and built a cabin for themselves near Sam’s. They put in a garden and erected some outbuildings, but it was obvious that they would have to do something about the water supply if they wanted a hayfield or crops. While it was true that Beaver Creek ran through their property, its banks were so high that the water level was below the level of their land.
Josie came up with the solution and Jim put it into effect. Using a horse and plow, or digging by hand where necessary, Jim cut an irrigation ditch extending four or five miles across the brush to a point where the creek came out of the hills, grading the ditch in a gentle slope to his home fields. The neighbors were unbelieving, said the bizarre idea would never work, and called it “McKnight’s Folly.” Josie herself was serenely confident throughout the digging, and her confidence was justified when the irrigation floodgate was opened and the water came flowing smoothly down the ditch. “It stands to reason,” she is quoted as saying, “that water would have to flow downhill.” The ditch was used to irrigate that ground until the paving of Highway 319 in modern times.
Matt Rash was the real manager at the Bassett ranch after Elizabeth’s death, and although Isom Dart had maintained a friendly relationship with him through the years, Isom had been Elizabeth’s man. He turned now to Elizabeth’s daughter Josie. If Josie herself were not enough reason for this, there was the baby Crawford, and Isom loved children. By the time Josie’s second child Herbert—always to be called Chick—arrived in early 1896, Isom was working full time with Jim McKnight. Isom, who had his own herd and land, developed the same working relationship with Jim as they had both once had with Elizabeth. Again, Isom became almost a family member. When Josie had her hands full at home or wanted to ride down to the Bassett ranch to visit her father, Isom would do some of the cooking and would babysit for the boys and for helpless old Uncle Sam.
Herb’s greatest difficulty in those days was trying to decide what on earth to do with Ann; as time passed, it became a question of what to do with Ann next. At the time of Elizabeth’s death, Ann was a tomboy and a hoyden, still trying to keep up with her brothers, still spending time out in the bunkhouse with the cowboys, and still refusing to be ladylike.
Herb believed in ruling children by love alone, and Ann was the only one of the children to whom he had ever administered corporal punishment. One day when he was making puncheons out of cottonwood logs he found Ann trying to make her own puncheons with his sharp ax. When he admonished the child, she screamed at him, “You son of a bitch, I’ll do what I want to do!”
“Now that’s enough, girlie—you’ve stirred up enough for a time,” he said, and gave her a sound thrashing.
Herb’s reliance on love as a discipline might have been effective had he been a stronger and more impressive figure. As it was, the family seems to have been rudderless after Elizabeth’s death, with little effective control over a recalcitrant child.
As soon as Ann reached the proper age, Herb sent her to St. Mary’s of the Wasatch, where Josie had been so happy. In later years Ann was to write a tender and poetic account of what the convent school had meant to a young girl from the back country, but this must have been her opinion only in retrospect. At the end of the year the nuns asked Herb not to send Ann back; they considered her incorrigible.
Ann was also an indifferent student, one who seemed to learn by osmosis rather than through mental effort. After St. Mary’s closed its doors to her, Herb was still determined that his daughter was to be educated. She was sent east to school, probably to Cleveland where Herb had a half-brother; possibly other schools were involved. In 1899 the Craig newspaper reported that “Miss Anna Bassett of Omaha and Miss Blanche Tilton have arrived in town from Brown’s Park. . . . “ What Ann was doing in Omaha is lost in the mists of time.
In her memoirs, Ann claims to have attended Miss Porter’s School for Girls in an exclusive Boston suburb, but Josie told her family that this was just another of Ann’s exaggerations. The exaggeration did serve to enhance Ann’s reputation, and in later years the people in Colorado and Utah considered her a highly educated woman; one old-timer in Vernal now insists that she was a Vassar graduate. Ann told a story of a happening at Miss Porter’s that smacks of truth and surely must have occurred at some school or other. This is what she wrote in The Colorado Magazine:
. . . A wild barbarian who knew nothing about “correct style” must be taught horsemanship by a competent instructor. The school employed a riding “mawstah” to teach the girls correct positions in the saddle and how to post. One morning about a dozen of us were lined up for inspection before taking off for a decorous canter over chosen bridle paths. Everything appeared ship-shape. But there was rebellion in my soul, revolt that demanded action.
The “Mawstah” walked back a few yards for some words with one of the stable boys. That was my Heaven-given chance to air “ronickie” dun out a little. I was perched like a monkey on a stick, atop of a locoed old sabine gelding with one glass eye. I threw my right leg up over the side saddle and raked his flanks. Then uttering a wild yell that must have scared him half to death, I put him through several range stunts while the girls screamed with glee.
The outraged “Mawstah” came on the run, giving off a stream of sarcasm meant for me. He grabbed for my bridle reins at the same time ordering me sharply to “Dismount.”
He got nowhere reaching for my bridle. I was completely “r’iled up” by that time. I swung the horse about, with a prancing and rearing he had probably never before even attempted. Leaning from my saddle, I exclaimed vehemently, “Go to hell, you repulsive, little, monkeyfaced skunk!”
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