the skinner had to unload him. If one mule fell, the entire string was knotted. The short, connecting rope jerked the mules in front and the fallen one behind, and the others restlessly twisted this way and that until finally there was an entangled mess of mules falling like tenpins. Quite often one rebel would lie down deliberately while the skinner wrestled with another.
But stubborn as mules are, my anger leaped to white heat whenever I saw how an obstinate or possibly helpless mule was sometimes mistreated. Then came the measure of the skinner’s temper, brutality, and his command of profanity. At first he might coax, then he swore. “Swearing like a mule skinner” in the mining world means the most vehement, vile, profane, and obscene maledictions invented. When strong language brought no response from the mule, often stuck deep in the snow, the skinner kicked him with his heavy boots or lashed him brutally with a strap. The mule might lunge feebly, and settle down again calmly, perversely. Then the enraged skinner resorted to the iron shovel—banging it on the animal’s head.
Though I had been warned that it only infuriated a skinner to berate him, I often rushed through the snow and in my kind of violent but less evil anger called down vengeance on his head! Pausing only to cast a withering look at me, he would turn back and the deadly “thud, thud” of the shovel on the mules would begin again. Only when he was ready would Mr. Mule struggle to his feet, if possible.
Accidents to the mule strings were bound to happen in that rugged country. During our sojourn a mule loaded with boxes of deadly blasting powder fell from the trail into the gulch. Fortunately he landed in deep, powdery snow which cushioned his impact and he was dragged safely back to the trail.
A year before four mules, loaded heavily, fell over a deep cliff. Rescue seemed impossible so no attempt was made to extricate them. This could be the fate of a mule at any time on those trails.
CHAPTER 7
In good time my ordering of supplies was systemized so one delivery would last a month helped out by a store of extras, Maryland oysters shipped frozen in cans, canned salmon, chicken, and turkey which I kept on hand. George had a ravenous appetite requiring plenty of bacon at breakfast, an abundance of meat in his lunch bucket and for dinner. My monthly order list of meat generally included two legs of mutton (I remembered not to ask for lamb), three dozen veal, pork, and mutton chops, half a ham, a slab of bacon, several beef steaks, two roasts of beef, and a beef tongue.
We hung the meat from the rafters in the woodshed where it quickly froze solid. If I required small pieces, I tackled the job armed with both a butcher’s and a carpenter’s saw, whacking and slashing, “geeing” off there until I was exhausted. Too often the result was a hunk of meat a quarter inch thick on one side, two inches on the other. Sometimes I had only shreds, especially when trying to slice bacon.
Our canned fruits and vegetables, the best to be obtained then would not be acceptable now. Unbelievable improvement has been achieved in canning. We bought fruit, vegetables, and milk by the case. Occasionally two or three neighbors divided a case of something special to vary the monotony without investing too much. Canned food and eggs were allowed to freeze, but never potatoes or oil.
Ice cream, such as it was, often was our dessert. I merely poured the ingredients into a can, buried it in the snow stirring it occasionally. Chocolate or caramel flavor disguised the taste of canned milk. Chocolate and leftovers from dinner were kept on the end of a kitchen shelf.
One morning I couldn’t find a baked potato, left from the night before, which I wanted to fry for breakfast.
“George, did you see that baked potato I put on the shelf last night? It certainly isn’t there now!”
“No,” he called as he dressed for work, “I didn’t see it.”
“I can’t understand it,” I continued. “I’ve been missing several things lately. Yesterday I was certain that I had some Baker’s chocolate left, but last night I couldn’t find that either. It’s mighty strange because I have no other place to put those things.”
George had a strenuous day at the mill and that night we went to bed early. I was not long asleep when a noise woke me. Something was running around in the springs of our bed. Not moving a muscle I listened. Good heavens! Thump, thump, like the sound of a hammer but a hammer moving rapidly from head to foot of our bed. I grabbed George who was in a deep sleep. As he slowly woke up I whispered, “There’s something in the springs of this bed. What in the world is it?” I did not know whether to jump out of bed or play possum and not alarm this thing until George investigated.
Half asleep George listened, then sat bolt upright.
“Must be the packrats the old prospector told me about.”
“Rats!” I shouted. “How horrible.”
George got up and turned on the light. Instantly all was silent. Then we sat in bed with the light on, waiting. Where did they come from, and how did they vanish without our seeing them?
“Thank goodness they’re gone,” I said.
“There were two of them at least,” George said. “We must have scared them away by turning on the light. Don’t be afraid, honey. The miners say they never bother people.”
“But I don’t like the idea of rats under the bed. It’s terrible.”
George turned off the light and we settled down again but only for a few minutes. Back came the uncanny invaders bustling under the mattress, busy as bees.
Again George turned on the light and again the rats scooted away before we could see them. For the rest of the night we left the light burning and heard no more from our unwelcome callers.
But in the morning we both stared in amazement at the floor. Stretching from the kitchen through the diminutive bedroom and on across the denim carpet into the parlor was a train of kindling wood from the box beside the kitchen stove and our silver spoons, knives, and forks all crisscrossed in pairs as neatly as though I had arranged them myself.
This decorative project was repeated night after night. As soon as we were asleep, having abandoned racing up and down in the bedsprings, these clever rodents busied themselves silently with a soldierly formation of kindling and cutlery on the entire length of the floor. One morning there was an extra touch. A twenty-five-cent piece that had been in a small glass dish on the table the night before, now lay like a medal in line with the rest. Through all their work we had not heard a sound.
I longed to be transformed by some good fairy into an owl and perch in a corner to watch these dexterous creatures laying our kindling and flatware so silently and neatly in a chosen design. But longing was futile. I never saw our visitors. To this day I wonder why they went to such an effort and how it was achieved. They gained nothing by their hard work.
Johnny Midwinter who knew considerably about them could not explain why the packrats did what they did, but he knew how they did it.
“They are the cleverest devils I’ve ever known,” he said. “They’re about fifteen inches long from the tips of their noses to the end of their tails. The tails are long and are very bushy and look larger than their bodies. My partner and I had a great time with packrats. One year we were prospecting beyond Imogene Basin, living in an old cabin that had a loft.” He paused, as though recapturing old memories. “Yes, old Tim and I thought we had found a mine and we worked hard but it didn’t pan out. But the damn packrats sure gave us a bad time. We were always looking for missing things. We stored a crate of eggs in the loft and when we were ready to use them there wasn’t a single egg left in the crate. Those devils had carried every egg down that ladder and it was ten feet high.”
I smiled at him, “You’re just trying to make a monkey out of me.”
“No, I swear it. That’s the gospel truth. They can do harder things than that,” he said.
“But how could they carry eggs down a ladder?” I questioned.
“Well, we didn’t actually see them do it. But we’d seen them carry things over boxes. They work