To break the monotony I made a salad. That was momentous! Salads meant something in our young lives out there. One of the rangers on leave had returned and brought me a fine head of lettuce—an entirely rash way of saying it with flowers. One last can of shrimp reposed on the shelf. It almost had cobwebs on
it, we had cherished it so long, saving it for some grand spree. The time had arrived. That salad looked tempting as I sliced the rosy pimiento on top and piled it in the blue and white bowl. The ranger who contributed the lettuce was an
invited guest, and he stood on one foot, then on the other, while the dressing was mixed. Even White Mountain hovered over it anxiously.
Just then came a knock! A very famous "bugologist" had come to call on us. Of course the Chief invited him to dinner, while the ranger and I looked glumly at
each other. Maybe there wouldn't be plenty of salad for four!
Our guest was deep in his favorite sport, telling us all about the bugs that killed the beautiful yellow pines at the Canyon.
"Have some butter, Professor, and try this salad," invited White Mountain.
"Thanks, it looks enticing," answered our distinguished guest, and he placed the bowl with all its contents on his plate. Bite by bite the salad disappeared, while he discoursed on the proper method of killing the Yellow Pine Beetle.
"Why aren't you folks eating some of this delicious salad? You deprive yourself of a treat when you refuse to eat salads. The human body requires the elements
found in fresh, leafy plants, etc., etc."
I gave the Chief's shins a sharp little kick.
"We seldom eat salads," murmured White Mountain.
I think I heard the disappointed ranger mutter: "Damn right we don't!"
When the last bite was gone we all stepped outside to look for signs of the dread beetle on our own trees. While we stood there a blast was put off by the construction gang on the railway directly in front of our house. Rocks, 'dobe, and pine cones rattled down all around us. We beat a retreat into the house and the
Chief called to the man in charge and warned him that such charges of powder as
that must be covered if any more blasting were to be done.
Again next morning big rocks struck the house, and broke a window. In the absence of a ranger, I walked down and requested the Turk in charge of the labor to use a little more discretion. Our house was newly painted inside and out. My
windows were all clean, new curtains were up, the floors were newly waxed, and
we were quite proud of our place of abode. I said to the Turk I was afraid the roof would leak if such sharp rocks hit it. He replied insolently that if he blew the roof off, the Santa Fe would put another on. I went back to the house in fear and trembling, and picked up my sewing. For half an hour I sewed in quiet. Then
a terrific explosion rent the air. There was ominous silence for an instant, then
the house crumpled over my head. The ridgepole came crashing down, bringing part of the roof and ceiling with it. Rocks and a great boulder fell into the room, knocking the stove over. Ashes and soot went everywhere. One rock grazed me
and knocked the sewing basket from my lap. Part of a railroad tie carried the window sash and curtains in with it and landed on the piano.
I have a vague recollection of searching vainly for my thimble, and then of grimly determining to locate the Chief's gun. It is well he wore his arsenal that day, else the usual order of things would have been reversed—a Christian would
have massacred a Turk!
While I was aimlessly wandering around through the wreckage, half dazed, White Mountain and the Superintendent rushed in. They frantically pulled me this way and pushed me that, trying to find out if I were hopelessly injured, or merely killed. They found out I could still talk! Then they turned their attention to the Turk and his men who came trooping in to view the remains. It seemed they had put down a charge of four sticks and it had failed to explode. So they
had added four more and let her ramble. It was some blow-up! At least the Turk found it so.
"What do you want me to do?" that unfortunate asked me, after the Park men finished with him.
"Oh, go outside and die!"
"White Mountain, give me your pocketbook. I'm going to buy a ticket to West Virginia. I've had enough of the great open spaces," I continued.
"Why go now?" he wanted to know. "You've escaped death from fire, flood, and fools. Might as well stay and see it through."
So we started shoveling out the dirt.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from Good Housekeeping.
[2] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from Good Housekeeping.
[3] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes from Good Housekeeping.
[4] Reprinted, by permission, from the Los Angeles Times Sunday magazine.
End of Project Gutenberg's I Married a Ranger, by Dama Margaret Smith
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