16
A Stray
Mother arrived in Omaha. But she was not pleased that our time together involved, not shopping or walking the new park, but instead getting Robert better and helping me pack. I had no time to write, to journal. Robert opened an office for the UP in Denver, but they wanted him back out in the field. Mr. Gleed improved and took a job with the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad, much to Robert’s chagrin. Our violin-playing boarder found himself a wife (he said he was inspired by our connubial bliss) and made his own home in Omaha while we headed to Denver and I prepared for at least a year of travel living again in hotels.
May 1, 1880
My mother insisted that I come home for a rest. Robert, much improved, agreed, and Mother and I were soon on the train back to Marengo.
“Why don’t you stay here instead of returning to that hotel in Denver, let him do this surveying and writing.” My mother fluffed the pillow behind my head. She’d brought me breakfast in bed.
“I’ve thought this through, Mama. He’s my husband. I’m a help to him with all his contacts. Even with his writing. Besides, what would I do here? Walk old Casey? Knit?”
She sighed. “I wish you were closer to having the life you really want.”
“I’ve chosen this one, Mama. It’s alright.”
It wasn’t alright, but I didn’t want her to worry and I kept a cheery attitude, let her pamper me, and we reminisced about old times. I saw Mary and my niece and walked old Casey too. All I was missing was Robert. And my Omaha home that was no more. Two weeks later I waved goodbye when I caught the train to Denver. From Denver, Pard and I traveled out like spokes on a wheel. I lost track of how many mines we visited, struggled as I wrote to describe the gold and silver workings in a new way. I’m not sure how Robert did it. Well, he didn’t. His reports read like statistics books where the reader had to find some way to distinguish the Ruby mine from the Gothic or a timber stand in New Mexico from one in Montana. My notes were about the people we traveled with and the nature of the stages or train cars. And a surprise family connection too when Robert learned his brother was bringing his wife and three children to the Ruby Valley in Madison, Montana. Robert’s words now had a direct impact on his own family’s desire to find a new direction in the West. Sadly, we had little contact with them. Maybe because we were always on the go.
I’d read my notes and comments to Pard, giving a little room between the experience and memory of it. He’d be sitting at the table looking over his notes, and I’d be on the bed, stocking feet wiggling back and forth in nervous twists, my corset off, a wrapper on. “What do you think of this? ‘In spite of the altitude of Irwin, the mountains rise around it in emerald heights over a thousand feet, and rich forests extend almost to the tops that will make the whip-whine of the saw resound for many years.’”
“That’s good, Dell, I like that auditory image of the ‘whip-whine of the saw.’ Why, I can almost hear the sound, musical, and the reader will too.” He also liked my rendition of a horse giving me a disgusted look after I’d given it poor rein instructions. I’d said it was like the look of a “hunting dog when a shot has failed to bring down the game.” He laughed out loud at that. Or after my description of an uncomfortable, strenuous encounter with a wretched passenger on the stage, Robert said, “That guy pushed his way onto your seat on top that I paid for! I didn’t use the pass, I used cash.” My words had brought both the moment and his intense feelings back. “Good thing you got me inside that stage, Dell. No telling what I might have done to that barbarian.”
“I was very ill.”
He paused, pencil in hand. “Yes, that’s right, you were. I’d forgotten that part, just remembered how impudent he was.”
I didn’t tell him that his making a scene about it had made me feel worse than what that barbarian had said of my illness, which was probably why Pard forgot that I was sick. He’d wanted me getting fresh air in a seat next to the driver, and the selfish man had said, “It serves her right; a woman has no business traveling in this country.” Maybe, at that point, Robert was feeling a bit guilty about having me with him when I was sick, not able to nurse me as I had nursed him those months before in Omaha.
I’m kidding myself: illness of others sent Pard like an arrow from a quiver toward a faraway target.
Stage stops were no place to recuperate, and at Manitou Springs or Gunnison, Colorado, or even lovely Santa Fe, he had to be in the railroad’s employ, looking at hay fields or those mines to report to potential investors and bring inspiration to home seekers while pushing for possible stations for growing railroad wealth.
It’s also true that my observations sometimes appeared as his words in articles he wrote for the New York Herald, for example. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said once when I lifted my eyes about a turn of phrase I recognized as my own. “You have such a colorful way of putting things.”
“I don’t mind. I’m flattered.”
At that moment, I was. But I was also—I couldn’t find the right word. Beguiled, maybe a little bewitched? We were “pardners,” weren’t we? Why did I grimace at his cavalier explanation? I was pleased to see my very words in print. But I also understood, as I hadn’t before, why my sister Mary’s “by line” in the local Marengo paper must have thrilled her. “By Mrs. William Waters.”
Looking back, I see where that interchange might have been the impetus for my doing something that Robert was more likely to do than I was: I invested in real estate.
It was at Crested Butte, a mining camp eight miles east of Irwin, in Colorado. Because of its lower elevation and access through four mountain passes and a nearness to Gunnison accessible by stage, Crested Butte expected to be the terminus of the railroad. Or so I thought, listening to Robert’s discussions with the locals. It was in beautiful country, and I could see the mining owners, railroad people, and store owners make their homes there, a thousand feet below the mines but where trainloads of goods could serve surrounding camps and take out ore from those same.
I kept Pard in the dark, but it was soon out. Men cannot keep secrets. They call us women gossips, but they’re much worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t mind at all. Surprised, though. Aren’t we partners?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I cut his toenails with my little scissors in our Denver hotel. Later, he’d snip mine.
“It was fun to see if I could manage the transaction. It’s a good-sized lot.”
“Not in the residential area, I hope, should there be one.”
Snip. “I fancied a commercial site. I’ll sell when the railroad comes, make a tidy profit.”
“It does suggest that you need your own bank account, Dell. So you can do these things more easily.”
Snip. “I used money from my allowance and the household account. I’ve little need of the latter, really, when we’re far from having a house.” I kept my voice light, lest he think I was unhappy back on the road. There was much to like about not fixing meals twice daily and having the hotel tend to our laundry. “An investment account would be good. In my own name. Maybe one day I’ll have money from my earnings to put in there.”
“Earnings from what?”
“From my buying and selling.” I cleared my throat. “Or maybe . . . writing.”
“You’ll have to be careful about that. All my publications are a result of the railroad and my employment with them. You wouldn’t want to get in trouble with them by having a by line that someone suggests you have inside information because you’re married to me. Come to think of it, they might think that about your real estate dealings.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. I could respond with quick wit to every stage jehu or rude passenger I met, but with Robert, I needed time to ponder. And maybe “grow new flesh.” I hadn’t thought that short, passing moments in a marriage could both linger and sting, but perhaps that’s what marriages are made up of—series of little interactions, some blessed, some trials. I wondered if other couples who spent so much time together, worked together (at least I had always thought we worked together), planned and hoped together, found themselves at times saying things that failed to build the other up.
The snipping of his nails was the sound to break the silence. After I scrubbed his feet, scraped off a callus, rubbed his arches with a sweet-smelling cream, I said, “I’ll use a nom de plume. Maybe Dell Green.”
“How about memorializing Carrie’s name? Make it Carrie something?”
Did I ask for your assistance, Robert Strahorn? Fury flushed my face but I kept my calm. I know he wanted the best for me, he really did.
“Perhaps C. Green. So they’ll think it’s a man writing and pay more attention to it.”
“That’s a good thought.” He stood to take the scissors, rinsed them, and got fresh water for my foot bath. “Ready?” He held the basin like a restaurant waiter.
“Let’s do my toes later,” I said. “I think I’d like to take a walk.”
“I’ll come with you. It’s late.”
“No. Please. Work on your tome. I’ll be fine.” I hooked the buttons on my shoes. “Taking a stroll around the block.”
I came to a few conclusions on that short journey. Alright, I went three times around the block.
First, I would begin to submit some of my writing to newspapers. I’d use the by line A. Stray for Adell and half of Robert’s name and hope Robert missed the pun. I felt like a stray calf left outside the corral. But it was Adell, that middle initial that gave Pard his Dell and it was Dell who was the stray. Carrie Adell Green Strahorn would find a way to make her mark not just as the wife of the famous Robert Strahorn.
That very evening, I wrote a little piece about a woman buying a lot in a mining town. I would submit it to the New Northwest, a weekly published in Portland, Oregon, all about women’s issues in the western region. Even eastern women would like that story and it wouldn’t rob from Robert or from the railroad. I also wrote to my sister and invited her to visit. We would talk writing and its challenges, and I wouldn’t have to worry that I’d stepped on anyone’s toes.
Mary’s arrival thrilled me more than I had expected. Extended family could bring salve to a burdened soul. Mary said, “It’s such beautiful country. I really had no idea, even though your letters describe everything so grandly. But these mountains!” She swirled around outside the Denver station.
“I wish you could have seen our Omaha home.”
“Mama said it was quaint.”
“She would. But truly the scenery here is more astonishing. I have adventures planned.”
Mary clapped her hands like a happy child.
“First to Colorado Springs, and if you think you’re up to it, we’ll climb a mountain.”
“We can?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, let’s get to it! It’s so good to see you, Carrie.” She hugged me tight. “Christina begged to come, but Willie said no daughter of his was going into that wild country.”
“You can decide how wild after our little adventures.”
“Can’t be that much drama when you’re looking robust.”
“I don’t get enough walks in, though.” I patted my curvy hips. “Climbing Pikes Peak will do me good.”
“Climb as with ropes and such?”
I shook my head. “We’ll ride horses up as far as we can, then walk the rest of the way.”
“A little bluff climbing, like back along the Mississippi. That’ll be fun. We can picnic in the shelter on top, can’t we?”
I smiled. “No shelter. We’ll be exposed to the elements.”
Robert greeted her with a warm hug, carried her bags himself up the stairs to a room in the hotel we’d booked beside ours.
“Hardly a wild country with furnishings like these.” She ran her hands down the brocade drapes, oohed at the large bedstead and the marble top of the cabinet holding the water basin.
“You won’t spend much time here. We’ll have supper and after breakfast be on our way to Colorado Springs.”
“We’re glad Willie let you come,” Robert said.
“He could hardly say no to a ‘professional woman.’” She winked at me. I didn’t know what she was talking about and I frowned. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m acting as a correspondent for the Freeport Journal. I’ll be sending missives back about our travels, so be careful what you say.” She laughed. “You might end up in my story.”
“Oh. Why, that’s wonderful. Another by line?”
“This time, ‘Mary Waters.’”
“That’s . . . that’s grand.”
“You aren’t distressed?” She reached to touch my elbow, squeezed it.
“A little envious, I confess.”
“Dell can’t really write under her own name, with my UP association, except a letter now and then.” Mary frowned. Robert added, “Your dispatches can only help our cause to bring people west, if not as permanent settlers, as tourists wanting new sights and sounds. Wait until you see the Garden of the Gods in the Springs area. Magnificent.”
“What makes you think I’ll only write glowing reports, Robert? I’m not my happy-lane sister.”
She’d silenced him when I couldn’t.
We were soon in that fabulous Garden of the Gods, with a guide to take us through spectacular rock formations as though a giant child with blocks and stones of odd geometrical formations had placed them precariously to see if they would stand the test of time. Mary was in constant awe. She made notes as soon as we finished our ride. Actually, all of us were busy scribbling while the horses tore at sparse grass reaching through reddish dirt. When I looked up at Mary and Robert with their sketchbooks and pads, I laughed. “Look at us! This beautiful scenery, God’s own creation, and we have our noses in our foolscap.” I put my book down and inhaled the clear air, took in the deep blue sky and the color contrast of the stones. I felt a bit light-headed but let the landscape fill me up. I refused to let Mary’s success steal mine. We both had a way with words. That was what I would hang on to.
The next day, Mary and I headed by horseback to Pikes Peak where the mild winter had left the last feet of climbing bare, unusual for June. The vista was stunning. Mary couldn’t stop smiling. We spent the night at Manitou Springs and took the baths. “I’ll write about this day,” Mary said. “From the top of a mountain to the bottom of hot springs. Strenuous and slackening, all in the same day.” She never complained about the weather, the stage, our itinerary. “It’s nice having someone else decide everything.”
“Next stop, Estes Park. Pack a smaller valise,” I told her. “We’ll be gone three weeks and roughing it in more primitive cabins. No fancy brocades.”
“Oh, my heavens. I can hardly wait. It’s a good thing I’m here for two months, if three weeks of it will be taken up by a single trip.”
Robert remained with us in Estes Park, where we fished and walked and rested. Then he planned to go overland on horseback, and we arranged a rendezvous at Middle Park a few weeks forward. I didn’t mind him going off without me, not with Mary at my side. This was my world—as being a superior mother was hers—and I wanted to share it with her, even the strenuous sides. Besides, a little time without one’s husband isn’t a bad thing when it’s by mutual choice. To go with him, we would have had to travel by cross saddle, and neither Mary nor I wanted that. I found the saddles quite uncomfortable, built for men as they were. And in that rough country Robert was headed into, sidesaddles left a woman in a precarious position, easily brushed from her pillion. That had happened to me once, resulting in a concussion, but I didn’t tell Mary of it.
While Robert rode overland, Mary and I took the first stage out to Longmont. “At least they have iron handles at the windows to grab,” Mary observed. “It helps keep one a little upright at the turns.” Our fellow passengers were all complacent and pleasant, having vacationed for a few days in that gorgeous country.
At Longmont, we took the train to Denver, where we rested a few days more, shopping and staying up late, talking. “It does annoy me some,” Mary said as she curled her hair with a hot iron, “that Willie is quite the detail person in his work, but he can’t see his underdrawers in the middle of the room to pick them up. He knows I’ll do it for him.”
“Robert is fastidious about his mustache being kept trim, but he never cleans the bowl afterward. It’s like he’s blind.” We both giggled. How grand it was that I could complain about Robert’s idiosyncrasies without Mary turning on him, and she told me tales of her Willie, and neither of us thought the less of the men we sisters had married. I had no close friend with whom I could be in safety except my sister. Friendships take time and presence and I was rarely available for long at any one place, and I always knew we’d be traveling on. I was a stray. Turning that into belonging was the challenge.