can now see
the humorous aspect of our private feud.
As the sun rose higher over the Canyon, I reluctantly turned away and
went to report my arrival to the Superintendent. He was a towering,
gloomy giant of a man, and I rather timidly presented my assignment.
He looked down from his superior height, eyed me severely, and spoke
gruffly.
"I suppose you know you were thrust upon me!"
"No. I'm very sorry," I said, quite meekly.
While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond
man in Park uniform entered the office.
The Superintendent looked quite relieved.
"This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over
to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?" And he washed his hands of
me.
In the Washington office I had often heard of "White Mountain" Smith.
I recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in
Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I
looked him over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well.
His keen blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West
Virginia. He looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised
that his speech had a "down East" tone.
"Aren't you a Westerner?"
"No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee," he smiled. "But we drift out here from
everywhere. I've been in the West many years."

"Have you ever been in West Virginia?" I blurted. Homesickness had
settled all over me.
He looked at me quickly, and I reckon he saw that tears were close to
the surface.
"No-o, I haven't been there. But my father went down there during the
Civil War and helped clean up on the rebels!"
Sparks flew then and I forgot to be homesick. But he laughed and led
me toward my new home.
We strolled up a slight rise through wonderful pine trees, with here and
there a twisted juniper giving a grotesque touch to the landscape. The
ground was covered with springy pine needles, and squirrels and birds
were everywhere. We walked past rows and rows of white tents pitched
in orderly array among the pines, the canvas village of fifty or more
road builders. By and by we came to a drab gray shack, weather-beaten
and discouraged, hunched under the trees as if it were trying to blot
itself from the scene. I was passing on, when the Chief (White
Mountain) stopped me with a gesture.
"This is your home," he said. Just that bald statement. I thought he was
joking, but he pushed the door open and we walked inside. The tiny
shack had evidently seen duty as a warehouse and hadn't been
manicured since! But in view of the fact that the Park Service was
handicapped by lack of funds, and in the throes of road building and
general development, I was lucky to draw a real house instead of a tent.
I began to see why the Superintendent had looked askance at me when I
arrived. I put on my rose-colored glasses and took stock of my abode.
It was divided into two rooms, a kitchen and a combination
living-dining-sleeping-dressing-bath-room. The front door was a heavy
nailed-up affair that fastened with an iron hook and staple. The back
door sagged on its leather hinges and moved open or shut reluctantly.
Square holes were cut in the walls for windows, but these were
innocent of screen or glass. Cracks in the roof and walls let in an
abundance of Arizona atmosphere. The furniture consisted of a slab

table that extended all the way through the middle of the room, a
wicker chair, and a golden-oak dresser minus the mirror and lacking
one drawer.
White Mountain looked surprised and relieved, when I burst out
laughing. He didn't know how funny the financial inducements of my
new job sounded to me while I looked around that hovel: "So much per
annum and furnished quarters!"
"We'll fix this up for you. We rangers didn't know until this morning
that you were coming," he said; and we went down to see if the cook
was in a good humor. I was to eat at the "Mess House" with the road
crew and rangers, provided the cook didn't mind having a woman
around. I began to have leanings toward "Equal-Rights-for-Women
Clubs," but the cook was as nice as could be. I fell in love with him
instantly. Both he and his kitchen were so clean and cheerful. His name
was Jack. He greeted me as man to man, with a hearty handclasp, and
assured