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Authors: Anne Carlisle
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Bonfire
October 27, 1900
Mill's Creek
With the tip of one gloved finger, Cassandra Vye traced two sets of initials on the cold, wet casement window in her bedroom: CV + CD. She put her grandfather's spyglass to one topaz eye and scanned the empty, vast immensities of Hatter's Field. To her view, it appeared barren and immovable, as if nothing had ever changed here since the days of the glaciers, when woolly mammoths roamed the arid plain.
She often stood so , looking out the window and playing on her zither, meanwhile envisioning herself driving away from Alta—far, far away. With the exception of the time spent in her lover's arms, this year seemed the dreariest of her twenty years on the planet.
The promontory of the Hat was within easy walking distance along Hatter's Field. From the vantage point of the Hat and with the help of her grandfather's spyglass, she would be able to see activities at the hotel and in the village. She put on her bonnet and pulled on her gloves, too restless not to venture out again. Tonight, more than ever before, she wanted her lover to respond to her siren's song.
At last twilight was approaching, and the gas lam ps of Alta’s settlers were coming on. The stars sprinkled across the sky and the home fires in the little mountain town appeared to converge in the emptiness where mountains end and the high plain begins. The scene was reminiscent of her arrival a year before, just rounding the bend in the road from the south in a small brown surrey, how she had strained forward with great excitement to catch a first glimpse of Alta, where she would soon be seen in her best lace-fringed bonnet. She was unaware it would be hanging unused, day after day, on a crude nail by a raw wooden door.
Progress had been slow behind the tired, single horse plodding along the lonely, narrow road past Hatter's Field. On each side of the muddy thoroughfare were frozen sheets of snow, layer upon layer, as far as the eye could see, and a dark, brooding mountain towering over the town like a pitiless, ancient god. The terrain she saw for the first time was constituted in a way so wild and resistant that even back in the greedy old homesteading days, no one had ever made a move to tame or claim it. The land had irregularities not caused by plows and pickaxes, but rather by the geology of the last climate change.
Flourishing into young womanhood in the more densely populated East, Cassandra was a Progressivist in her political opinions and a restless spirit by virtue of her siren nature. As the short days turned bitterly cold, her initial enthusiasm for her new environment quickly waned. She could see how horribly isolated the town was under that endless, dark, unforgiving sky, and how reticent and backward the pious villagers were. Was there anyone here worthy of a siren's tricks, much less her passionate love?
The native biddies were quick to pick up on Cassandra's aloofness, and almost immediately, the dazzling beauty became a target for malicious gossip. People are apt to be suspicious of an exotic creature who sets herself apart from others, and there was no hiding herself from public scrutiny in such a tiny settlement.
In 1900, even the largest Western towns consisted of no more than a thousand men, women, and children living hand to mouth in pine cabins or frame clapboards. A handful of shops provided the necessities: saddle and leather goods, hardware, dry goods, barber-dentist, cobbler, blacksmith, and butcher. As a rule, there were thirteen bars, one busy local jail, and sometimes a church.
However, Wyoming was destined to be an exception to the rule. For one thing, it was a vast place that travelers crossed rather than staked claims to. In 1870, two years after the Wyoming Territory was carved out of the Dakota, Utah, and Idaho territories, the entire population reported by the census was 9,118. Wyoming's northeastern-most district was exceptionally tiny, with a population of no more than 200
October 27, 1900
Mill's Creek
With the tip of one gloved finger, Cassandra Vye traced two sets of initials on the cold, wet casement window in her bedroom: CV + CD. She put her grandfather's spyglass to one topaz eye and scanned the empty, vast immensities of Hatter's Field. To her view, it appeared barren and immovable, as if nothing had ever changed here since the days of the glaciers, when woolly mammoths roamed the arid plain.
She often stood so , looking out the window and playing on her zither, meanwhile envisioning herself driving away from Alta—far, far away. With the exception of the time spent in her lover's arms, this year seemed the dreariest of her twenty years on the planet.
The promontory of the Hat was within easy walking distance along Hatter's Field. From the vantage point of the Hat and with the help of her grandfather's spyglass, she would be able to see activities at the hotel and in the village. She put on her bonnet and pulled on her gloves, too restless not to venture out again. Tonight, more than ever before, she wanted her lover to respond to her siren's song.
At last twilight was approaching, and the gas lam ps of Alta’s settlers were coming on. The stars sprinkled across the sky and the home fires in the little mountain town appeared to converge in the emptiness where mountains end and the high plain begins. The scene was reminiscent of her arrival a year before, just rounding the bend in the road from the south in a small brown surrey, how she had strained forward with great excitement to catch a first glimpse of Alta, where she would soon be seen in her best lace-fringed bonnet. She was unaware it would be hanging unused, day after day, on a crude nail by a raw wooden door.
Progress had been slow behind the tired, single horse plodding along the lonely, narrow road past Hatter's Field. On each side of the muddy thoroughfare were frozen sheets of snow, layer upon layer, as far as the eye could see, and a dark, brooding mountain towering over the town like a pitiless, ancient god. The terrain she saw for the first time was constituted in a way so wild and resistant that even back in the greedy old homesteading days, no one had ever made a move to tame or claim it. The land had irregularities not caused by plows and pickaxes, but rather by the geology of the last climate change.
Flourishing into young womanhood in the more densely populated East, Cassandra was a Progressivist in her political opinions and a restless spirit by virtue of her siren nature. As the short days turned bitterly cold, her initial enthusiasm for her new environment quickly waned. She could see how horribly isolated the town was under that endless, dark, unforgiving sky, and how reticent and backward the pious villagers were. Was there anyone here worthy of a siren's tricks, much less her passionate love?
The native biddies were quick to pick up on Cassandra's aloofness, and almost immediately, the dazzling beauty became a target for malicious gossip. People are apt to be suspicious of an exotic creature who sets herself apart from others, and there was no hiding herself from public scrutiny in such a tiny settlement.
In 1900, even the largest Western towns consisted of no more than a thousand men, women, and children living hand to mouth in pine cabins or frame clapboards. A handful of shops provided the necessities: saddle and leather goods, hardware, dry goods, barber-dentist, cobbler, blacksmith, and butcher. As a rule, there were thirteen bars, one busy local jail, and sometimes a church.
However, Wyoming was destined to be an exception to the rule. For one thing, it was a vast place that travelers crossed rather than staked claims to. In 1870, two years after the Wyoming Territory was carved out of the Dakota, Utah, and Idaho territories, the entire population reported by the census was 9,118. Wyoming's northeastern-most district was exceptionally tiny, with a population of no more than 200
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