while the coffin was lowered the men sang. I never heard a more lonesome
sound than those men singing there over that little grave. White
Mountain read the burial service.

We took the mother back to our cabin while the grave was being filled
in. I used to see her walking out there each morning with a few wild
flowers to put on the mound. Ranger Winess managed to ride that way and
keep her in sight until she returned to the camp ground. While the blue
lupine blossomed she kept the mound covered with the fragrant flowers.

Ranger Fisk had a vacation about this time, and he insisted White
Mountain and I should get married while he could act as best man. So we
journeyed to Flagstaff with him and were married. It seemed more like a
wedding in a play than anything else. Ranger Fisk was burdened with the
responsibility of the wedding-ring, license, minister's fee, and flowers
for the occasion. He herded us into the clerk's office to secure the
necessary papers, and the girl clerk that issued them was a stickler for
form. We gave our names, our parents' names, our ages, birth-places, and
previous states of servitude. I was getting ready to show her my
vaccination scar, when she turned coldly critical eyes on me and asked:
"Are you white?" This for a Virginian to answer was quite a blow.

We went to the minister's house, and since two witnesses were necessary,
the wife was called in from her washing. She came into the parlor drying
her hands on her apron, which she discarded by rolling up and tossing
into a chair. Ranger Fisk produced the ring, with a flourish, at the
proper moment, gave the minister his money, after all the "I do's" had
been said, and the wedding was over. So we were married. No wedding
march, no flower girls, no veil, no rice, no wedding breakfast. Just a
solemn promise to respect each other and be faithful. Perhaps the