Adventures in the West: Stories for Young Readers (Bison Original)

Adventures in the West Stories for Young Readers

 Susanne George Bloomfield & Eric Melvin Reed

University of Nebraska Press • Lincoln & London

© 2007 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-inPublication Data Adventures in the West : stories for young readers / Edited by Susanne George Bloomfield and Eric Melvin Reed. p. cm. Summary: A collection of adventure stories set in the American West that were originally published in “Youth’s Companion” and “St. Nicholas,” two of the best-known nineteenthcentury children’s periodicals. Includes bibliographical references. isbn-13: 978-0-8032-5974-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-8032-5974-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Children’s stories, American. 2. Western stories. [1. West (U.S.)—History—19th century—Fiction. 2. Frontier and pioneer life—West (U.S.)—Fiction. 3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Short stories.] I. George-Bloomfield, Susanne, 1947– II. Reed, Eric Melvin. pz5.a2433 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2007007343 Set in Galliard by Kim Essman.

Contents

Preface . . . ix Acknowledgments . . . xi Introduction . . . xiii Póh-hlaik, the Cave Boy . . . 1 by Charles Fletcher Lummis McCoy’s Stampede . . . 13 by George Washington Ogden Illustrated by George Varian

Sister Anne and the Cowboy . . . 25 by Charlotte M. Vaile Illustrated by M. Eckerson

Where the Buffaloes Begin . . . 37 by Olaf Baker Illustrated by Paul Bransom

Her Neighbor’s Claim . . . 47 by May Roberts Clark Kit . . . 58 by Major Charles Askins Illustrated by F. L. Fithian

The Black Hero of the Ranges . . . 71 by Enoch Josiah Mills Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull

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Smiley Hewitt and the Prairie-Wolf . . . 87 by John R. Spears When Jennie Saved the Windmill . . . 98 by Clara L. Dobson A Little Maverick . . . 107 by Patience Stapleton Illustrated by W. F. Stecher

Our First Well in Nebraska . . . 117 by Fitzroy Greenleaf Illustrated by W. F. Stecher

The McCulloughs of the Bluff . . . 126 by Elia Wilkinson Peattie Illustrated by W. F. Stecher

How the Parsonage Was Papered . . . 137 by Susan Hubbard Martin The Doctor’s Visit . . . 145 by Hamlin Garland In Common . . . 151 by Laura Tilden Kent Illustrated by W. F. Stecher

A Matter of Nationality . . . 162 by Edith Ronald Mirrielees The Little Nugget Strike . . . 170 by George Edmands Merrill Illustrated by A. C. Redwood

The Buffalo Hunt . . . 180 by James Willard Schultz “Old Glory” in the Desert . . . 190 by Ralph Delahaye Paine Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs

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A Native Teacher . . . 201 by Frances McElrath Fairy “Spuds” . . . 211 by Theodora Marshall Inglis Illustrated by B. J. Rosenmeyer

The Common Sense of John Thomas . . . 221 by Henry Spofford Canfield The Successes of Jimmy Sylvester . . . 229 by Leonard Kingsley Smith The Girls at Overtown . . . 239 by Mary Austin A Life Like Maggy’s . . . 249 by Marianne Gauss Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty

Aunt ’Phroney’s Boy . . . 258 by L. Frank Baum Illustrated by George Avison

Bibliography . . . 277

Preface

The research and compilation of Adventures in the West: Stories for Young Readers has a long and circuitous history. It originated in the late 1980s, when I searched in the Youth’s Companion for stories by Elinore Pruitt Stewart for my biography of her, The Adventures of The Woman Homesteader: The Life and Letters of Elinore Pruitt Stewart (1992). Not only did I find several of her stories, but I also discovered hundreds of intriguing narratives about the West written by people who were living the adventure and telling firsthand accounts about the settlement period. Between 1989 and 1994, thanks to a Nebraska Humanities Council summer stipend, three University of Nebraska at Kearney Research Service Council grants, and a Center for Great Plains Studies faculty summer fellowship, the quest began. I read the 1880–1920 volumes of the Youth’s Companion, St. Nicholas, Harper’s Young People, and Wide Awake, compiling an index of all of the stories, poems, and serial fiction that were set in the West. The next stage of research involved making photo copies of all of the works, but with the help of two student assistants, Jean Keezer Clayton and Nancy Johnson, we not only accomplished that task but also began sorting through the pieces and selecting the ones we judged as the “best.” In 2000 Eric Reed, then an undergraduate English major, began transcribing many of these stories from the fuzzy microfilm copies. In 1992 I contacted the University of Nebraska Press with my project, and Bill Regier, director at that time, suggested that I narrow my focus to Nebraska women writers. My course changed dramatically when I

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chanced upon the intertwined lives of two incredible Nebraska writers, who became my subjects for two more biographies: Kate Cleary: A Literary Biography with Selected Works (1997) and Impertinences: Selected Writings of Elia Peattie, a Journalist in the Gilded Age (2005). Meanwhile, Eric Reed decided to pursue a master’s degree in history, and he became my graduate assistant on the Peattie manuscript. When he returned to work on a master’s in English, I chose him to coauthor a history of the University of Nebraska at Kearney, From the Beginning: A Century of Excellence, 1905–2005 (2005). As we were finalizing that book, I asked him to help me complete my original mission; I knew firsthand that his research and writing expertise, as well as his dedication to preserving the history of the West, would add much to the work. Together, we reevaluated the selections and began the process of analyzing the texts, researching historical backgrounds, and finding biographical information about the authors, many of whom time had forgotten. Again, the University of Nebraska at Kearney provided support through graduate research assistantships, and the Center for Great Plains Studies awarded Eric a graduate student grant-in-aid. In editing these stories, presented here in their entirety, we chose to remain faithful to the original texts in style, spelling, and punctuation, silently editing only in cases of typographical errors or when confusion might occur. Occasionally, the microfilm was indistinct, so we used the context of the sentence to supply what we considered the intended word.

Acknowledgments

We are indebted to many historians who helped in our search for author information: Gary Rosenberg, Douglas County Historical Society; Mary-Jo Miller, Nebraska State Historical Society; William N. Copeley, New Hampshire Historical Society; Ryan Flahive, Sharlot Hall Museum; Dave Hughes, Old Colorado City Historical Society; Opal Longino, Foothills Genealogical Society; Kelly Murphy, Starsmore Center for Local History; Gwenith Podeschi, Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library; and Gary Sides, Dakota County Historical Society. Thanks, too, to Brian L. Pytlik Zillig, Brett Barney, Laura Weakly, Paul Fajman, and Corey Karmann at the Center for Digital Research in the Humanities at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln library for helping us to create digital reproductions of the original illustrations. Our families also served as readers for this collection. My husband, Terry, and Eric’s mother, Sue Reed, fueled our enthusiasm with theirs. We lovingly dedicate this book to them and to our children and grandchildren, now and in the future. May these stories teach them to appreciate their remarkable pioneer heritage and guide them in maturing to strong, responsible, and compassionate adults. With the publication of Adventures in the West, today’s families will be able to enjoy the same stories that once captivated their great-, greatgreat-, and even great-great-great-grandparents.

Introduction

Before video games, dvds, cds, television, and even radio, American children (today’s grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents) commonly entertained themselves by reading books and stories. Most popular were magazines, which offered fiction, poems, articles, games, puzzles, contests, pictures, and even news items and recipes for the whole family. In a time when children were expected to share in the daily workload, and when little money could be spent on leisure activities, publications that offered something for all ages were the most practical. One weekly newspaper, such as the Youth’s Companion, or one monthly magazine, such as St. Nicholas, was about all that many families at the turn of the century could afford. Fortunately, both the Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas contained well-written and beautifully illustrated materials. And because the periodicals were prestigious and paid their contributors well, many of America’s greatest authors published works in them. It seems a loss to our culture that children’s magazines today do not have the impact that they once did. Periodicals were important in the social, cultural, and educational development of the children of America’s past, and today they are our best sources for learning about the history, attitudes, values, and aspirations of previous generations. The stories, poems, and articles not only reveal what Americans wanted their children to learn, believe, and remember but also reflect society’s interests and beliefs at the time.

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Children’s Periodicals

The first children’s periodical in the United States, titled Children’s Magazine, appeared in January of 1789. Although it only ran for four issues, it instituted an important American tradition, and other publications quickly followed. In the years following the Civil War, juvenile periodicals flourished with approximately sixty publications—half of which were Sunday school papers—in circulation between 1865 and 1885. From 1885 to 1905 the number increased to seventy-five, two-thirds of which were religious periodicals. By 1900, however, many magazine subscriptions had begun to decline, except those closely identified with the major publishing houses. The Youth’s Companion, one of the two best known children’s periodicals in the United States, began in 1827 and continued with great popularity and financial success for 102 years. This family-oriented weekly newspaper grew out of Nathaniel Willis’s religious newspaper, the Recorder. The early issues seem forbidding to readers today; they contain moralistic stories set in minuscule type espousing seventeenth-century Puritan values. Although Willis did try to entertain his readers, his editorial beliefs were straightforward—he wanted to save his readers’ souls. By the late 1860s, new editors under the invented name of Perry Mason & Co. had taken over. Although the magazine still looked uninviting, and moralizing and sentimentalizing often prevailed, an increasing emphasis on adventure began to appear as the editors tried to discover what young readers wanted to read rather than what adults thought they should read. One reason for the Youth’s Companion’s wide appeal was the mix of fiction and nonfiction, short stories and serialized novels, poetry, articles on science and history, puzzles and games, handicrafts, recipes, and news articles. Each issue contained eight to sixteen pages; at one point the publishers proclaimed that each year the newspaper offered the equivalent of two thousand pages, all for one dollar and fifty cents. The list of authors published in the Youth’s Companion is impressive: Jack London, Alfred Lord Tennyson, William Gladstone, Sir J. M. Bar-

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rie, Rudyard Kipling, H. G. Wells, Sarah Orne Jewett, Mark Twain, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Theodore Roosevelt. The magazine remained in existence for so long partly because of several successful experiments. So that readers would not outgrow the publication, the editors subtitled it “The Companion for All the Family” and featured material for all ages. They began the practice of enticing young subscribers to sell subscriptions by offering many high-quality items that could be purchased with premiums. By 1884 the Youth’s Companion’s weekly circulation was 200,000, larger than any other literary paper in the world. By 1890 the subscription list had reached 440,000. Due to many factors, including the Depression, the newspaper ceased publication in 1929, and the United States lost an institution. Although the Youth’s Companion merged with American Boy, by 1941 that magazine had discontinued publication too. The other giant of family periodicals was St. Nicholas. It began in 1873 and was published by Scribner’s, which also circulated Atlantic Monthly. Founder Mary Mapes Dodge, who wrote Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates (1865) and other children’s stories, was determined to establish a quality magazine, one her own children would enjoy. In July 1873 Scribner’s declared that the new magazine would be dedicated to “the work of instruction, culture, and entertainment.” St. Nicholas’s pages contained highly readable articles on science, history, biographies, and books, but Dodge’s chief goal was to provide imaginative stories and poems that genuinely appealed to boys and girls. She only accepted works from the best writers—such as Louisa May Alcott, L. Frank Baum, Rudyard Kipling, Jack London, Mark Twain, Theodore Roosevelt, Dorothy Canfield, Kate Chopin, and Kate Douglas Wiggin—as well as republishing the works of Longfellow, Emerson, Thoreau, and Whittier or well-written material by lesser-known authors who wrote strictly for children. In 1898 the St. Nicholas League premiered, offering gold and silver badges for “good writing in prose and verse,” and the editors published their subscribers’ own works in the magazine. Many young people who would later became famous writers contributed to the League—Ring

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Lardner, Cornelia Otis Skinner, Elinor Wylie, Bennett Cerf, and Edmund Wilson. St. Nicholas influenced not only writers of the day but trained writers for the future. Historical Resource and Regionalism

Among the stories published in these periodicals were exciting accounts of the American West that depict the frontier’s formative years. The fiction gathered for this anthology begins in the 1890s, when the settlement of the American West was fairly well-established, allowing writers to render firsthand accounts of their pioneer experiences. This date, according to Frederick Jackson Turner, marks the closing of the frontier as indicated by the 1890 census. This collection ends with the period following the First World War, which brought a shift in focus from western expansion to events with a more national and international bias. New England writers dominated the American literary scene before the Civil War, but with the increasing ease of transportation throughout the nation, more and more readers wanted to learn about the life and landscape, the “local color,” of once-isolated regions. Periodicals such as the Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas followed these literary trends and embraced their readers’ interest in America’s environmental and social diversity, regularly publishing regionalist writers such as Joaquin Miller from the Northwest, Jack London from the West, Charles Lummis from the Southwest, Kate Chopin from the South, and Sarah Orne Jewett from New England. Works of literature also reflect the social and historical circumstances of the time in which they are written. One historical context emphasized repeatedly in these stories is the accepted myth of the ability to rise from rags to riches, to “make good,” to realize the American Dream. Buoyed by the success stories of men like Andrew Carnegie, Henry Ford, and John D. Rockefeller, who all began humbly, and aggrandized by writers such as Horatio Alger, many adolescent narratives illustrated that with pluck and a little luck, anyone could succeed. Given the belief in the limitless opportunities on the American frontier, it is no wonder that this theme dominates children’s fiction about the West.

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Children’s roles in the settlement process have been, until recently, largely undocumented, and these stories add to that growing body of knowledge. In many ways, the experiences and expectations of childhood have changed dramatically, from the economic role of children in the family to their place in society; these stories exhibit the diversity of experiences from all corners of the West and from various age groups. Transformations

The audience for both the Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas from the 1890s to the First World War was middle- and upper-class families who staunchly believed in the world of the American Dream. These mothers and fathers desired to shape the attitudes of their children to value the Puritan work ethic, individuality, self-reliance, personal responsibility, courage, patience, and fortitude. Although the stories were sometimes conventional and didactic, the characters were meant as models for young people to emulate during a time of rapid social, technological, and economic change in a world that was becoming increasingly urban, industrial, and impersonal. The awakening of the self to its potential, or its limitations, is an important theme in literature. Such initiations, while experienced at all stages of life, are often most crucial in the identity development of adolescents. Stories about the transformation or maturation of young adults written in the American West at the turn of the twentieth century mirror the political and cultural “growing up” of the West. Adolescents’ loss of innocence and their gaining of experience reflect both the country and society. The typical initiation involves three stages. The first phase necessitates a separation or withdrawal from the “world,” either mentally, spiritually, or physically, in order to prepare for the change about to occur in the individual. The stories of the pioneer experience and the settling of the West all begin with a physical separation of men, women, and children from established homes and the emotional separation from families and friends as they withdraw into an unknown and often hostile

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environment. Once settled in the West, young people often face crises while separated from adults and must act on their own. The second stage, the transformation, is related to the quest myth, in which the hero must undergo a series of ordeals in passing from ignorance or innocence to social, physical, spiritual, or intellectual adulthood. The psychological basis for this phase is founded on the need of every human being to “prove” himself or herself. The young protagonist must overcome “dragons” or “monsters” or complete seemingly impossible tasks to reach a specific goal. The West provided ample monsters to slay: wild buffaloes and hungry wolves, “savage” Indians, prairie fires, droughts, floods, and grasshoppers. Adapting to the new land itself and coping with loneliness were perhaps the most horrible monsters of all. The West proved an excellent testing ground for self-realization. With the successful completion of the task, a transformation takes place as the protagonist is awakened into a new awareness of the possibilities within himself or herself. Ideally, he or she returns to society with a new identity and takes his or her rightful place as a fully realized member of the group. The West demanded great strength from its pioneers and allowed only those who showed courage, both physical and mental, to remain and prosper. It is such a test—the innocent pioneer versus the complex frontier—that forms the conflict in these initiation stories of the West. Although it is not surprising to find the awakening theme prevalent in stories about the West, the gender differences are interesting. Even though the stories about young men reaching adulthood had various plots and settings, their tasks were mainly physical tests, often demanding unrealistic heroism in overcoming a wild animal, stopping a wildfire, subduing a wild Indian, or capturing a desperado. Young women, too, came into conflict with natural phenomena, such as prairie fires, flooding rivers, and stampeding cattle. However, their physical mastery of the elements of the West was not only a feat of strength or cunning but also a test of emotional fortitude. The young men, of course, had to show courage in their conquests, but their bravery was already a “given.”

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As prescribed by nineteenth-century society, all men were born courageous and only awaited the opportunity to prove it to the world, especially in the testing grounds of the untamed West. Typically for young female protagonists, their tests taught them moral rather than physical courage, a quality essential for facing the real, psychological tests that the settling of the West demanded of women. Unfortunately, their reward for exhibiting independence and heroism was often a marriage proposal and a diminishment to traditional, docile behavior. Much of the fiction found in family periodicals such as the Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas illustrates not only these awakening themes but, at the same time, depicts the myths and attitudes held by the general public about the West. The most interesting myths seen in these texts are those which surround society’s view of the frontier woman. Until recent research uncovered new information about western women, the accepted theory was that society viewed them as reluctant and usually passive partners in the westward movement. Many stories in these early periodicals do present them as such. However, an amazing number of tales represent pioneer women as active participants and as adventure-seekers as well. Many myths are at work in much of children’s literature at the turn of the century, especially given the didactic purposes of most editors. However, many other stories explode these myths and present realistic views of the complexity of the lives of young men and women in the West. When read together, a true picture of our Western heritage emerges, allowing us to not only understand the commonly held beliefs of our parents and grandparents but to also discover what it was really like to come of age in the American West.

Adventures in the West



Póh-hlaik, the Cave Boy

 Charles Fletcher Lummis St. Nicholas, o ct o b er 1903

The Puye Pueblo (translated as “pueblo ruin where the rabbits assemble”) in the Jemez Mountains is about thirty miles north of Santa Fe and was once inhabited by the ancestors of today’s Santa Clara Pueblo Indians. A part of the ancient Anasazi culture in the Four Corners region, the dwellings were carved into the two-hundred-foot volcanic cliff face and were home to over 1,500 Native Americans from 1250 to the late 1500s. Today, the Puye Cliff Dwellings, comprised of over seven hundred rooms and ceremonial areas, is a national landmark owned and operated by the people of the Santa Clara Pueblo, who still hold ritual dances and ceremonies there. “Póh-hlaik, the Cave Boy” recreates the lifestyle of the ancient cliff dwellers through the experiences of a Native American boy and his family. The story not only explains the unique culture of the pueblo community, with its clans, sacred societies, and political system, but also highlights how family love and values were not much different than they are in modern society. Póh-hlaik’s intuition, common sense, and heroism save not only his family but the whole pueblo. Charles Fletcher Lummis (1859–1928) walked 3,500 miles from Cincinnati to Los Angeles in 1884 to take a job with the Los Angeles Times,

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reporting on his journey as he traveled and making a national name for himself. He came to hold a deep respect and love for the Southwest, its people, and its traditions. In 1892 he published Some Strange Corners of our Country: The Wonderland of the Southwest and A Tramp Across the Continent. After a stroke forced him to give up journalism, he lived for a while at the Isleta Pueblo on the Rio Grande south of Albuquerque and wrote The Land of Poco Tiempo (1893), which describes the culture of the Native Americans of New Mexico. He became the editor of Out West/The Land of Sunshine, which encouraged other writers, such as Mary Austin, to authentically portray and promote his beloved region. A flamboyant character who traditionally sported his trademark corduroy jacket and Mexican sombrero, Lummis was a pioneering photojournalist, author, editor, ethnologist, advisor to President Theodore Roosevelt, center of a group of regional authors, and activist for Native American rights. He also founded the Southwest Museum of Los Angeles.

...... Five hundred years ago the cloudless sun of New Mexico beat as blinding white upon the Pu-yé as it does to-day, and played as quaint pranks of hide-and-seek with the shadows in the face of that dazzling cliff; stealing now behind the royal pines in front, now suddenly leaping out to catch the dark truants that went dodging into the caves. Now the sun and the shadows are the same, and play the same old game—on one side with eager fire, on the other with pleased but timid gentleness. The playground has changed with the centuries, but not so much as to seem unfamiliar. It is the same noble cliff, lofty and long and castellate, towering creamy and beautiful amid the outpost pine groves of the Valles wilderness. From a little way off there seems no bit of change in it. But ah, what a change there has been, after all! For the very silence of silences lies upon the Pu-yé. Only the deep breath of the pines, the sudden scream of the piñonero blue jay, ever break it now. And time was when the Boy Sun and the Shadow Girls had here a thousand mates in

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their gambols: mates whose voices flew like birds, and with pattering feet amid the tufa blocks, and the gleam of young eyes—three things that sun and shadows have not, nor had even when they were so much younger. Once these jumbled stones were tall houses against the white face of the cliff; and the caves into which the shadows crowd so were homes. Then the great cliff of the Pu-yé was not lonely. Hundreds of faint smoke-spirals stole up its face. Here and there among the gray houses strode stalwart men with bow-case on shoulder, and women bringing water in earthen jars upon their heads. As for children, they were everywhere: sitting in the tufa sand and sifting it through their fingers; shouting “hee-tah-oó” from their hiding amid the great pumice blocks fallen from the cliff; chasing each other over the rocks, into the caves, down the slope, in that very game of tag which was invented before fire was; making mud tortillas by the pools of the drying brook; hunting each other in mimic war among the pines, or turning small bows and arrows to bring down the saucy piñonero, whose sky-blue feathers should deck bare heads of straight black hair. Póh-hlaik, up by the cliff corner near where the estufa of the Eagle clan showed its dark mouth, was enjoying himself as much as any one—and a little bit after the game of the sun and the shadows. He was a tall, sinewy lad, with strong white teeth coming to light very often, and supple hands that could bend a bow to the arrow head. Just now he was down on all fours, crouching, pouncing, charging, and roaring in blood-curdling wise when he had breath between laughs. Mo-keit-cha, indeed! I would like to see the mountain-lion with such contented victims! Póhhlaik’s were half a dozen brown little sisters and cousins who laughed and shrieked and ran and came back to be devoured anew by this insatiate monster. Sometimes in a particularly ferocious rush some one got tipped over or had a toe stepped on by Mo-keit-cha; and then she would make a lip and start off crying—whereat the ravening beast would pat her on the head with clumsy tenderness, and call back her dimples by a still grotesquer caper.

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But before the victims had been devoured many more times apiece, a sweet, clear voice of a woman came ringing: “Póh-hlaik!” “Here, little mother! What wilt thou?” And the cougar of a moment ago rose on his hind legs and ran obediently on them to where a woman leaned through the tiny doorway of a cave. The adobe floor was spotlessly clean, and her modest cotton tunic shone like snow. Floor and tunic and feature should have looked strange enough to the unguessed and unguessing world beyond the seas. But in the face was a presence which any one should know, down to a smallest child, and anywhere— the mother look, which is the same in all the world. “A goodly man will he be!” she murmured absently, with soft eyes resting on her strong young son. “Ay! It is to seek thy father, carrying this squash and dried meat of the deer. For by now he will by hungry, so long as he is in the estufa. And pray him come, if he will, that he may hear the baby, what is says.” Reaching back, she brought forward a little flat cradle with buckskin flaps laced across it; and from under its buckskin hood peered a brown lump of flesh, with big eyes black as tar. Ennah, handful-warrior! Ennah, little great-man!

she crooned, tossing the bundle gently on level palms. A funny little crack ran across the fatness, and the eyes lighted up as if they really knew something; and from that uncertain cavity came a decided “da˘-da˘”— which is just as far as a baby of his age gets with all the civilized progress of this year of grace 1903. We start about even; and it is fairly wonderful in knocking about the world to find how little difference there is, even in the first speech. There is no home nor blood where “papa” and “mama” are not understood. English words? Not a bit of it! They are human words, everywhere current, everywhere dear—perhaps remnants to us, with a few more of childhood, of before the Tower of Babel. And everywhere is as great joy when the uncertain lips first say “da˘da˘” as was now in the house of Kwé-ya.

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“Already he is to talk!” cried Póh-hlaik, with a delighted grin; and patting his mother on the shoulder and the baby on the cheek, he went running and leaping over the rocks like a young deer. Directly he was at the Eagle people’s estufa, where the men of his father’s clan all slept as well as counseled; for in the queer Indian society, which was not society at all, the men lived in their big sacred room, the women and children in their little houses. Póh-hlaik entered the small door, and stood a moment before his eyes grew used to the darkness. Then he saw his father sitting by the wall smoking a rush, and went to him. “Here is to eat,” he said, handing the bundle. “And my mother says if you will come! For already the small-one calls you!” “He does? It is good—I will go.” The tall, stern-faced Indian rose with slow dignity which was belied by something in his eyes and voice. Like some men I have remotely heard of in more modern times, P’yápo was not so “weak” as to betray feeling. But he was strong enough to have it—and sometimes a very tiny token of it would leak out in spite of him. Now, though nothing would have induced him to show unseemly haste, he was clearly losing no steps; and already the stately strides had carried him several yards as he turned to say to Póh-hlaik: “Son, at the White-Corn people’s estufa, if thou see Enque-Enque, tell him I would speak with him before the night.” “So I will say,” answered the boy, respectfully, turning to go to his own estufa—for since his mother was of the White-Corn people, so was Póh-hlaik. With Indians almost everywhere descent is reckoned from the mother’s side, and not, as with us, from the father’s. Furthermore, a man cannot marry into his own clan, so his sons belong to a different estufa. Sure enough, Enque-Enque was at the Man-house of the White-Corn clan, and he received the message with a grunt. He was a little sharpfaced man, with the look of one gone sour. If P’yá-po with his mighty head and frame had a lion-like air, this other as clearly suggested the fox. Even the acute features contributed less to this than a way he had of cocking his chin down and to one side, and looking at something

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else, but seeing you. And it is a thing I have had occasion to learn, that when you are with one of these men who sees all you do without using even “half an eye,” you will have none too many eyes to watch him if you use all you have. Enque-Enque did not so much as look at Póh-hlaik; but the boy (who could have given lessons in these things to any one of us, if able to phrase what he knew) understood that the subordinate Shaman had weighed his face to a feather. Not that there was any secret to read there—he had merely delivered a message of which he knew no import back of the words. He did not like Enque-Enque; but trust an Indian face to say nothing of that—and as for his tone, it was the respectful one which no Pueblo boy ever failed to use to an elder. And now he suddenly felt afraid of his father’s fifth assistant—suddenly, without the slightest tangible excuse, for nothing had happened. “Shall I say to my father anything?” he ventured at last. “I will go,” answered the man, shortly—which Póh-hlaik needed no interpreter to tell him meant also “Now clear out, boy.” “But that is a queer one!” he was thinking to himself, as he went skipping down the slope. As he turned to come away, he had caught a glimpse of about an inch of notched reed projecting from the lion-skin case on Enque-Enque’s back. “For the feathers are put differently, and it will be longer, too—since it stands above the rest.” It was a very trifling matter to annoy any one; but that arrow seemed to stick in the boy’s mind. You can have no possible notion how tiny a thing the Indian will notice, nor how much it can say to him; for he has kept the eyes that nature gave man to start with, and that we civilized folk have largely frittered away. At the foot of the slope, where some enormous boulders hid him from the village, his trot dropped to a walk; and presently he sat down upon a block of tufa and began looking very intently at his feet. Whatever he saw there did not serve; for in a few minutes he rose, with a still clouded face, and began climbing a zigzag trail to the left. Here the cliff tapers into a long slope; and after a short trudging over the pumice fragments,

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he came upon the brow of the mesa among the junipers. A little farther yet, and he suddenly stepped from the woods into a large clearing, in whose center stood a great square pueblo, three stories high, built of tufa blocks from the same white cliff. Here were other brown folk, little and big; for this was the “up-stairs town” of the cave pueblo, its ultimate refuge and fortress, and the permanent home of some of its people. “Ka-ki!” sung out a voice; and a boy of Póh-hlaik’s own age came scrambling down a ladder from the tall housetops. “I was just to go for thee. Come, let us make a hunt in the cañon, if we may find the LittleOld-Mountain-Man*—for now he is very fat.” “It is well!” answered Póh-hlaik, brightening. “And if not him, we’ll at least get trout.” Both boys had their bow-cases on their backs, and in five minutes they had descended the slope and were crossing the plateau to the brink of the cañon. This rift in the upland, four hundred feet deep, was shadowy with royal pines and musical with a lovely brook—as it is to this day. Póh-hlaik and Ka-be descended the precipitous side noiselessly, and began creeping along the brook in the thick underbrush. Fat trout flashed in the pools; but the boys paid no attention to them, for from a thicket on the other side of a little natural glade came the “gobble-obble-obble” and then the skir-r-r! of the wild turkey. “No!” whispered Póh-hlaik to his companion’s suggestion. “We will wait here—for he will come out to the brook with his family. But if we try to get to the other side, he can run without our seeing him for the bushes.” They lay quietly in a thick clump of alders, grasping each his bow, with an arrow at the string. The gobbler repeated his cry—and suddenly it was echoed from behind them! The boys exchanged startled looks, and Ka-be was about to speak, but Póh-hlaik put his finger to his lips, with a curious flicker in his eye. Just then there was a faint sighing sound overhead; and close in front *The wild turkey.

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of the thicket whence the first gobble had come, an arrow, fallen from the sky, stood quivering in the sward. A tiny rustle in the bushes, and a dark, bare arm reached out and plucked the arrow back out of sight. Ka-be wore a dumfounded look, but Póh-hlaik’s face showed even more of terror than of wonder. He thought he had seen that arrow before! Now there were no more turkey-calls, but dead silence reigned in the cañon. “Now he will not come!” whispered Ka-be. “Let us creep up the brook and around upon him before that other gets him.” “For your heart, hush you!” breathed Póh-hlaik in the ear of his chum. “See you not that there are no turkeys? And that hand—is that a hand of the Grandchildren of the Sun? It is for us to get to the pueblo now, and unseen! For not our lives only, but many more, are in the shadow. See!” he added nervously—for two or three fresh alder-leaves came slipping down the current, and then there was the faintest tinge in the limpid water, as of sand stirred up far above. “Come! But more noiseless and hidden than the snakes!” He stretched upon his belly, and began moving down stream, lizardlike, the still puzzled Ka-be following him. When they had traversed a few hundred feet in this tedious fashion, Póh-hlaik turned to the right, up a little ravine dense with bush. It led to the top; and in a few moments the boys peered from the last bush on the brink of the cañon out among the scattered pines. All was still. “Now, friend, it is to run as for life—and not straight, but dodging between the trees. Come!” Springing from their shelter, Póh-hlaik dashed off. Ka-be was at his heels—for, though his face showed that he was still mystified, he was one of those who follow. No living thing was in sight; but before the runners had made four bounds there was a vicious ish-oo! and an arrow split the lobe of Póhhlaik’s ear and fell five yards ahead of him. Ka-be gave a wild yell, and leaped ahead like a scared fawn; but as for Póh-hlaik, he only clapped his hand to his ear even as he swerved past a big pine so as to throw it

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in line behind him. There was another whizz, but not so near; and then no further token. “Not a word now!” said Póh-hlaik sternly, as they came, still at a smart run, to the cave-village. “For none must know save the Men of Power. My father will know what to do.” Ka-be promised—though a little sullenly at loss of the sensation he wished to noise abroad—and went off along the cliff. Póh-hlaik drew his father into an inner cave-room, and there told him everything just as it had befallen, without comments or surmises. Only, at the end, he could not refrain from adding: “As for the arrow which went as a message to the barbaro, I think I saw it once before!” “Ahu? Was it with Enque-Enque? For if there be a traitor, it is he. It is because he is thought to be treating with the Tin-néh that I summoned him. Two say that they have seen him coming secretly from where the hostiles were. He has never been content since the elders laughed at his pretensions to be Chief Shaman. So in his quiver was the arrow? Well hast thou done, son! Keep the heart of a man and the still tongue. As for me, we will see what is to do.” There was but one thing to be done, in the opinion of the Captain of War. Those who had shot at two boys of the pueblo must be of the savage Tin-néh,* who from time immemorial had harassed the towndwellers. Since they were in the cañon, he would teach them! Old Mahquah had been dead but a year, and this was his successor’s first chance. He would have no barbarians prowling about the peace-loving cavetown of the Pu-yé! In less than half an hour a strong band of warriors, headed by the War Captain and the Chief Shaman, were stealing down into the cañon noiselessly as so many shadows. “Come thou,” P’yá-po had said to his son; “for to-day may be the chance to prove thyself a man.” But Póh-hlaik replied: “Wilt thou not let me stay here by the mother? For in my heart something tells me.” *The great tribe now known as Navajos.

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“As thou wilt!” his father had given short answer. As he strode off he was thinking: “Will my first son be a mouse?” But it was not that which kept the boy at home. He dared not say it to his father, but to him the plan of the War Captain seemed reckless. “What if it were even so that Enque-Enque wishes? For else why did he shoot at me again, after failing to kill? Was it not that I might report there were barbaros in the cañon, so he would get the warriors sent there? But how shall one dare think so, when the Men of Power decide otherwise?” But, despite the inbred reverence for authority, Póh-hlaik could not convince himself that all was well; he wandered about restlessly. As the sun went down, the men sat in little groups talking of the matter, ill at ease; for after so many months of quiet, the savage foe was back at the old game. Dusk was closing in as Enque-Enque came strolling around the western turn of the cliff, his stone hoe in his hand. He had been at his field, he explained carelessly; and violent were his curses upon the Tin-néh when he heard the news. Even as he spoke there came a far clamor—yells of rage, mingled with the fierce war-cry. “They have trapped ours!” shouted Enque-Enque, leaping upon a rock. “Come! We must run to their help, for the enemy are many.” A hundred men sprang forward at the word of the sub-Shaman, clutching their bows; but Póh-hlaik stood before them, crying shrilly: “Not so! This same is the traitor who has sold us to the Tin-néh, and now he would strip the town of its men! Go not, if ye will hear the words of a boy!” It was an unheard-of thing, thus to defy a medicine-man; but even so he stood erect, so stern and gray-faced that grizzled men looked at him in awe and back to the accused. Enque-Enque’s foxy air did not change in the least. “Bewitched is the boy!” he sneered, running his eyes back along the cliff. Then a sudden light broke across his face, and from his throat poured a wild whoop, even as he drove a swift shaft through the neck of the First Lieutenant

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of War. In answer rose a hideous yell from all about, and the darkening rocks swarmed with darker forms, and the twilight buzzed with wasps that had need to sting but once. A score of the men of the Pu-yé fell before one had time to turn; and among them was Póh-hlaik, an obsidiantipped arrow through his shoulder and another deep in his thigh. The conspirator’s plans had worked very well. His hated chief and a majority of the warriors were gone out to the ambush he had laid for them; and his failure to send off the rest of the fighting strength of the town was like to be counterbalanced by the complete surprise. The startled Pueblos fought desperately; but the savages were nearly two to one, and pushed them to the very doors of the caves. As for Póh-hlaik, he had fallen between two great lava-blocks, fainting with pain and loss of blood. For a few moments he lay there; and then, suddenly gritting his teeth, began dragging himself toward his mother’s house. She was alone with the little one. All around him raged the fight. The air hurtled with arrows, and everywhere were savage whoops and dying screams and the sickly smell of blood. Once two grappled foemen wrestled across him, wringing a howl of pain from him with their tread; and again, he had to crawl over a stark form. But he hunched himself painfully along behind sheltering rocks till close to the cave that was his home. He was about to call out, when suddenly, against the darkening sky, he saw a figure backing out of the low doorway, dragging something. Had he been standing he could not have made it out; but from his prostrate position that dark silhouette against the west was unmistakable. It was Enque-Enque! His bow was gone; but between his teeth was something which could only be the cruel obsidian knife, and both his hands were clenched in the long hair of a woman—who seemed to be bracing against the doorway to keep from being dragged out. Póh-hlaik’s heart lost its count for a moment. His father’s enemy knew well where to strike! And at thought of the fate that overhung his mother, he turned deathly sick. The victim’s hold was slipping—already her head and shoulders were

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through the door. Enque-Enque, as he hauled away, was hidden now by a tall tufa block; only his long, sinewy arms and their prey showed against the sky. “The Trues give me eyes!” breathed Póh-hlaik devoutly, tugging the bowstring to his ear, though the effort seemed to drive a hundred darts through the wounded shoulder. Truly it was an ill mark, in that grim dusk and from the ground! But the twang of the cord was followed by a howl of rage and pain. The head popped within the doorway again; and Enque-Enque sprawled backward, scrambled up, and fled into the gloom—his two hands spitted one to the other by the clever shaft. And then there was a new uproar—but this time from the east! And arrows rained doubly thick, and the enemy-yell of the Hero Brothers soared above the savage howls of the Tin-néh. P’yá-po and his men were back, and at last the barbarians fled down the slopes, leaving their dead among the rocks. It would be long before they should forget the Puyé. P’yá-po’s counsel had saved the impetuous War Captain from the full disaster of the ambuscade: and, scattering that small force by a flank movement, they had hurried back to the village—well understanding now the whole manœuver. When all was over and the Chief Shaman came to his wife’s house, he found a badly wounded lad crouched within the door, his bow clutched tightly and his lips set. “I have kept them safe for thee, father!” he said huskily—and, with the words, lurched fainting to one side. P’yá-po laid him along the floor and staunched the blood, and sat beside him. “The heart and the hand of a Man!” he said, with a little shake in the sonorous voice. “And when he is well of his wounds he shall take the place of the unworthy one who has gone.” “He is his father’s son!” whispered Kwé-ya proudly. And just then the little one, who had slept through the jaws of death, stirred in the buckskin cradle and called, “Dá-dá!”

McCoy’s Stampede

 George Washington Ogden Illustrated by George Varian Youth’s Companion, sep t em b er 30, 1915

Few images conjure up the mythic West like that of the cowboy driving a herd of cattle along one of the great trails. The trail driver confronted enormous obstacles, the foremost being very little sleep, sixteen hours or more a day in the saddle, and severe weather such as lightning and hailstorms that could, without a moment’s notice, cause a herd to stampede for miles. In the 1850s the cowboy met an entirely different challenge: the closing of northern markets due to a mysterious new disease referred to as “Texas fever.” Also called Spanish fever, tick fever, or longhorn fever, the disease (to which its longhorn carriers were immune) proved fatal to the shorthorn cattle herds of the northern plains. In 1861 Missouri enacted a statewide ban against all Texas cattle. Subsequent outbreaks in Kansas, Nebraska, and Wyoming led to new quarantine lines and the closing of markets in those states as well. “McCoy’s Stampede” tells the story of two youths, Seth Bradley and Minnie Campbell, forced to confront a herd of longhorn cattle being driven their way illegally by Buck McCoy. Minnie, displaying a type of courage rarely found in youths of either gender, devises a plan to stop McCoy. She releases ten of her father’s cattle and charges them

“We got to git to them cottonwoods! Don’t you look at nothing else.” headlong into the cowboy’s camp. Afterward, Minnie’s father offers to reward his daughter with two hundred steers of her own—provided, of course, that she abide by the Victorian expectations of women and property and marry Seth first. Born the son of a farmer in Lawrence, Kansas, George Washington Ogden (1871–1966) left home at the age of seven to work as a railroad section hand. He aspired to a career in writing, and after the Kansas City Times published one of his poems, he accepted a reporter’s job for the newspaper, which eventually led to a position as its city editor. An extremely productive writer, Ogden worked as a correspondent and editor for several other periodicals, including the Chicago Tribune and Munsey’s Magazine. He also published thirty-seven nov-

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els, mostly about the West, while contributing to American and European periodicals.

...... Seth Bradley was riding against time, and against the principles of humanity and good horsemanship, which told him that his beast could not hold up long at that killing pace. But Seth Bradley, trail rider, knew that it was the life of one creature against the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands. For Buck McCoy, the most unscrupulous driver that ever took a Texas herd across the Kansas range, was following with three thousand cattle, and must be checked before he should reach the grazing lands. It was before the United States government had marked the great quarantine line that divided north and south, and that ran irregularly through Missouri, Arkansas, Indian Territory, and Oklahoma. The cattle of Texas brought with them the germs of the terrible splenetic fever, which meant death to the cattle of the northern ranges. To spread the contagion, the southern herds did not have to mingle with others; for the vermin of the Texas brushwoods and prairies dropped from their hides as they passed, and the bite of one of those little ticks was fatal to the northern steer. Texans who drove cattle to northern markets had agreed to follow certain marked trails on their way across the Kansas range. Northern rangers employed scouts, like Seth Bradley, to ride southward along the trails and to keep all drovers from Texas to the designated paths. For obvious reasons, the trails were not direct. They wound about, and made tedious curves to avoid watering places and ranges upon which the Kansas herds grazed. It sometimes happened that a Texan, or several of them together, would insist on taking the shortest cut to their destination, regardless of the havoc that they wrought in the northern herds. Buck McCoy was one of the worst offenders. His last trip north, three years before, had resulted in an epidemic of Texas fever that had devastated the ranges of southwestern Kansas. The stockmen who had suffered from his carelessness resolved that he should not cause them further loss. They formed a protective association and passed word down

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the trail leading to Texas that Mr. Buck McCoy should cross their ranges again only by force of arms. When Seth Bradley got word of Buck’s approach, he rode out to interview him. Seth found that McCoy had already left the trail. When he tried to reason with him, the Texan became insolently defiant. He even gathered a group of his cowboys round the Kansan and threatened to do him violence. Seth rode away with bullets kicking up the dust at his horse’s heels and singing about his ears. It was hot as Seth rode. The sun burned his face with the dry, intense heat of early fall. To the left, half a mile away, he could see the thin line of cottonwoods that marked the Arkansas River; some of them were bare-limbed and gaunt, as if they had wearied of the struggle and died; others were deep green and invitingly cool. He turned his horse’s head away from them, for he could not afford to waste a moment in getting to Jim Campbell’s ranch. Jim Campbell’s was the first ranch in the path that Buck McCoy was following. Campbell was president of the cattlemen’s association, and from his ranch Seth hoped to send men out to call together the cattlemen for thirty miles round. It would take time to do that, however, and Buck McCoy, who was probably forcing his herds forward, would be on the range in twelve hours, if not sooner. The sun was setting when Seth topped the last ridge that lay between him and Campbell’s ranch. As he saw the roof of the little house on the back of the creek, with the clover and alfalfa lots and the green trees round it, he impatiently urged his jaded beast forward. Minnie Campbell, who had been on the porch, ran down the path to the gate and threw it open for him. Seth dismounted stiffly. “Pa at home, Minnie?” he asked. “No, Seth. What’s the matter? You’ve rode that horse until it’s ready to drop.” “Your pa ain’t here? Where is he? Buck McCoy’s a-headin’ this way with a big drove of Taixas cattle, and the cattle’s a-dropping ticks every

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step. If he crosses the range, there won’t be a head of stock left alive in six weeks.” “Pa shipped a train of cattle to Kansas City last week, loaded at Dodge, and he ain’t likely to get back before to-morrow night. There ain’t a soul here but me and ma; the men are all over in the middle range with the cattle. What are we goin’ to do, Seth?” “I don’t know, jist this minute,” said he, loosening the cinch and slipping the saddle from his horse. “McCoy’s a good way off yit, and won’t git here before to-morrow mornin’. Maybe I can pick up enough men by myself to stop him. Have you got ’nother horse here?” Minnie had one—her own cow pony. Putting his saddle on it, Seth prepared to set out again. “Can’t tell if I’ll find any of the men, ’cept the old dodderers, at home,” he said. “I reckon they’re all out in the middle range, where the grass is good, puttin’ meat on their steers. I got a bunch of ’em up there, myself, and I been a-figgerin’ that if nothin’ happens to ’em I may be able to make a purty fair flash when I sell.” With his face tense and eager, he leaned toward the girl. “Not that I think it’s the want of money that keeps you a-hangin’ back, Minnie; if you liked me like I do you, you’d be willin’ to live on hoecake and sour milk ruther than keep a-hangin’ back and a-sawin’ on a feller’s G string like you been a-doin’ for the past two years.” Minnie looked at him reprovingly. “Seth,” she said, “you better be arackin’ out.” He straightened up in his saddle. “I guess I had,” he answered, “but I don’t like to, ’cause that feller’s goin’ to head right for this ranch. If I was here I might stop him, but if he comes before I can raise anyone and git back, you can’t do nothin’, Minnie, but let him pass.” “I reckon not, Seth.” “Well, I’ll try to git back before mornin’. If you’ll give that horse of mine a little water, I think he’ll pull through.” When Seth had gone, Minnie and her mother talked over the situation. A hostile army moving upon them would not have filled their hearts

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with more terror and dread than did the news that Seth had brought. Three years before, they had seen the vast herds, which had been raised at the cost of years of hardship, and which represented thousands of dollars, swept away in a few weeks. That calamity had robbed the older woman and her husband of their hope of attaining ease and comfort for many a long year. Praying that fate would lengthen their lives until they could replace what had been lost, they had bowed their gray heads to their burdens again. And now, after three hard, successful years, just as the herds were again thickly dotting the range, the hand of Buck McCoy was raised above them to scatter pestilence abroad. “I’d just as soon die as let Buck McCoy cross the range with his cattle,” Minnie declared. “But what can we do, child,” said her mother, “without any of the men to help us?” Minnie did not reply, but went to the window and peered out into the night. She stood there for a long time thinking deeply, and at last went out to look after Seth’s horse. It was nipping clover contentedly, apparently as fresh as ever, and quite recovered from the hard journey of the afternoon. At midnight neither Seth nor any of the neighbors had arrived. Minnie knew the reason. A small force would not stop Buck McCoy, and the stockmen, determined that he should not proceed, were riding in different directions from ranch to ranch, gathering all the men they could. Weary from her long day’s work, Mrs. Campbell had fallen asleep, and Minnie, nervous with the suspense of waiting, went out into the yard. No sound came to her except the rustle of the leaves and the contented snort of Seth’s horse, which was clipping the lush clover near by. The wind came from the south, and blew in little puffs that rose fitfully and died away. In the north a menacing bank of clouds was rising. “I believe I’ll go up to the top of the ridge and see if McCoy’s cattle’s down there,” she said to herself. Quickly she bridled Seth’s horse, mounted it bareback, and rode cautiously away.

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“I don’t want to run into any of Buck McCoy’s pickets,” she thought; “they might shoot.” At the summit of the ridge she stopped and looked ahead. Darkness reached from earth to sky, and she could see nothing. Bending forward and straining her ears, she listened. A confused, shuffling, restless sound made her heart bound, and then sink heavily. Urging her horse forward a few paces, she listened again. The thin low of a steer, near at hand, rose and wavered through the night. Here and there, far and near, came answers, tremulous, melancholy, and long, like the notes of a violoncello. Hardly breathing, and keeping her horse well in check, she moved on. A hundred yards from the bottom of the ridge she could make out the backs of the herd; some were grazing, some were asleep, some were grouped in silent blotches of black. A match flashed to the left of her, and the scent of tobacco was borne to her by the wind. She knew that a cowboy sat his horse there and watched the herd. A few minutes later she was galloping down the opposite side of the ridge toward home. Rain threatened. The clouds from the north were rolling and boiling like smoke from a prairie fire, and the lightning played incessantly behind them. “If they haven’t come I’ll have to do something myself,” Minnie said to herself, as she whipped her horse into a reckless gallop. Her mother was looking for her and calling her name as she rode through the gate. “Land sakes, Minnie!” said the startled woman. “Where you been?” “Is Seth here?” “No,” answered Mrs. Campbell dolefully, “he ain’t. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of ’em.” “Well, when they come,” said Minnie, swinging her horse round, “you tell ’em I’ve gone to stampede McCoy’s herd.” She galloped down the road that led to the alfalfa pasture. Mrs. Campbell leaned over the fence and called frantically, “Minnie Campbell, you ain’t goin’ to do no such a thing! You come right back here, d’you hear me?”

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In the alfalfa pasture were twenty steers that Campbell had put there in order to test the fattening qualities of the forage that had been newly introduced. “Better to lose a few than all we’ve got,” Minnie said to herself, and cutting out ten of the animals, she ran them toward the gate. When she reached the top of the ridge, with the cattle trotting before her, the storm was breaking. Big drops of rain spattered her horse’s back and fell on her bare head; flashes of greenish lightning illumined the landscape for miles round. By the flare of the lightning she caught glimpses of McCoy’s herd. She saw that the cattle were restless, and that they were gathering in bunches to meet the terrors of the coming storm. She knew that little additional excitement would be necessary to stampede them. Behind her she heard the roar of the oncoming storm and felt the cool bursts of wind lift the strands of her loose hair. Swinging her heavy herd whip, she brought it down, now right, now left, among the cattle that she had turned out of the alfalfa pasture. With snorts of pain and anger, they lowered their heads and ran madly down the slope. It happened that McCoy’s camp cook had left his pots and pans spread out where he had last used them, near the end of the “grub” wagon, and that the cook himself was stretched beside them, asleep. The grub wagon stood alone, as is customary in cattlemen’s camps, with a considerable gap between it and the other vehicles of the caravan. Through this opening Minnie’s cattle dashed, and the clatter and rattle of the tin vessels as they passed was the first alarm of the imminent stampede. With a shrill yell the cook sprang to his feet. Even in broad daylight one steer, crazed by the loco weed, or running to escape the torture of flies, can stampede a whole herd of the half-wild Texas cattle. Now the noise of the approaching strangers and the clatter of the pots and pans immediately put the animals on their nerves. A commotion surged through the herd, and those nearest the running cattle, urged to a quick decision by the cutting lash of Minnie’s whip, took up the race from nothing to nowhere. Others joined them; still

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others, sleeping far away, heard the noise, sniffed the excitement, and sprang to their feet; for a moment they stood stiff-legged, tossing their heads and snorting, and then joined the stream that with every passing second grew wider and swifter as it set toward the south. Minnie had been so engrossed in the successful outcome of her plan that she had given no thought to her own safety or means of escape. Indeed, the necessity for escaping had not once occurred to her. Above the roar of the storm and of the thousands of hoofs that were beating the earth, she heard at times the faint sound of shouting and firing; she laughed as she thought how useless was human effort against the force that her hand had stirred. She knew that the cattle would run for miles and miles, and that McCoy could not get his herd headed northward again for days. Meanwhile her father would return, the cattlemen would gather, and the threatened plague would be averted. Satisfied, at last, that she had accomplished her purpose, she decided to return home, and pulled up on her horse. But although she tugged hard at the reins, the animal did not slacken its speed. Then she felt a steer pressing against her legs and realized that her horse could not stop. The rush of the stampeding cattle was carrying them both irresistibly onward. Thinking that by running with the herd she might gradually work her way out of it, she began to belabor the animals round her with her whip. They crowded ahead; but others immediately took their places. At each flash of lightning she looked eagerly for an opening through which she might ride; but as far as she could see, only the backs and horns of the galloping animals met her gaze. With her mind in a whirl, she rode on and on. At last the storm spent its wrath, and the dawn came timidly up in the east, like a wet bird shaking its wings out to the sky. A few minutes after Minnie had left home, Seth Bradley and two of the neighbors arrived at the ranch. When they learned of her intention, Seth and one of the men immediately raced after her. “Them fellers’ll kill her,” said Seth.

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“If they don’t, them wild Texas steers will,” his companion answered. They found the herd in full stampede, and fell in behind it; they knew full well that if the girl were once caught in the midst of the maddened cattle she would not have one chance in ten of getting out. “If her horse don’t give out or step in a doghole and fall,” Seth muttered hopefully, “maybe we can save her!” For two hours they rode side by side, crowding ahead past lagging cattle and taking advantage of every opening. Finally the shifting of the herd separated them, and when morning broke, Seth rode alone. When he first sighted Minnie he was not sure that his eyes and the dim light had not played him a trick; but forging on with new hope and vigor, he soon settled all doubt. She rode, not more than three hundred yards ahead, in the main body of cattle, with her hair streaming behind her. She was no longer using her whip, but seemed intent on guiding her horse from break to break in the dense body of cattle; evidently she was trying to reach the outer edge. Seth fought his way among the wearied steers until he was within hailing distance of the girl. He shouted her name, and she turned and waved her hand. As she did so, Seth saw the line of cottonwoods that stood on the bank of the Arkansas. “Lord help me!” he groaned. “I got to git to her before they come to the river!” His horse was tired and hardly able to outrun the cattle. Seth knew what the end would be unless he could reach Minnie and draw her into some shelter before they came to the stream. Fighting and struggling to escape, the cattle would pour over the low-cut bank. In that wild mass of frantic, swimming beasts a human being would be quickly forced beneath the water and drowned. Many of the cattle themselves would never reach the other bank. He tried to shut out the frightful picture from his mind. Leaning forward, he beat the backs of the cattle with his fists. A brindle steer with widespreading horns, which was directly in his way, seemed determined

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to keep him back. Seth drew his revolver and sent a bullet into the beast’s head. It dropped, and the others swerved aside. Minnie was not ten yards ahead, but already he could see the leaders of the herd dropping over the river bank and could hear their frightened bellowing. When Seth reached the girl, she put her hand, cold with sweat, into the hand he held out to her, and smiled. “We got to git to them cottonwoods!” he shouted, pointing to a clump of trees ahead and a little to the left. “Don’t you look at nothing else.” With merciless blows he drove the two horses into the fray. It was a terrible fight—brief, blind, savage—with rearing forms, clashing horns and clattering hoofs; but the horses won. The two beasts were bleeding from many wounds when Seth rounded them into the lee of the cottonwoods. The leaders of the herd had reached shallow water, and were floundering toward the farther bank; the others still struggled in the wide channel of the river. After a long rest, the horses were ready for the journey home. Before they had ridden far, Seth and Minnie met Jim Campbell and several other cattlemen. They all rode home together, and Minnie blushed many times under the shower of compliments she received. As the company sat at supper that evening, Jim Campbell rose, with his face aglow and his eyes dancing with pride. “Neighbors,” he said, “this day’s work has cost me ten good steers and a mighty good daughter. Buck McCoy and the Arkansas River have got the steers, and Seth Bradley tells me he’s got the gal. Well, boys, just to show you that I’m a game loser, I’m a-goin’ to give Minnie twenty steers for every one of them she drove off to stampede McCoy’s herd. They’re yours,” he said, turning to Minnie, “on your weddin’ day, two hundred of the best stock I’ve got. And I hope they’ll increase accordin’ to your value—and Seth’s; for course, if it hadn’t been for Seth, I wouldn’t ‘a’ had you back no more.” He started to sit down, and then paused. “I reckon we’re rid of Taixas fever,” he said. “They tell me they

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seen Buck McCoy tother side of the Arkansas, pickin’ up his herd and headin’ south in a bit of a hurry.” He sat down amid cheers, and Mark Davison rose and raised his hand for silence. “I merely want to say,” he remarked, “that I add ten head to that weddin’ outfit.” And so it went, round the board.

Sister Anne and the Cowboy

 Charlotte M. Vaile Illustrated by M. Eckerson Youth’s Companion, jan u ary 7, 1904

The image of the American cowboy changed throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In the 1880s he had an unsavory reputation for recklessness, violence, and unorthodox business practices. The struggle for economic survival in the West, especially the conflict between cattlemen and farmers, fueled this unfavorable impression. The large ranches wanted to maintain their monopoly on land in the public domain, and hostility escalated with quarrels over water, grazing rights, and the ownership of mavericks—unbranded calves found on the open range without their mothers. Cowboys did not emerge as heroes until William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) popularized “Buck” Taylor in his Wild West show and arranged for a dime novel, Adventures of Buffalo Bill from Boyhood to Manhood (1882), to exploit his own life story. Through popular novels and movies, the cowboy came to personify truth, honor, and justice, and rode the frontier righting wrongs. In reality, most cowboys labored at repetitious, difficult, and dirty jobs, and their personalities were as diverse as their origins. In “Sister Anne and the Cowboy” the image of the violent cowboy undergoes a transition when the nephew of a large rancher befriends a destitute homesteading family that has presumably been besieged by

“You do such dreadful things, you cowboys.”

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his uncle’s hired hands. The young man successfully halts the conflict in an act of community responsibility that profits everyone and elevates the family’s vision of the cowboy from a villain to a hero. Charlotte Marion (White) Vaile (1852–1902) of Denver, Colorado, was best known for her novels about adolescent girls: The Orcutt Girls: or, One Term at the Academy (1896), Sue Orcutt: A Sequel to “The Orcutt Girls” (1897), M.M.C., A Story of the Rockies (1898), Wheat and Huckleberries: or, Dr. Northmore’s Daughters (1898), and The Truth about Santa Claus (1903). She wrote five stories that were published in the Youth’s Companion between 1890 and 1904.

...... Sister Anne stood in front of the lone little cabin in Benson’s Flat, and shaded her eyes with her sunburned hand while she looked off across the plains. Her name was not really Sister Anne. They had begun calling her that on account of the very attitude in which she was standing now, an attitude she had taken so often since the family came to live on the flat. Brother Tom, who remembered the story of Bluebeard’s wives, and how the last of them had called to the watcher in the tower, “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, oh, what do you see?” had fixed the name upon her. There was not much that was worth seeing on Benson’s Flat, but on the far edge of it rose the great mountains, and it was usually these which Sister Anne saw when she stood looking off across the level brownness. But on this clear December morning it was something else which held the little maid’s attention. She was following with her eyes a wagon which was moving into the distance. Her father and mother were in that wagon. They were going to Opal to buy household supplies, and possibly, since it was the day before Christmas, to do a little extra shopping. Thirteen-year-old Sister Anne’s heart beat fast as she thought of it, and then grew heavy as she remembered how much they had all learned to do without since they came to live in this strange brown country. There had been two long, hard years of it. John Bowman had been a farmer in Kansas, with a comfortable home, and everything fair and

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prosperous before him; but in the midst of his busy life a fatal disease had seized upon him. The doctors shook their heads and began to talk of a sunnier climate. The end of it was that the Kansas farm, with its stretches of wheat and corn, had been sold, the family had moved away, and here on the plains of Colorado they were homesteading a farm. From the first the experience had been rough and disappointing. The creek which ran through a corner of their quarter-section, and on which the farmer had counted for making the barren acres fertile, had proved a faithless stream. The summer sun dried it in its channel, and homesteaders whose claims lay nearer the source than his drew off its waters into their irrigating ditches and left his empty. The great cattle-raisers had a settled hostility to the little farmers who carved their hundred and sixty acres out of the “open range,” and found ways in plenty to make their unfriendliness felt. With it all an utter discouragement had fallen upon John Bowman. To recover his health and go away was the only thing he hoped for now. “I do hope they’ll have a good time,” said Sister Anne, as she turned to go into the cabin. It was just at that moment that she saw a man on horseback, riding toward her. He seemed to be coming straight to the house, and at the sight of him Sister Anne’s heart flew into her throat. It was plain from his costume that he was a cowboy, and she sent a hurried glance round for Tom and Denny. But the boys were nowhere in sight. Then she remembered the baby brother who had been left in her special charge, and darted into the house. Now it was absurd, of course, but the most shocking things were believed about cowboys by the Bowman children, and indeed by most of the children in the homesteaders’ families. The name of the Black Douglass was scarcely more terrible to little English children in the old border warfare than was the name of cowboy to these boys and girls of the plains. Sister Anne did not really believe that they ate people like cannibals, or scalped them like Indians, but short of these atrocities, there was hardly anything of which she did not believe them capable. It was

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one of them, no doubt, who had pinned a paper to the cabin when it was first built, stating that thirty days would be given the occupants to get away from Benson’s Flat. If they stayed after that it would be at their peril. And it was cowboys who, in those first homesick weeks, had often waked the family in the dead of night with whoops and yells and the firing of revolvers round the little house. None of these things had moved John Bowman. Frail man as he was, he was not to be scared easily, and gradually the demonstrations of this kind had ceased. But the terror of them still had its hold on the children, and especially on Sister Anne, who had the liveliest imagination. She bolted the door when she had slipped inside, then caught up threeyear-old Tony and sat down in the corner farthest from the window. It was possible that the rider might go by, but she heard the hard hoofbeats of his horse coming nearer and nearer, and suddenly they stopped in front of the door. “Hello the house!” shouted a voice. Sister Anne held her breath and gave no sign, but Tony sent back an answering call that was as shrill as a coyote’s. “Hello there, hello!” repeated the outsider, and then there was a beating on the door with the handle of a riding-whip. Sister Anne put down Tony, who was wriggling to get free, and walked toward the door. If this thing had to be done, she would do it. It was a relief to find that the rider was still sitting on his horse when she opened the door, and the face into which she looked, under the wide sombrero, was a pleasant sort of face, with bright, dark eyes and a mouth which had a smile lurking at the corners. “What do you want?” said Sister Anne, in a voice that shook, although her courage was rising. “I’m looking for a cow we’ve lost,” said the stranger. “Haven’t seen her round here, have you? She’s a young Jersey, not like the common stock.” “No,” said Sister Anne, “there aren’t any cows about our place. Most of ours got lost, and the rest died.”

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The young man on horseback smiled. “Well, then, you’re worse off than we are. We’ve got two or three left yet. Would you have the kindness to give me a drink of water?” “Yes, indeed,” said Sister Anne, and her expression was quite cordial as she turned toward the water-pail in the corner of the kitchen. She tried to draw Tony with her; but Tony, who had been peeping shyly from the folds of her dress, pulled back, preferring to stare at the stranger. “Hello, little one!” said the latter, giving him a friendly nod. “How do you like the looks of us, me and my horse? I believe you wouldn’t mind being in the saddle yourself.” He leaned forward as he spoke, and loosened a coil of rope which hung from the horn of his saddle; then, quick as a flash, he threw a noose of it over the little fellow’s shoulders. Tony squealed with delight, but Sister Anne, whose face had been turned at the moment, looked back and stood suddenly petrified with horror. The next moment she gave a piercing shriek and threw her arms round her brother. “Oh, you can’t have him, you can’t have him!” she cried. “I promised mother I’d take care of him.” The cowboy was out of his saddle in an instant. “Why, bless you, little girl,” he exclaimed, “I wouldn’t hurt a hair of his head for anything in the world!” He came close to her as he spoke, and his look was so kind and his voice sounded so sorry that Sister Anne felt a wave of shame sweep over her in a moment. “I—I thought you were going to carry him off!” she sobbed. “Thought I was going to carry him off!” repeated the cowboy, beginning to laugh. “Why, what could I do with him? I couldn’t use him in my business any way I could fix it.” Sister Anne hung her head, with the tears running down her cheeks; but Tony, who was not pleased at having the attention diverted from himself, lifted up his voice and began tugging at the cowboy’s hand. “You’re not afraid of me, anyway,” said the young man, stooping toward him. He put out his arms as if he had an impulse to lift the child, but gave him instead a sounding kiss on one of his round, rosy cheeks.

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That kiss settled it. It would have been a harder heart than Sister Anne’s that could have doubted the stranger after that. She turned her back and walked firmly to the pail of water, wiping her eyes stealthily on the corner of her apron as she went. “Won’t you please sit down?” she said, shyly, as she came back and offered the cup to her caller. “Well, I’ve been sitting a good while this morning, but I don’t mind trying one of your chairs for a few minutes,” said the cowboy. Perhaps he had never before been inside a homesteader’s cabin, and wanted to see what it was like, or perhaps he wished to get better acquainted with the child he had frightened so badly. “What makes you so afraid of me, little girl?” he asked. “I don’t look such a terrible fellow, do I?” “Oh, no,” said Sister Anne, “you don’t look that way at all, only—” She stopped for a moment, but the stranger’s eyes seemed compelling her to go on; and after all, she was a brave little thing in her way, with a fashion of speaking the truth quite simply. “It’s because—it’s because you do such dreadful things, you cowboys,” she faltered. The cowboy’s face grew red. “Come, now,” he said, tilting back in his chair and beginning to look a little defiant, “what do we do that’s so dreadful?” “Oh,” said Sister Anne, clasping her hands tightly together, “you scare people and try to drive them away from their homes. When we first came here there was a paper pinned with a knife on our house one night that said we couldn’t stay. And—and you take other people’s cattle if they go near your herds.” She had made her charge now, and she stood up very straight and pale, this slip of a girl in her gingham apron. The cowboy looked at her for a moment with an expression that was distinctly respectful. He liked people who had courage. And then the corners of his mouth began to twitch. “How do you know we take other people’s cattle?” he demanded. “You don’t blame a poor lonesome cow for wandering into a herd if she

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gets a chance, do you? As for that paper that was pinned on the house— well, I’m not the fellow who did it, and I think myself ’twas a mighty mean trick, but if we had scared you out, right at the start, do you think it would have been such a bad thing for you?” Sister Anne’s face grew sorrowful. She recalled easily enough times when her father had said with bitter emphasis that it was a fool’s errand to try to farm this bit of Colorado desert. “No, father’s said more than once that he wished we’d never come,” she said, mournfully. “You see,” said the cowboy, nodding, “you can’t make a go of it, homesteading a farm out here on the plains. The truth is, this country was meant for grazing, and that’s all it’s good for. A man can’t take up any more land for a homestead here than he can back east, where the land is naturally productive. What’s a hundred and sixty acres of ground like this worth? You can’t raise anything on it without irrigation, and I guess you know by this time how much water you can count on.” He had spoken earnestly, quite as if he were reasoning with a person of his own size, and Sister Anne had followed the argument perfectly. It was simple enough to a child who had been a dweller on these plains. “We didn’t want to come,” said Sister Anne. “It was just because we had to. We had a good farm in Kansas, with everything nice, but they said father would die if he stayed there.” “Oh,” said the cowboy, with a change in his voice, “that was hard luck! I know something about it, for I wasn’t strong myself when I came out here.” The two sat silent a little while. Then they fell to talking of the wonderful mountains—how the lights and shadows changed them; how they drew off sometimes into the far blue distance, and again seemed to come closer, holding the brown plains in their protecting arms. Sister Anne had lost all her shyness, and talked of her fancies as easily as if she had known this stranger all her life. But presently he rose to go. “You and I feel a good deal alike about some things, and I think we ought to be friends,” he said, holding out his hand.

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She took it with a warm little clasp, and then a sudden hospitable impulse came into her heart. “Wouldn’t you like some coffee before you go? I could make it in just a few minutes.” “Thank you,” and the young man looked greatly pleased. “I should like it.” Then he sat down again and watched Sister Anne while she flew to the cupboard for a handful of coffee, and ground it in the mill against the wall, and measured it carefully into the pot, and set a cup and saucer ready on the table beside him. “What a good little housekeeper you are!” he said; and he praised the coffee when his cup was poured, and declared the color was exactly right and the flavor just as he liked it. She watched him ride away later, and wondered, with a very wistful look in her eyes, if she would ever see him again. Just then Tom and Denny came racing up, and she had to tell them the whole story. They were greatly excited, and much disgusted that they had been out of the way when such an unusual thing had happened. “I tell you he wouldn’t have got in if I’d been here!” said Tom. “Catch me letting any cow-puncher sit round our house!” “And to make coffee for him, too!” said Denny. “Why, that fellow must have thought you were a regular softy!” Sister Anne tried to defend, not herself, but her late caller. She even began to question whether cowboys as a class were as black as they had been painted, and at this point Tom and Denny withdrew from the discussion. “Well, if you’re going over, hook and line, to those cowboys!” said Tom, and the two marched off in high dudgeon. The rest of the day was short for Sister Anne. The kitchen floor was made as white as scrubbing could make it, the little windows were polished till they shone again, and even the old tins in the pantry were scoured and brightened. By the latter part of the afternoon there was not a thing left to be done,

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and she sat down in the doorway and looked off, as she loved so much to do, toward the great blue mountains. The sun was slanting toward them, and tints of violet and rose were stealing over the high white tops. She wondered if the cowboy was noticing, too, and then, with a great longing in her heart, if he would ever ride that way again. And just as she wondered, suddenly, as she had seen him in the morning, she saw him again coming straight toward the house. There was no mistaking him. It was the same tall, dark horse and the same gallant figure above it. But he was not riding so fast as before; he was leading a cow by a long rope. “Oh, he has found it!” said Sister Anne, and she stood up and waved her hand. He should know she was not afraid of him now. The boys had seen the horseman, too, and they came whooping up. He swung his hat and shouted a gay “Hello!” as he came within call of them. “You see I found her,” he said to Sister Anne, as he stopped before the door. “She was at Hewston’s Ranch, as I thought she might be.” “Oh, I’m so glad!” said Sister Anne. “She’s a little wild just now,” said the young man, as the cow drew back from the girl’s caressing hand, “but she’ll get over it. We’ve always kept her at the ranch, and she’s never wandered off before. She’ll be all right in a few days, and you can pet her all you want to.” Sister Anne gave a start, and her brothers stared at the cowboy. “Why, are you going to leave her here?” cried Tom, bewildered. “I rather thought I would, if you don’t mind taking her,” said the young man. There was a pause, and then Tom demanded slowly, in a tone of explicit emphasis, “Do you mean that you are going to give her to us?” “Well, not exactly,” said the cowboy, “but I thought I’d give her to your sister.” He tossed the end of the rope to Sister Anne as he spoke, and added, “I think a little girl who can make as good coffee as you can ought to have some cream to put into it.” Sister Anne clasped her hands in ecstasy, and then a thought came

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that made her turn suddenly pale. She drew close to the horse and whispered, looking up at the rider, “Are you sure the man you work for would be willing?” The cowboy threw himself back in the middle and laughed. “Well, I guess I can fix it up with the man I work for,” he said. “He happens to be my uncle, and I’m in charge of things myself over at the ranch this winter. She’s yours, fair and square, and you needn’t be afraid to take her.” Then, as he saw the tears rush into Sister Anne’s blue eyes, he added softly, “It’s Christmas to-morrow, and I should like to give you a Christmas present. We’re friends, you know.” She tried to thank him, but he only smiled and broke in upon her quickly. “By the way, I hear that your father is something of a carpenter. We’ve got a lot of odd jobs that need doing at the Bonita Ranch if he’ll come over. I wish you’d come, too,” he added. “We’d take good care of you, and there’s a woman over there who’d be glad to see a little girl about the house.” He drew up his rein and started off, leaving them all gazing after him; but when he had gone a few rods he wheeled suddenly, and came toward them again. “Catch!” he shouted to the boys, lifting his hand. Two pairs of hands went up in an instant, and the next moment a big round silver dollar had lodged between the palms of each. “Merry Christmas to you all!” he cried, as he wheeled again. Tom and Denny were too dazed to speak, but Sister Anne sent a quick, sweet call flying after him, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas to you!” and the boys had taken it up a minute later, shouting it at the top of their lungs. It was only about an hour before the wagon, which Sister Anne had watched so long in the morning, drew up at the door. There were two tired people in it, glad to get home, and four children, wonderfully glad to see them, crowded about, and tried to tell them all at once the amazing thing that had happened in their absence.

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That night the shadows of Christmas eve folded in a household that was happier than it had been for many a long month. It was not simply the beautiful creature in the shed, but the touch of human kindness that had come in the midst of so much that was hard and dreary. To John Bowman, too, it was the prospect of a little work ahead at the great ranch. It seemed to him that more might come of it. To Sister Anne it seemed that so much had already come there was nothing left to wish for, but the boys still had an air-castle or two that busied them in building. There was a bit of conversation between them as they lay in bed that night. “Didn’t he have money to throw round, though?” said Tom, in an impressive whisper. “When I’m a man I’ve a good mind to be a cowboy myself. I should like to live out-of-doors and go riding over the country, and have a hand in the round-ups, and all that sort of thing. ’Twould be lots more fun than digging.” And Denny responded, as they snuggled under the bedclothes, that he thought so, too.

Where the Buffaloes Begin

 Olaf Baker Illustrated by Paul Bransom St. Nicholas, f eb ru ary 1915

American readers have delighted in Native legends for centuries. Interest has escalated in recent years as historians, anthropologists, and literary scholars attempt to uncover the particular mythologies of individual regions and tribes. To the people who first told them, these legends were more than mere tales invented to explain natural phenomena; they were an integral part of Native tradition. They communicated a kinship with the past and an understanding of the peoples’ relationship to their environment. It is a testament to their evocative power that so many legends still exist, despite the lack of a pervasive writing system. “Where the Buffaloes Begin” is unique in that it tells the story of a Native American legend from the viewpoint of a non-Indian—presumably a white outsider. The story’s author, Olaf Baker (1876–ca. 1964), spent time with the Blackfoot and seems to have a genuine fondness for the people whom he writes about. Like the heroes of many Indian creation myths, ten-year-old Little Wolf embarks on a quest to see “the great lake to the south where the buffaloes began.” In the process, he becomes part of the legend that sparked his imagination. Born in Birmingham, England, Baker immigrated to the United

It seemed as if he, too, were a member of the herd. States with his mother and step-father in 1902. The American West captivated Baker, and he soon began writing short stories, poetry, and what he called “animal books.” Written mostly for a juvenile audience, his books include, among others, The Questing Heart (1917), Shasta of the Wolves (1919), Dusty Star (1922), Thunder Boy (1924), Peter in Process (1925), Buffalo Barty (1932), Bengey and the Beast (1947), and Shasta and Gimmery (1958). In 1981 “Where the Buffaloes Begin” was

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reprinted with new illustrations by Stephen Gammell. A year later it won a Caldecott Honor Award and was nominated for both an American Book Award and a Boston Globe–Horn Book Award.

...... Over the blazing camp-fires, when the wind moaned eerily through the thickets of juniper and fir, they spoke of it in the Indian tongue—the strange lake to the southward whose waters never rest. And Nawa, the medicine-man, who had lived such countless moons that not even the oldest brave in the tribe could remember a time when Nawa was not old, declared that, if only you arrived at the right time, on the right night, you would see the buffaloes rise out of the middle of the lake and come crowding to the shore; for there, he said, was the sacred spot where the buffaloes began. It was not only Nawa who declared that the buffaloes had their beginnings under water, and were born in the depths of the lake. The Indian legend, far older even than Nawa himself, said the same thing, and Nawa was only the voice that kept the legend walking on two feet. And often in the winter, when the wind drove with a roar over the prairies and came thundering up the creek, making the tepees shudder and strain. Little Wolf would listen to it and think it was like the stampede of the buffaloes. And then he would snuggle warmly under the buffalo-robe that was his blanket, and be thankful for the shelter of the tepee. And sometimes he would go very far down the shadow-ways of thick sleep, and would meet the buffaloes as they came up from the lake, with the water shining on their shaggy coats and their black horns gleaming in the moon. And the buffaloes would begin by being very terrible, and shaking their great heads at him as if they fully intended to make a finish of him there and then. But afterward they would come close up to him, and smell him, and change their minds, and be companionable after all. Little Wolf was only ten years old, but he could run faster than any other Indian boy in the tribe, and the wildest pony was not too wild for him to catch and ride. But the great thing about him was that he had no

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fear. He knew that an angry bull bison would gore you to death, and that if the prairie-wolves ran you down, there would be nothing left of you but your bones. Also, he was well aware that if you fell into the hands of the terrible Assiniboins, they would kill you and scalp you as neatly as could be. Yet none of these things terrified him. Only, being very wise for his age, he had a clear understanding that, for the present, if was better to keep out of their way. But of all the thoughts that ran this way and that in his quick Indian brain, the one which galloped the hardest was the thought of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes began. And as the days lengthened and the spring began to be a thing that you could smell on the warm blowing air, the thought grew bigger and bigger in Little Wolf ’s brain. At last it was so very big that Little Wolf couldn’t bear it any longer; and so, one morning, very early, before the village was astir, he crept out of the tepee as noiselessly as his namesake, and stole along below the junipers and tall firs till he came to the spot where the ponies were hobbled. The dawn was just beginning to break, and in the gray light the ponies looked like dark blotches along the creek; but Little Wolf ’s eyes were very sharp, and soon he had singled out his own pony, because it had a white fore foot, and a white patch on its left side. When he spoke, calling softly, the animal whinnied in answer, and allowed himself to be caught. Little Wolf unhobbled him, slipped on the bridle, which he had brought with him, and leaped lightly upon his back. A few minutes afterward, horse and rider had left the camp behind them, and were out upon the prairie, going due south. When the sun rose, they were already far upon their way. Little Wolf swept his piercing gaze round the immense horizon, lest there should be any danger, moving or in ambush, which might interrupt his journey, or make him alter his course. Far off, so far as to be just on the edge of his sight, there was a dim spot on the yellowish gray of the prairie. Little Wolf reined in his pony to watch if it moved. If it did it crept so slowly as to seem absolutely still. He decided that it was a herd of antelope feeding, and that there was nothing to fear.

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On he went, hour after hour, never ceasing to watch. The prairiegrouse got up almost under his pony’s feet. The larks and savanna-sparrows filled the air with their singing, and everywhere the wild roses were in bloom. It seemed as if nothing but peace would ever find its way among these singing-birds and flowers; yet Little Wolf knew well that the Assiniboins could come creeping along the hollows of the prairie, like wolves, and that there is no moment more dangerous than the time when there is no hint of danger. All this time he had not seen a single buffalo, but he told himself that this was because the herds had taken some other way, and that he would probably not see any until he was near the lake. He lost sight of the shadowy spot he had seen so far away. If he had known that it was a party of Assiniboins on the war-path, he might have thought twice about continuing to the lake, and would probably have returned along his trail to give warning to his tribe. But his head was too full of the singing of the birds and of the breath of the roses, and, above all, of the great thought of the buffaloes, fighting below the lake. It was late in the afternoon when, at last, he sighted the lake. It lay, a gray sheet with a glint of silver, glimmering under the sun. He looked eagerly on all sides to see if there were any signs of buffaloes, but far and wide the prairies lay utterly deserted, very warm and still in the white shimmer of the air. As he approached nearer, however, he saw trails, many trails, all going in one direction and leading toward the lake. Antelope and coyote, wolf and buffalo; all these had left traces behind them as they went to the water and returned. But it was the buffalo trails which were most numerous and most marked, and which Little Wolf noted above all the others. When he was quite close to the lake he dismounted, and, hobbling his pony, turned him adrift to graze. Then he himself lay down behind some tussocks of prairie-grass, above the low bank at the edge of the lake, and waited. From this position he could overlook the lake, without being seen. He gazed far over its glittering expanse, very still just now under the strong beams of the sun. It was disappointingly still. Scarcely a rip-

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ple broke upon the shore. You could not possibly imagine that the buffaloes were struggling underneath. Little Wolf asked himself where was the movement and the mysterious murmur of which Nawa had spoken? But, being of Indian blood, he had no impatience. He could afford to wait and listen for whole hours, if need be. The time went on. Slowly the sun dipped westward, and the shadows of the grass grew longer. Yet still the lake kept its outward stillness, and nothing happened. At last the sun reached the horizon, lay there a few moments, a great ball of flame, and then sank out of sight. Twilight fell, and all over the vast wilderness crept a peculiar silence like a wild creature stealing from its lair, while far in the west there lingered long the strange orange light that belongs to the prairie skies alone when the sun is down, and the night winds sigh along the grass. And whether it was the sighing of the wind or not, Little Wolf could not tell, but there came to him along the margin of the lake a strange, low murmur that died away and rose again. As the night deepened, it grew clearer, and then he was certain that it was not the wind, but came from the center of the lake. For hours he lay and listened, but the mysterious murmur never ceased. Sometimes it was a little louder; sometimes a little softer; but always it was plain to hear—a wonderful and terrible thing in the silence of the night. And as Little Wolf lay watching under the stars, the words of Nawa kept singing in his head: “Do you hear the noise that never ceases? It is the Buffaloes fighting far below. They are fighting to get out upon the prairie. They are born below the Water, but are fighting for the Air. In the great lake in the Southland where the Buffaloes begin!”

Suddenly, Little Wolf lifted himself up. He couldn’t tell whether he had been asleep or not, but there, in the lake, he saw a wonderful sight: the buffaloes! There they were, hundreds and hundreds of them, risen out of the lake. He could not see the surface any more. Instead, he saw a lake of swaying

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bodies, and heads that shook; and on their horns and tossing heads the water gleamed in the moonlight, as he had seen it in his dreams. Little Wolf felt the blood run along his body. He clutched at the prairie-grass, crushing it in his hot hands where the pulses throbbed. Through his staring eyeballs he drank in the great vision. And he did not only drink it with his eyes; he drank it also with his ears and with his nose; for his ears were filled with the trampling and snorting of the herd, and the flash of the water as they moved it with their feet; and his nose drank the sharp, moist smell of the great beasts as they crowded upon each other; the smell which the wolves know well when it comes dropping down the wind. Little Wolf never knew what came to him, nor what spirit of the wild it was which whispered in his ear; but suddenly he leaped to his feet and loosed a ringing cry out of his throat. And when he cried, he flung his arms above his head; and then he cried again. At the first cry, a shiver passed through the herd, like an electric thrill. As if they were one beast, the buffaloes threw up their heads and listened, absolutely still. They saw, in the white light of the moon, a little wild Indian boy above the margin of the lake, who made swift motions with his arms. He seemed to speak with his arms—to talk buffalo talk with the ripple of his muscles and the snatch of his fingers in the air! They had never seen such a thing before. Their little eyes fastened upon it excitedly, and shot out sparks of light. And when it cried again, there swept through the stillness of the herd a stir, a movement, a ripple which you could see. And the ripple became a wave, and the wave a billow. It was a billow of buffaloes, which, beginning on the outskirts of the herd, broke along the margin of the lake in a terrifying roar. It was a wonderful sound, that roar of the buffaloes on the edge of a stampede. It rolled far out upon the prairie in the hollow silence of the night. Wandering wolves caught it, threw their long noses to the moon, and howled an answering cry. It was the hour when, on the lonely prairie lands, the feet of the wild folk pad softly, and sound carries to an immense distance. But the ears it

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might have warned—the quick ears of the Assiniboin braves on the warpath—did not catch it, being too far off upon the northern trail. On moccasins, noiseless as the padded feet of the wolves, as grim, and almost more cruel, these painted warriors were stealthily approaching the camp of Little Wolf ’s people, determined to wipe it out ere the dogstar faded in the dawn. But now the buffaloes had received the strange message which the Indian boy waved to them from the margin of the lake. He himself did not understand it. He cried to the buffaloes because he could not help it; because he loved them as the creatures of his dreams. But when he saw and heard their answer; when they came surging out of the lake like a mighty flood, bellowing and stamping and tossing their heads, a wild excitement possessed him, and, for the first time in his life, he knew the meaning of fear! Swift as one of the wolves themselves, he darted toward his pony. To unhobble it and leap upon its back took but a moment. Then he was off, riding for his life! Behind him came the terrible sound of the buffaloes as they swept out of the lake. He threw a quick glance behind to see which way they took. He saw a dark surging mass throw itself out upon the prairie and come on at a gallop, heading due north. Little Wolf turned his pony’s head slightly westward so as to escape the middle rush of the herd. If once it surrounded him on all sides, he did not know what might happen. If his pony had been fresh, he could have easily outstripped the buffaloes, but after a long day the animal was tired, and was going at half his usual speed. Little Wolf threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The buffaloes were gaining! He cried to his pony, little, short cries that made a wild note in the night. Soon, as they swept along, the leaders of the left flank of the herd drew so close that he could hear the snorting sound of their breath. Then they were abreast of him, and the pony and the buffaloes were galloping side by side. Yet they did nothing to him. They did not seem to have any other desire but to gallop on into the night.

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Soon Little Wolf was completely surrounded by the buffaloes. In front, behind, on both sides, he saw a heaving mass of buffaloes that billowed like the sea. Again, as when he had cried beside the lake, a wild feeling of excitement seized him, and he felt the blood stir along his scalp. And once again he cried aloud, flinging his arms above his head, a long, ringing cry. And the buffaloes replied, bellowing a wild answer that rolled like thunder far along the plains. North the great gallop swept. Down the hollows, over the swells of the prairie, below the lonely ridges with the piles of stones where the Indians leave their dead; crashing through the alder thickets beside the creeks; through the shallow creeks themselves, churning the water into a muddy foam, the mighty herd rolled on its way, and the thunder of its coming spread terror far and wide in the hearts of all lesser prairie folk. The antelopes were off like the wind; the badgers and coyotes slunk into their holes. Even the wolves took warning, vanishing shadow-like along the hollows east and west, so as to be well out of the way. Little Wolf was beside himself with excitement and joy. It seemed as if he, too, were a member of the herd, as if the buffaloes had adopted him and made him their own. Suddenly he saw something ahead. He could not see very clearly, because of the buffaloes in front of him; but it looked like a band of Indians. They were not mounted, but were running swiftly on foot, as if to regain their ponies. At first, Little Wolf thought they were his own people, as he knew, by the outline of the country, that the camp could not be far off. But then he saw that they were not running toward the camp, but away from it. And then very swiftly, the thing flashed upon him. They were Assiniboins, the deadly enemies of his tribe, and they must have left their ponies some distance off, in order to approach the camp unseen through the long grass, and attack it in its sleep! Little Wolf knew well that, unless they reached their ponies in time, the buffaloes would cut off their retreat. Once that great herd hurled itself upon them, nothing could save them from being trampled to death. He cried shrilly, hoping that it would excite the buffaloes even more.

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He saw the Indians making desperate efforts to escape. The buffaloes seemed as if they answered to his cries. They bore down upon the fleeing Indians at a terrible gallop, and, in spite of the long distance they had come, never slackened speed. One by one the Indians were overtaken, knocked down, and trampled underfoot. The herd passed pitilessly over their prostrate bodies. Suddenly, Little Wolf ’s pony went down. He leaped clear as the animal fell. Fortunately, by this time, they were on the extreme outskirts of the herd, and before Little Wolf could get to his fallen pony again, the last buffalo had passed. Over the blazing camp-fires, when the wind rises and moans eerily through the thickets of juniper and fir, they still speak of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes begin; but now they always add the name of Little Wolf to the legend—the boy who led the buffaloes, and saved his tribe.

Her Neighbor’s Claim

 May Roberts Clark Youth’s Companion, sep t em b er 23, 1897

With the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act in 1854, the United States government (going back on its promise to Native Americans) opened the land to settlement. When President Lincoln signed the Homestead Act in 1862, Americans had the opportunity to claim 160-acre tracts of land, which settlers could own after paying a filing fee, building a home, and improving the land for five years. Railroads received huge expanses of territory to encourage growth and settlement. By 1900 over six hundred thousand homesteaders had filed on eighty million acres. Despite the isolation and hardships of the West, homesteading offered men and women alike the opportunity to better their lives and share in the American Dream. Even though the land was “free,” unscrupulous people took advantage of the intricacies of the law, especially the mandate that settlers reside on their homesteads at least six months of every year or it would be considered abandoned. In “Her Neighbor’s Claim” Bessie overcomes her anger at a young male school teacher, who files on land that she wants to claim, and protects him from real claim jumpers. She bravely confronts the insolent man and learns a lesson about forgiveness and generosity.

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The daughter of a pioneer Methodist Episcopal minister, May Roberts Clark (1867–1937) grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her father died when she was six years old, and her mother, a school teacher and religious leader, took in student boarders to help put her children through school. Clark attended the University of Nebraska, majoring in art history. She married Paul Fenimore Clark, one of the family’s boarders. He became a lawyer in Lincoln and then served as speaker of the house for two terms. After being defeated in his reelection bid for Congress, he and May moved to San Jose, California, where she became a civic leader. Clark published over a dozen stories in the Youth’s Companion, many of them Pawnee tales told to her by an Indian agent, as well as a book of poetry and two novels, The Key to the Copeland Crime and Taka, the Man Who Would Be White, which were published in 1938 after her death. Childless and depressed over the death of her husband and her health problems, Clark committed suicide, leaving much of her wealth to children’s homes in California and Nebraska.

...... In some landscapes the straight lines and the angles of fences are conspicuous features, but the bare Nebraska prairie was, not many years ago, a country all of giant curves and magnificent circles. The wagontrail of hot July dust bent to the harmony of nature, and wavered to and fro like a river. A bird rising from the sear buffalo grass wheeled a wide orbit up and up, and out of sight. In one vast curve God had drawn the mighty sweep of the far-reaching horizon, and had arched above it the limitless vault of azure. It was a lonely land of vague distance, unbroken silence, oppressive stagnation. The one sound was the faint whimper of the wind among the grasses, whose bending blades gave the one sign of motion. Over all this wide desolation the sun was scorching relentlessly, when a young girl came riding slowly down the dusty trail. No feature of the landscape impressed her; it was too familiar. Nor did the heat seem intense; she took it as a matter of course that the air

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should be sweltering in July, and she sat calmly upright, singing joyously as she went an old hymn that her mother loved: “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord.” Where her trail joined that which led to Hammerville, she met old Daddy Dolan. The encounter was no surprise, for they had seen each other as mere dots in the distance. Their greetings were very cordial, for companionship is most appreciated in widely scattered communities. “‘Pears like yer calmly mighty pert to-day,” chirped old Daddy. “Pert’s no name for it,” laughed back the girl. “Why, Daddy, I’m eighteen to-day, and I’m on my way to take up a homestead.” “Well! well!” he drawled, smiling down into the girl’s glad face. “You don’t look more’n fifteen. An’ what do you want a homestead fer?” “Oh, I aint getting it for myself, really. It’s for father. He clerks down at Cosgrove. Of course he couldn’t throw away his job to come out and get one for himself.” “Does yer dad know about yer taking this claim?” broke in the eager listener. “He know?” she answered, happily. “Of course not. That’s the best of it. He’d never dream I was well enough. I was sick last winter, you see, and so they sent me out to Aunt Mirandy’s claim to get better.” “Does yer dad like farming?” queried the old man. “Oh, he just longs to get back,” answered the girl, “but he never could get money enough ahead. He has worked hard, too; but we children cost so much! Once there were five besides me; but they took sick one after another, and died. That’s expensive. Clerking at Cosgrove don’t make a princely living. Father is as patient as he can be, but he can’t clerk forever. Now you see why I’m taking a homestead.” “But you’ll have to live on it, Bess,” worried the old man, “an’ that aint an easy job.” “Nonsense,” she answered, contemptuously, “that’s nothing! Between you and me, Daddy, the claim next to Aunt Mirandy’s hasn’t been taken. Aunt had it in mind when she built her house right on the line. I’m

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going to put a lean-to against her house, but on my own land. We will live together, don’t you see? Isn’t it jolly?” “Well, that aint so bad,” admitted Daddy, with relief. They went to the land-office together. The agent looked up with a smile as they entered. “Daddy, you wretch, what makes you always bring such weather?” he jeered, affectionately. Then he turned to the girl. “Do you want a homestead, Miss Bessie?” “You guessed it!” she answered, joyously. “I’m eighteen to-day, and I want the claim next east of Aunt Mirandy’s.” The agent’s face fell. “It’s too bad, Miss Bessie,” he said, regretfully, “but that claim was taken yesterday.” “Who took it?” she asked, breathlessly. “A boy named Watson. He came of age just one day ahead of you.” “I thought—it was mine,” she faltered, turning white. “I—I—wanted it so—bad!” The agent looked at Daddy uneasily. “Don’t cry, sissy!” said the old man, thumping her kindly but heavily on the back. “I reckon we kin find ye something better. There, there now!” “But then I can’t live with Aunt Mirandy.” “Oh, hush now!” purred old Daddy. “What you want is a free farm fer yer dad. You aint afeard to live alone out here; there’s always good neighbors.” The girl swallowed a lump in her throat, and smiled dismally at her comforter, while the agent hunted carefully through the records. “I’ve got it!” he announced, cheerfully. “Next east of the one you wanted! You will be near your aunt, and if you want anything sudden, you can run up a signal.” “Thank you,” answered the girl, bravely. “I only wish I hadn’t set my heart on the other. I guess you had better make out the papers.” “That’s grit!” sighed old Daddy, with relief. “When ye can’t get first pick, be thankful for second choice.” “Miss Bessie is lucky to get anything,” broke in the agent. “There is

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talk of a railroad running through her part of the country, and land is going like hot cakes.” “Well, I am thankful,” answered Bessie, “and I am real grateful to both of you for your kindness.” She smiled back upon them as she left with such a bright face that both felt satisfied. Still, she was slow to get over her disappointment. “I can’t help it, Aunt Mirandy,” she said, months afterward. “I feel real ugly toward that Watson boy. It just seems to me as if he had jumped my claim.” “I know how you feel,” answered the aunt, wearily, “and it aint Christian. He didn’t go to do you any unkindness. I was sorry, too, that you got mad because he built so close to us. Probably he hadn’t been from home before, and was lonesome.” “He needn’t have left home at all if he didn’t want to,” retorted Bessie, looking away from her aunt out through the tiny window at her neighbor’s claim. What she saw was not comforting. John Watson was too prosperous. Instead of a sod hut, he had actually built one of lumber. She understood, further, that he had secured a chance to teach for six months a school beyond Hammerville. Soon he could be paying on his homestead, while she must wait through long years for her title. Aunt Miranda noticed the girl’s discontented face, and broke the silence. “I don’t believe you deserve it, Bessie,” she said, quietly, “but I’m going to move across and live with you in your new home to-morrow.” “You?” gasped the girl. “But you can’t, auntie! It wouldn’t be safe to leave your own homestead.” “You see, dear,” she answered slowly to her impatient niece, “this aint a claim any more. I proved up last fall.” “O Aunt Mirandy, you never told me!” “No. I wanted you to act for yourself. I thought it would make you more womanly. I must say you have been real brave about the work and the living alone.” “It’s too good to be true,” said Bessie, tremulously. “If—if I had only known, I wouldn’t have hated that horrid Watson boy quite so bad. I couldn’t bear to leave you, auntie.”

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The next day “that horrid Watson boy” came over and helped them move. He was very quiet and obliging, and never seemed to notice Bessie’s coolness. Aunt Miranda was gracious enough for both. When he was about to leave, she thanked him profusely for his kindness. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he answered, good-naturedly. “You can keep an eye on my claim while I’m gone. I start for my school to-morrow, and if I am absent a day or so more than the six months allowed by law, you keep off the jumpers.” They parted in good fellowship, laughing at the idea of “jumpers.” It seemed absurd then that any one would think of taking his homestead— they were in such an out-of-the-way place. Strangers were scarce, and farther on land was still plentiful. During the next six months, however, the growing rumor of the railroad attracted people to the vicinity. The last claim in the neighborhood was taken. Now and then the two lonely women heard of distant claims that were being jumped. “I do wish to the land’s sake that John Watson would come home!” complained Aunt Miranda. “His six months was up yesterday, and I’m getting awful anxious.” “He will look out for himself,” retorted Bessie. “He never lost a minute after he came of age to get that homestead.” “Seems to me you’re awful unjust, Bessie. Can’t you forgive him for being successful? It beats all how you can hold a grudge for nothing. Seems like you ought to understand him better when you know that he is working for his mother.” Her voice died out wearily. She looked across the prairie that lay, blank and lifeless, under the morning sunshine. A wistful look came into her eyes as her glance rested on the two little houses huddled so closely together in their desertion and desolation. For months their only visitors had been snow, rain and wind. Sometimes their padlocks banged all night long, as if the houses had found toys which they could rattle through the long winter hours of darkness and appease their loneliness. “Jes’ look at them two houses!” exclaimed Aunt Miranda, at last. “’Pears

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like they couldn’t get along without each other, no way. An’ suppose they acted as unneighborly as you do to John Watson? It’s a shame, Bessie, and you have both got to live here side by side year in and year out.” “If you have finished your sermon,” the girl answered, crossly, “I guess I’ll go down to Hammerville for the mail.” An hour later she was slowly jogging down the trail, as she had done a year before. Nothing had altered in the changeless landscape. Even the mood of the former time came back again. Before she realized it Bessie was singing: “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord.” When she rode into town, she suddenly forgot the music. On a corner she overheard two men talking. “Yes,” one was saying, “he is going to jump John Watson’s claim this afternoon.” For one brief, mean minute Bessie was glad. “It serves him right,” she told herself. The next minute she was ashamed. “Aunt Mirandy was right,” she thought, soberly; “it isn’t Christian.” She stood still in front of the post-office and thought of John Watson. Her heart was touched with pity as she thought of his hard work and his mother. “I don’t know what I can do,” she thought, woefully, “but I am not going to be mean any more.” After a moment’s consideration, she mounted her horse and rode across the prairie at such a headlong gait that those who saw watched her with real concern, and prophesied a sunstroke. As if some fate were playing a game of coincidence, she met old Daddy again where their trails joined. “Oh,” gasped Bessie, “you are the very man I wanted!” Then she made an excited explanation. “Now you start right away after him,” she concluded, “and I’ll tend to the rest.” Daddy looked down at her with admiring eyes. “You’re a regular ole brick, you air!” he insisted, with rough gallantry. “Oh, go along!” laughed the girl, with a prod at his horse that sent the old man hastily on his mission. Aunt Miranda looked up as the girl burst into the house, and snatched

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a loaf of bread from the table and filled a jug with milk. “I’m needed up the trail,” explained Bessie. “I’ll be back to-morrow.” The good aunt gasped as the door jarred shut behind her niece. “Well, that beats all! Ole Mis’ Simpson must be sick again. Bessie’s got a good heart, an awful good heart—except toward that Watson boy.” Aunt Miranda shook her head sadly, and went back to her baking. An hour later, in passing the window, she stopped to glance at the two companionable houses. Her glance became a stare of amazement. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She put on her glasses and looked again. Yes, somebody had moved into John Watson’s house! Smoke came out of the chimney, and a long row of family washing was already hanging on the line. Before the door stood two lean horses, still hitched to the strangers’ emigrant wagon. “Oh dear! oh dear!” wailed Aunt Miranda. “His claim is jumped, and I can’t do anything!” She sat down, limp and lifeless, and began to cry. “I could stand it better if Bessie was home!” moaned the poor woman. But Bessie had more important work than comforting Aunt Miranda. When she climbed into John Watson’s through a window, she took a brief survey. “I’ve got to make ’em think some one is living here,” she thought, rapidly. “I wonder what would seem most natural?” She hastily built a fire, and then took every cloth that she could find and hung it on the line, for it was washday, Monday. When she added her own apron and sunbonnet, to give the line a domestic air, she allowed herself one brief moment to grin at the display. She had almost finished dusting when she first caught sight of the emigrant wagon. She knew her hour had come, and drew a long breath. Then she watched, and it seemed hours before the wagon reached the house. A frowsy, brutish-looking man thrust his head beyond the wagon cover. “Is that Watson’s place?” he growled, with a jerk of his thumb toward Aunt Miranda’s deserted sod house. “Oh, no,” answered Bessie, with a lump in her throat, “that belongs to Miss King.”

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“King?” he snarled. “They told me down to Hammerville that the empty one belonged to Watson. I guess you’re a-lying, to pertect him. We are going to move in, any way.” “All right,” answered Bessie, trying to hide her relief. The man clambered down from the wagon, followed by a sharp-faced woman and several disagreeable-looking children. “Thought they said this house was frame!” snapped the woman. The man looked from one house to the other. “They did say so,” he snarled back, “but you can see for yourself!” “Seems to be a mistake,” ventured Bessie, timidly. “Reckon there is, sissy,” retorted the woman, “when sech as you gits on to the good land and gobbles it up.” The girl’s eyes flashed. “This land was taken for a permanent home,” she answered, with dignity, “long before the railroad made it of any value. Look at the work that has been spent upon it, and money, too! I suppose you thought it would be all right to steal it because you could do it legally.” The sallow, hard-featured woman made an insolent answer as she went to help her husband kick in Aunt Miranda’s door. Thus they were not on Watson’s land, but on that of which Aunt Miranda had complete ownership. The family moved in and took possession. The law would make short work of ejecting them, and for a time Bessie’s worries were over. “Oh,” she thought, wearily, “if that bothersome Watson boy would only come home and look after his own property!” She longed for the society of her aunt as she had never done before, but there was no way to get to her. Each must stay and protect her adopted claim. Bessie had not made a confidante of her aunt for fear that the guileless soul would betray the secret. Aunt Miranda’s light shone clear from the home window, and that was some comfort. Bessie drew a chair to the door, and prepared for a night’s vigil. She feared that her neighbors might suspect the truth at any moment. If they did, they would move upon Watson’s land and assert possession, and there could be nothing left for her but surrender.

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It was a hot, thick night. The doors and windows of the two houses stood wide open. Bessie heard her disagreeable neighbors grumbling and quarrelling. When at last they went to bed, the silence was refreshing. Perhaps the heat and the stillness made the tired girl drowsy. Before she knew it she was dozing at her post, though it was still early. A sudden rap at the door recalled her to duty. Her heart rose in her throat as she sat listening in the darkness. The rap was repeated. “Who’s there?” she asked, faintly. For a moment no one answered; then a woman’s voice replied in a polite “company” tone, “It’s me, Miss Mirandy King.” Bessie threw the door wide open. “O auntie!” she gasped; then stopped abruptly, and looked at the two people beyond. All of the little group were petrified with astonishment. Aunt Miranda was the first to find her voice. “What are you doing here, Bessie?” she demanded. “I—I’m just holding down John Watson’s claim,” faltered the niece. “Those people in your house came to jump it.” “God bless you, dear!” said a gentle voice. “I’m John’s mother.” The young man was the last to speak. Even then his voice was husky. “I thought we were homeless,” he said, slowly, “but you have been our salvation. You see that man made out the papers before he left town. All he needed was possession.” They were so relieved that they all tried to explain at once why John was late, what Daddy had done, and how Aunt Miranda had escorted the Watsons over to get the furniture from the strangers. Probably no happier gathering ever assembled. At daybreak next morning the little party at Watson’s looked out for their disagreeable neighbors. They were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had at last become convinced of the real situation. At all events they had disappeared. With them had gone John’s plow and the family washing that Bessie had hung out to dry. “Good riddance!” commented John, gratefully. “I think we have come out of this mighty cheap. And you saved us, Bessie. Say, that was heap-

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ing coals of fire on my head. I always felt as if I’d kind of jumped your claim.” “You needn’t feel that way any more. I’ve got all that out of my heart at last,” said Bessie. “Yes, yes!” cried Aunt Miranda. “That’s what folks always gain by forgiving and being generous—their own hearts feel good and light inside ’em.”

Kit

 Major Charles Askins Illustrated by F. L. Fithian Youth’s Companion, f eb rua ry 5, 1914

The United States government negotiated a treaty with the Cherokee Nation in 1835, assuring them that a seven million–acre tract of land approximately 57 miles wide and 226 miles long—called the Cherokee Outlet—would be preserved as a passageway to their hunting grounds in the Rocky Mountains. However, after the Civil War a new treaty with the Cherokees allowed for the settling of other tribes in the eastern part of the tract. The Cherokee Strip Livestock Association leased the remainder of the grasslands from the Cherokees until 1891, when pressure from settlers forced the Native Americans to sell their land to the government for about $1.40 an acre. The land was then opened to the public. On September 16, 1893, in the fourth and largest of the Oklahoma “land runs,” more than one hundred thousand pioneers raced for forty thousand homesteads. People became desperate due to the economic depression facing the country; claim jumpers tried to occupy land before the legal deed could be filed, and murder often resulted from a dispute over ownership. In all of this chaos, speculators and thieves thrived. This does not daunt young “Kit,” a cavalry officer’s daughter, who boasts, “I have my gun, and I know how to use it.” And use

The bay horse squatted, and then gave a great bound. it she does against a band of horse thieves, showing that frontier girls have “true grit,” also. Major Charles Askins (1861–1947) lived in Texas and New Mexico and was an author, a noted firearms expert, and a marksman. He fought in the Sixth Calvary during the Spanish-American War and served in the Rifle Demonstrator Corps in World War I. After the war, Askins was the shotgun editor of the American Rifleman; he also edited Outdoor Life for the next twenty-six years. For the last twelve years of his life, until he was eighty-six, he was the shotgun editor for Sports Afield. In addition to writing seventeen stories for the Youth’s Companion, Askins authored six books on hunting: American Shotgun (1910), Wing and Trap Shooting (1911), Rifles and Rifle Shooting (1912), Wing Shoot-

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ing (1923), Modern Shotguns and Loads (1929), and Game Bird Shooting (1931). He is buried in the military cemetery at Fort Bliss, Texas. His son Colonel Charles Askins also served in the military and was a writer and avid sportsman as well.

......

The Elrods were a happy family gathered for supper. The Cherokee Strip had opened that day; the land race was over, and they had a farm. The farmer and his oldest son came from watering the horses; his wife, a comfortably stout, smiling woman, had fried two prairie chickens, and spread them upon the tailboard of the wagon; the children were playing happily outside the tent; and all were delighted with the site of their future home. A dark-eyed girl rode a black pony up to the wagon, jumped off, and began removing the saddle. She was laughing. “What mischief have you been up to now, Kit?” asked the farmer. “I have been staking a quarter of my own, Uncle Jack,” replied the girl. “The one right south of yours.” “But that was taken before we got here!” “I know it, but that didn’t keep me from planting my flag, and holding the fort, too.” “What in the world! You couldn’t hold a claim, even if you had been on it first—you are not eighteen years old.” “I know how old I am, uncle, and you don’t, or, at least, he doesn’t. You should have seen that boy start for me with a gun! I bluffed him, though! He turned and hiked back to his camp as soon as he had had a good look at me.” “Claim-jumping is a serious business, young lady. Some day one of your jokes will prove a boomerang.” “Not this time. I am only having a bit of fun at the expense of Betty Wilson’s big brother Bert. I saw them in the starting line this morning, but they didn’t see me. Bert wouldn’t have known me if he had, but Betty was my roommate at Lawrence last winter, and I knew him by his picture, of course.”

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“I see,” said Uncle Jack. “But that kind of joke would not appeal to me if I were in his place.” “All right, uncle of mine,” said Kit, “I’ll ride over to their camp in the morning, and apologize. I’ll go down there early, for you know I have to ride to Alva to-morrow. Father’s company of the Fourth Cavalry has been ordered there, and mother is to be with him. I promised faithfully to meet them as soon as the ‘race’ was over.” Uncle Jack shook his head. “I can’t understand what your father means in letting you make these wild jaunts. There are more robbers, crooks, and horse thieves in here than were ever before collected in one spot. You might as well try to ride through a tribe of Indians on the warpath.” Kit laughed. “I have my gun, and I know how to use it. But I’ll be a good child this time, and do as you say. Maybe I shall have good company in a day or two, for Betty and her brother will have to go to the land office to file.” With Bert Wilson everything had gone wrong; the usually even-tempered young man was exasperated. His youthful sister had giggled when he indignantly told her of the manner in which some woman had “jumped” his claim. She agreed, however, that it would be well for him to start for Alva early in the morning, in order to be the first to file on the quarter section. Bert was up before daylight, all prepared for his fifty-mile ride to the land office, but—his horse was gone! He had picketed the animal in a swale of sweet grass only a hundred yards from camp. In some way the rope had become untied, and the horse had gone straight away to the west—a surprising thing, for ordinarily a wise nag will take his back track on leaving camp. There was no mistake about the old roan’s having gone west, however; Bert followed the tracks for more than a mile, until he lost them among others. While he was trying to follow his lost horse, he had seen a woman, mounted on a black pony, dash away from the rival camp in the direction of Alva. She was the woman who had “jumped” his claim; there

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was no mistaking that black pony. Bert at once suspected that some of those people in the other camp had made off with his horse, in order to prevent him from getting to the land office. As he went from clump to clump of jack oaks, hoping to find his horse hidden in one of them, he suddenly came face to face with a tall man carrying a rifle. Bert’s face blazed with anger, but the older man was the first to speak. “What are you doing out here, young man?” he asked. “We were sure we saw you ride off for Alva an hour ago.” “You thought I would ride on ‘Shanks’ mare,’ did you, after you had got away with my horse? What are you doing here? I have caught you red-handed!” “Got away with your horse! Why, confound you, I have lost the best team I had myself!” Bert had advanced threateningly, and the sturdy farmer was beginning to lose his temper. An inkling of the truth came to him, however, and his voice changed. “Look here, son,” he said, “let us see if we can’t straighten this out without quarreling. Is your horse really gone? I am asking this because my niece and I thought we saw you ride away pretty fast on a roan horse. She at once mounted and followed. If it was not you, we were deceived by the horse—a big roan like yours. After she left, I found that two of my horses had strayed, the finest pair I had. I trailed them west.” In Bert’s mind there was a struggle between incredulity and belief. This man appeared honest and truthful. “I suppose she hurried because she feared I might beat her to Alva and secure my rights. You know yourself that I was on the claim two hours before she got there.” “Why, of course! That part of it was merely the foolish joke of a mischief-loving girl—and she is hardly more than a child. I am Mr. Elrod. That was my niece, Kit. She recognized the young lady with you yesterday as Miss Betty Wilson, and you she took to be Bert Wilson. She meant to acknowledge the joke early this morning, before any harm

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was done. She was alarmed when she thought she saw you riding off for Alva. She meant to overtake you and explain, and so save you a hundred miles of hard riding.” Bert no longer questioned the man’s truthfulness. “Mr. Elrod,” he said, as they walked back to camp, “it occurs to me that your niece has placed herself in a dangerous position by chasing a horse thief. The probability is that you really saw my horse; the man on his back could only have been the thief.” “Yes, and I’ll warrant he had something to do with the disappearance of my horses. I suspect there is a gang at work—in fact, I have heard of a nest of horse thieves in here called the ‘Bad Doolans.’ I will supply you with another horse, and you can follow to see that no harm comes to her. She is reckless, and those Doolans would hesitate at no kind of deviltry.” An hour later, with his gun swinging at his saddle, and a lunch in his saddlebags, Bert, mounted on a strong but slow horse, was trailing the black pony. He noticed where the pony’s tracks had joined those of a larger horse, but both were going at a round gallop; finally the hoofprints were lost in the well-trodden “old Oklahoma trail.” Not until ten o’clock, after he had gone twelve or fifteen miles, did he overtake her. She was seated on a log in a shady spot near the bank of a little creek. “I was waiting for you,” she said. “I climbed a tree, and saw you coming. Do you know, I have almost ridden my poor pony to death this morning on your account?” “Yes, your uncle told me. He lent me this horse that I might follow you, and make due apologies for not having been mounted on my own horse. The truth is, my horse must have been stolen by the man you saw riding him, and your uncle has lost a team also.” “That accounts for it! That man seemed to be running away from me at first, but when he saw I was only a girl, he let me overtake him. I addressed him by your name, and he simply grinned. Then he said that he and his partners were collecting a drove of horses for the Texas mar-

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ket. I told him I was going to the creek to meet a friend. I might not have got rid of him if he had not said that he had to go up the creek and meet his partners.” “You think the horse was mine?” “I am sure of it. He said he was coming back to see me home. That was why I climbed the tree to see if you or anyone was coming.” “Pure bluff about his returning, if the horse is mine. I hope he does; we will wait here, eat our breakfast, and see. Did he give you any hint of where he was going?” “He said they already had over a hundred horses in Bear Cañon, on Eagle Creek.” “The very spot a gang of thieves would choose for a hiding place.” Bert dismounted, watered his horse, and tied the animal at the side of the trail. Kit released her pony, and let him drag his reins and crop grass, for she knew that he would not stray far from the other horse. Bert and Kit were hungry, and ate a hearty breakfast. The young man declared that he would organize a posse, and investigate Bear Cañon. It was probable that other settlers had lost horses. “But,” Bert added, “I’m afraid we shall be too late. Bear Cañon is fifteen miles from here; we could hardly organize and get there before daylight to-morrow morning, and those rascals will have sense enough to get across the Cimarron River into the Cheyenne Indian country to-night.” While Kit started to catch her pony, a few rods down the road, Bert mounted. Then a horseman rode up behind him, and he became suddenly alert. This fellow could hardly be the thief, he thought, for he rode, not the roan, but a strongly-built Indian horse. The rider passed, and turned on the girl a high-colored, aquiline face, now broadened in an impudent grin. “I’ll take more stock in that yarn of the hare and the tortoise from now on,” he remarked, “especially when the rabbit wants to be caught.” “Stop!” Bert called, sharply. “I have something to say to you!” The horseman swung his leg over his saddle-horn, struck a match

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on the sole of his boot in order to light the cigarette he had been rolling, and replied with easy insolence, although there was a sparkle in his beady black eyes: “Want to trade hosses, po’dner? I’ll swap for a difference of a hundred bucks. That bone-spavined old bay is a bit too slow to keep up with a fast little pair like them.” He jerked his arm toward Kit, who had paused in her efforts to catch the black pony. “The horse will do for an honest man, and is not much good to a horse thief!” retorted Bert, grimly. “And now—” “Bert,” interrupted Kit, “that is the man, but he has changed horses!” “Thank you; so I suspected. Now, Mr.—” “Call me anything but a tenderfoot. I never did like that pie-faced breed.” The hand of the outlaw dropped to the butt of his pistol, but his smile showed his utter contempt for his antagonist. “Bill Doolan, if that pleases you better!” said Bert. The thief started, and a wicked gleam shone in his half-closed eyes. “What I have to say to you,” continued Bert, sternly, “is that you have stolen my horse, and probably the one you are on now. Get off that horse!” “Hands up there, Slowboy!” The outlaw’s voice was taunting, but deadly in its menace. Bert saw that the muzzle of a long-barreled revolver had swung to cover him. Reckless of consequences, Bert tried to jerk his rifle from the scabbard, but the weapon hung, and he desisted. “The luck of a tenderfoot always holds good,” the taunting voice continued. “If that long gun had come out, it would be nine, ten, and all over for you right now. The old man has given strict orders agin’ scrappin’ to-day, or you would learn what it means to try to get the drop on Kid Elder. I’ll mark the old bay for you to remember me by; the next time I’ll leave the same mark on you!” The revolver cracked, the bay horse squatted, and then gave a great bound. With a neat round hole through the top of one of his ears, the

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frightened horse wheeled and bolted. Bert had all he could do to keep his seat on the bucking, plunging animal. The Kid laughed, and galloped away. “Billy, Billy! Come back here!” Kit’s voice rang shrill with dismay. Bert finally got his mount under control, and jerked his rifle from the case, but the outlaw had disappeared round a bend in the road. Kit, too, seemed to have fled. “Oh, he has roped my pony!” Bert heard her shout from some distance down the trail. Bert urged his horse to the place where Kit stood gazing forlornly along the road. “That foolish Billy! He thought it was a race, and he always would try to get ahead of every horse that ran past him. The thief roped him, and took him away!” “I guess the rascal was right when he called me Slowboy,” Bert said, with chagrin. She tried to console him. “A decent man couldn’t be a match for one of those fellows in a gun fight—he would not shoot unless forced to, and they are only waiting for an excuse. Maybe he will turn my pony loose after he has had his fun out of us. Shall we follow beyond the timber and see?” Bert was convinced that the black pony, which was a thoroughbred animal, was too valuable a prize for a horse thief to relinquish willingly. However, he gave up the old bay to Kit, and they made their way to the high ground beyond the valley. They could see the tracks of the two horses plain enough, but rider and led horse had passed out of sight. “I hate to lose him,” said the girl. “I have had him since he was a wee colt.” “You are not going to lose him if I can help it. I happen to know Bear Cañon. It has walls so steep that the horses couldn’t get out if one end were closed, and its mouth is perfectly hidden by dense underbrush and a wide swamp lying between it and the creek. I discovered the cañon by mere accident while trailing a wounded deer.” “Can’t you get help? There are people all about here on their claims.”

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“But no one knows me, and every one is suspicious of every one else. They would think it a trick to get them off their claims. No; ride back, tell your uncle what has happened, and he will raise a posse if he can. I am going to Bear Cañon.” “I am going with you!” “I couldn’t think of letting you,” said Bert. “You couldn’t prevent me,” Kit replied, in a determined voice. At four o’clock in the afternoon they reached Eagle Creek, and were within five miles of the cañon. Meanwhile they had not seen the outlaw; but people along the road whom they questioned told them that he had kept the trail until some miles back, when he had cut away to the southwest, straight for the cañon. Bert’s plan was to get within striking distance of the cañon, and there wait until nightfall. He thought that the thieves would not attempt to drive the stock beyond the river until the moon rose at ten o’clock. After eating a meal in the woods, the two young people made their way down the timber valley of the creek, and skirted the swamp that barred the entrance to the cañon. Here they tied the horse, and then continued on foot. Soon they heard the sound of horses moving about as if in a corral. After walking on a few rods, Bert pointed to a light that seemed to come from a small window. “Here they are! They have made a dugout in the side of the hill. The mouth of the cañon is over there to the right; there must be a fence across it to keep the horses in.” Carefully keeping out of the light that shone from the window, the boy and the girl crept up until they were less than fifty yards from the outlaw’s retreat. Kit caught Bert’s arm. “Listen! They are fiddling and dancing!” The sounds broke out anew and louder; they heard the clear tones of a violin, and the sound of two pairs of feet keeping time in a breakdown, and of clapping hands. “Whoop her up, boys!” they heard the fiddler shout.

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“Drinking in celebration of a great haul,” murmured Bert. Then a man’s dancing figure pivoted before the light, and they saw him plainly. He was Kid Elder. A soft whinny came from close up to the dugout, and the black pony, still saddled and bridled, whirled round from his tether until the light from the window struck fairly on his back. He had recognized his mistress. He was tied within ten feet of the door. “Kit,” Bert whispered, “now is our time. I am going to get your horse while they are dancing. Come to that big tree.” They crept to the tree, which was within twenty-five yards of the dugout, but out of the light that streamed from the window. “Keep the door covered with your gun, Kit, and if they open it, shoot; then run for the horse, and ride for your life. They can’t find me to-night in the woods. I have my rifle, and will look out for myself.” “All right, Bert. I will do what you tell me.” The waiting was long to Kit. Not a twig cracked in the direction that Bert had taken. The loud dancing and the music of the fiddle never slackened. Presently the black pony disappeared from the light. Kit heard him moving—indeed, heard the footfalls of two horses coming slowly. A stick cracked sharp and clear under their feet. The horses halted, then came on again. Bert reached her with two horses, her own and the Kid’s; the latter also was saddled and bridled, just as when the outlaw had left it on dismounting. “They were tied together, and I took both,” Bert explained. “The Kid’s horse is a better one than mine, and might overhaul us. Get on and ride back beyond the reach of the light. Hold this horse, and wait for me. I mean to break the fence and stampede the herd.” The fence, which was built of rough poles, stretched from the corner of the dugout to the opposite side of the cañon. Inside it a large drove of horses were stirring about restlessly. To reach the corral, Bert would have to cross the strip illuminated by the window, but the outlaws were so busy at their dancing that the risk was not great.

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With his rifle ready, Bert crept to the fence. Kit heard him cautiously moving along the rails in search of the bars. Then she heard the poles drop gently. A wild mustang snorted, and with a great bound and clattering of hoofs, charged through the opening. At once the music and dancing ceased. There was a quick shuffling of feet; then Kid Elder stood in the open doorway, with his pistol in one hand, and holding a lamp high above his head with the other. Its beams fell straight on Bert, who, scarcely forty feet away, was trying to crawl across the lighted space. He was on his hands and knees, with his rifle extended before him, where he could not bring it to bear. “Slowboy again!” shouted the Kid. He leveled his heavy revolver at the crawling figure. But at the movement, a gun flamed in the outer darkness, and the lamp in the outlaw’s hand was shattered into fragments. Kid yelled with fright or pain, and his revolver fell with a thud. A second bang! and a load of fine shot tore out the window. “The marshals!” cried a voice. “In with you, Kid, and fasten the door!” A moment later, Bert had reached Kit, and was mounted on the horse she still held. “Lead the way!” he exclaimed. “Ride for it, Kit! They will shoot through the chinks between the logs!” Rifles and pistols crackled wickedly from the dugout, and the bullets whistled and whined round Kit and Bert. With eyes as yet unaccustomed to the darkness, the thieves were firing blindly, but a stray missile might find its mark for all that. Then a diversion came! Frightened by the noise and uproar, the herd of stolen horses rushed in a stream through the opening in the fence. The rest of that frail structure gave way before their wild stampede. Fortunately, the crazed animals struck straight out into the swamp, across which they went thrashing and splashing in mad freedom. The herd blocked all firing from the dugout, for its occupants could not shoot except into the fleeing horses.

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Riding to the place where they had left the old bay, Bert jerked the bridle from his head and set him free; the old fellow trotted quietly after them. The underbrush forced them to ride slowly, but five minutes later they passed round the end of the swamp, and halted in the open woods. The Doolans were firing again, but they did not yet dare to leave the dugout. “Those horses will not stop under ten miles,” said Bert, with grim satisfaction, “and they are going toward our camp. Now Kid Elder and the Bad Doolans generally have their work cut out for them; they won’t trouble us any more.” “Bert, do you suppose I hurt him?” Kit asked. “Hurt him! No, he is too tough for that. But when he picks the shot out of his arm and hand to-morrow, he will realize the difference between a slow boy and a quick-thinking, quick-acting girl.” Three hours later Kit and Bert recrossed the little creek on their way back to camp. There they met Uncle Jack, who had raised a party of men, and was trying to trail them. Led by Bert, the party returned to the dugout, but the thieves were gone. They had escaped across the river on foot, not even daring to try to capture enough horses to ride. Nearly all the stolen stock subsequently found its way into the hands of its rightful owners, including Bert’s roan and Uncle Jack’s team. The Bad Doolans never returned to the Cherokee Strip.

The Black Hero of the Ranges

 Enoch Josiah Mills Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull St. Nicholas, no vem b er 1914

Horses, native to North America before the Ice Age, were reintroduced in the 1500s by the Spanish conquistadors. Many escaped or were turned loose, and their numbers grew to nearly two million. However, cattle raising and the invention of barbed wire diminished the herds, and by 1912 only two hundred thousand wild horses roamed the West. Unchecked roundups and massacres continued to deplete the population until 1971, when Congress passed an act to protect these horses, declaring them “living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West.” Today, approximately thirty-six thousand wild horses inhabit America’s public lands. “The Black Hero of the Ranges” follows a trend popularized at the beginning of the 1900s of basing stories on scientific observation of animals’ behavior in their natural environments. As young Hank watches the cowboys he once admired turn into brutal bounty hunters, his allegiance switches to an independent and courageous black stallion, who proves to the young boy that nature and humans both need to be treated with respect. The wilderness, in this instance, survives the threat of barbaric civilization. Enoch Josiah Mills (1880–1935), or Joe Mills, was born in Kansas

He snorted at the strange crawling object and circled until he got the wind.

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but attended Colorado Agricultural College (Colorado State University) in Fort Collins from 1899–1902, where he excelled in all sports. During the summers, he stayed in Estes Park, Colorado, and enjoyed the outdoor life near his brother Enos Mills, a conservationist who became known as “the father of the Rocky Mountain National Park.” In 1903 Joe began attending the University of Denver, where he starred as quarterback. He soon turned to coaching, first at Fort Worth University and then at Baylor University. However, the Rocky Mountains beckoned, and in 1908 he returned with his new bride to manage his brother’s resort and work as a mountain guide. Eventually, he and his wife constructed the Crags Hotel and operated it for twenty-one seasons. When the University of Colorado–Boulder asked him to become the athletic director and head football coach in 1918, he agreed, managing his resort on the side. Besides many short stories, his major works include a novel about a wolf, The Comeback, and an autobiography, A Mountain Boyhood, both published in 1926.

...... The pungent odor of the camp-fire drifted down the swale, and carried with it the savory smell of the cooking supper. All afternoon, the Diamond H riders had been arriving; word had been passed that a feast would be spread at sundown, in honor of the owner of the “Diamond H” ranch, who had arrived for his first visit to the ranch in three years. The riders had all arrived but young “Hank”—he of the shiny spurs and new “chaps.” No rider in the outfit possessed such complete trappings. Though Hank was not a regular “puncher,” it pleased him mightily to be called one. He was a kind of messenger-boy for the outfit, and rode far and wide carrying orders from the foreman, or going down to the post for the mail. When in camp, he assisted the cook, a task he detested as being beneath his dignity. But Hank was proud of the Diamond H, and boasted that no ranch in Nevada had such riders and ropers. The feast was nearing the end in the soft dusk of evening, when Hank charged down upon the scene at a reckless gallop, and stopped abruptly within the circle of the firelight.

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The foreman straightened up with an observing eye upon the foaming horse. “Didn’t I tell you not to run Old Baldy any more?” Every cow-puncher eyed Hank, and several tried to divert the foreman by witty remarks and laughter. But Hank did not wither under the accusation. “I had to try at the Black Stallion,” he observed, as he fixed his eyes on the owner. “Where?” came a half-dozen demands at once. “Where?” rapped out the owner. It was like an explosion in their midst. The feast was scattered, and instantly there was a stampede of talk. Each rider was possessed of the same thought—to capture that wonderful steed that had so long led his herd whither he would, defying capture, daring to go where no horse ever had gone before, and upon whose head was set a price. “I thought you said the black stallion never came down from the rough country?” The owner waited eagerly for the foreman’s answer. “It’s the first time he’s shown up, down here, since we had the chase after him two years ago.” “Jess, I’d like to have that horse, and I’m willing to go to any amount of trouble to get him. But the question is, ‘can we?’” The foreman looked into the fire and ran his hands thoughtfully through his hair. At length he turned to the owner. “I believe we’ve got the best chance at him, now that he’s left the rough country, that we’ve ever had. He’s an old fox, though, and there’s nothing he doesn’t know about being chased. It’s about as easy to round up a bird as to try to corner him. Still, the water’s all gone, higher up, and he’s got to range down here. If we only had more men and a mustang outfit, I believe we could—” The owner’s heavy hand reached the foreman’s shoulder and stopped him midway of the prediction. “Get the men and the outfit. I’ll foot the bills. If you get him, I’ll hand you a year’s salary. You can promise the men whatever reward you like, but the thing is, get that horse!” Hank moved opposite the two men, and leaned forward across the embers of the fire.

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“Where did you see him, Hank?” “About three miles up the valley by the spring. There were twenty in the herd he was leading.” “All right, Hank; get a fresh horse and ride down to the post and pick up every rider you can. Find old Sam Higler, and tell him he’s to be here with his canvas corral outfit by to-morrow night. Tell every one you see that the black’s come down, and there’s a reward of a thousand dollars for the man who drops his rope on him and brings him in.” Hank vanished in the direction of the rope corral, and five minutes later was riding rapidly toward the post. After he had gone, the owner turned to the foreman. “Jess,” said he, “did I ever tell you where the stallion came from?” The foreman’s interested face invited him to proceed. “It was five years ago that a Syrian peddler was killed by a couple of half-breeds because he had this wonderful black stallion. The Indians took the horse clear across the desert to make their escape, but just when they were about to sell him, the stallion killed one, and lamed the other with his heels, and got away. It was not long before he appeared with a wild-horse herd, and since then he’s been the terror of the range, and there’s not a man in Nevada who can boast of ever getting near enough to drop his rope on him. I doubt if he’s ever taken alive. Before I quit the ranch three years ago, I’d ridden in a couple of chases after him, and I tell you he’s got sense, and legs that can put him over a hundred miles any day.” They sat in silence, each looking into the embers of the fire. Twenty Diamond H riders surrounded the valley early in the morning, and from the passes looked down at the wild-horse band led by the big black stallion. It was a long, narrow valley, and the eastern wall had but a single pass where nothing but winged creatures could escape. At the upper end the valley narrowed, and leading down into it was an old, timeworn pass; here were posted three men with as many extra horses. West of the valley, the ridge rose abruptly. In ten miles it had only five breaks, where steep cañons penetrated its rocky top and broke the barrier. At each

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break, the two men posted themselves and waited. They gained these passes by circuitous routes. The lower end of the valley was guarded by three men, who lounged about, allowing their horses to graze. At noon, Hank arrived upon a jaded horse, and singly, or by twos and threes, the other “punchers” came in during the afternoon, each mounted on his best horse, and with carefully coiled ropes. At dark, Sam Higler put in appearance with his mustang trap, which was set up over night across the lower end of the valley. The trap consisted of a brown canvas twelve feet high, which represented an impassable wall. Near the center the wall curved sharply, making a natural corner with an inviting opening leading into a canvas corral beyond. It was a cunning contrivance, and in it scores of wild mustangs had been captured. It was here that they hoped to capture the famous stallion. Extra men were sent to reinforce the guards at all the passes. Fifteen of the best ropers were kept at camp, and these were to take part at the finish of the chase. From the main ranch there had been sent up a dozen thoroughbred, long-legged, racing horses, which were to be used in case the stallion broke through the barrier and escaped from the valley, or were to be held in reserve until the chase had tired out the crafty leader. Then they were to appear suddenly from behind the canvas wall, and go after the herd like the wind. Orders were to shoot the stallion if he broke through the lines. The rest of the herd was worth four thousand dollars, and their addition to the ranch stock would be valuable. The only ones at breakfast at the chuck wagon that morning were the owner, the foreman, and Hank. While the men settled the final details of the chase, Hank tidied up the camp things and saddled his horse. “Hank, one of the boys rode back yesterday to report that there’s still a little water at the muddy spring water-hole.” Hank was silent; sudden fear had chilled him. The foreman continued: “If the foxy old stallion gets away from us in the valley, that’s the only place in a hundred miles he can get water; and I guess after we’ve run him a hundred miles or so,

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he’ll be wanting water, too. You’d better ride up to the muddy spring, Hank, and stick it out there until dark. There’s no telling what may happen to-day, but whatever comes, the chase will end at dark.” Hank turned away, blinking fast and swallowing hard. His hopes of riding with the foreman and the owner were thus suddenly blasted, leaving behind a sense of revolt that fairly hurt. After discovering the horse, he would lose all the excitement of the chase. Soon after daylight, the foreman and the owner rode into the valley above the canvas wall. They galloped easily toward the spring where Hank had seen the horses two days before. When they rounded a knoll a half-mile below the water-hole, they sighted the wonderful stallion on guard on a slight elevation, with the herd feeding quietly below. Instantly the band was off up the valley, and the foreman was riding rapidly in pursuit. The owner stopped at the spring, where he would wait until the time came for the concerted dash and capture of the big black. It was a waiting game, and patience was to play an important part. Ten miles up the valley, straight for the steep trail at the upper end, swept the black leader at the head of his herd. But a quarter of a mile from the pass he stopped, wheeled, and doubled back. The foreman was riding near the western wall, and the band passed him on its return trip without being forced into close quarters. One of the men on guard at the pass dashed down with a fresh horse, and five minutes later the foreman was after the herd again with the second horse. He galloped along a half-mile behind the stallion, and not once did he press the chase or excite the band unduly. At the sight of the brown canvas wall barring his way, the stallion spun around and fled wildly up the valley again. But three of the others went straight on through the narrow opening at the center, and were easy victims in the canvas corral. On another fresh horse, the foreman continued the chase. Not once did he come nearer than the half-mile, and never did he permit the band to stop for more than a minute or two at a time. When within a quarter of a mile of the pass, the stallion again scented

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danger, and again wheeled back down the valley. Once more a man dashed out from hiding with a fresh horse, and the chase continued. It was settling down now to one of dogged endurance, with the odds against the stallion. Fresh horses were in plenty for the foreman, but the wonderful black kept on, hour after hour, leading his dwindling band with what seemed tireless energy. Ceaselessly they kept him moving. Three round trips of the valley, sixty miles, and ten of his mates were out of the chase, and before the fourth round of the valley was finished, they were dropping out rapidly, being roped and dragged in submission to the canvas corral. Frequently now the stallion would stop and watch until his relentless pursuer was within a hundred yards; then he would be off again. His black coat was covered with foam; he was becoming uncertain on his feet, and stumbled often. He approached the water-hole, but it was guarded. Wearily he turned back down the valley because it was easier going. The foreman fired three quick signal shots, and from behind the brown canvas wall rode the best ropers of the region, mounted on the fleetest horses. The stallion sloped his flight and went on down the valley along the western side. The riders waited across the valley until he had passed, then they spread out across the level floor. Ten abreast, and absolutely certain of success, they galloped easily along behind the stallion as he went on straight toward the canvas barrier. They did not hurry; there was no need; an easy gallop kept pace with the stallion’s now unsteady gait. A hundred yards from the barrier, he wheeled defiantly. Facing them, he waited. The foreman shouted an order, and they dashed wildly forward, each eager to be first to drop his rope over the wary head and win eternal fame in the region as the subduer of the most wonderful horse in Nevada. The stallion waited their coming with heaving sides and flaming eyes. When the nearest riders were fifty feet away, he charged directly toward them, getting into his full stride in spite of his weariness, and by

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the time he reached them, he was going at top speed. His unexpected charge threw the riders into confusion. Their racing horses were not trained to the roping game like their cow-horses; besides, each rider was racing wildly, and each had his full length of rope ready for a long cast in order to be first. Straight between two riders went the stallion. The men were alert and active in spite of their mounts. They made casts at the same instant, and their ropes met in mid air above his head. One loop dropped short, and the other was so large that he leaped half through before the man could snake the slack with a quick backward jerk of his hand and tighten up. Even then, his horse was broadside when the plunging stallion reached the end of the rope with a tremendous charge that lifted the racer clear of his feet and flung him violently to the ground. To save himself, the man instinctively let go the rope, which he had snubbed around the saddle horn, and at the stallion’s first lunge it slipped from the saddle and went trailing off behind the black. Three leaps more, and it dropped harmlessly to the ground. The stallion was free again. The very number of his pursuers was his advantage. A hundred feet away the side of the valley rose at half pitch, and rough rocks and dense scrub were scattered thickly up the slope. Up he went over ragged rock slabs, forcing his way through the scrub where no ridden horse could follow. Straight up the mountain the great horse fought his way, though it was strewn with huge blocks of bare rock piled in a forbidding mass of debris. The route looked impossible to any animal except a man. “Don’t shoot! He’s all in,” ordered the foreman. From above came shouts of the men guarding the pass: “Let him come! We’ll get him.” Desperately the men below tried to follow, and impatiently the men at the top waited and watched his slow upward progress. They straightened their ropes, tightened their cinches, and made sure that every detail was ready. Behind them, back of the ridge top, lay a narrow plateau, and beyond rose a second ridge. Upon this level bench they would capture the famous stallion, and the reward.

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A hundred feet from the top, the stallion doubled back, leaped boldly over a narrow chasm, and followed along a narrow ledge of bare rock that ran along the face of the cliff. It was barely wide enough for him to edge along, and there was every chance that it might pinch out. But the ledge did not pinch out, and the stallion came to the end of it fifty yards farther, where a section of the barrier had gone out with the rock slide. Up over the rock slabs the horse fought his mad way, always toward the top. His progress was slow and painful. Often he was minutes gaining a few feet. Still, nothing daunted nor defeated him. The men watching from above laughed, exulted at the sight. A narrow rock-filled gully ran back across the plateau toward the ridge beyond. Scrub growth filled in between the rocks. It was to the mouth of this gully that the horse finally forced his way. The men were waiting for him on foot. Each dropped his rope over the coveted head with a yell of triumph. No sooner did the ropes tighten upon the stallion’s neck than he became an explosion of action. Up the slope toward the level ground he charged, and the men, confident of success, let him go. Once in the open, they stopped him by throwing their weight against their ropes. With flaming eyes, mouth open, and ears laid flat, the stallion came down at them, a terrible monster of rage. The horse was within ten feet of the men, when one of them let go his rope and dived aside as the black bulk lurched by. The other threw his weight against his rope, and the stallion turned upon him with bared teeth, and awful, flashing eyes. He saved himself only by leaping blindly into the scrub in the gully. When the men recovered their feet, they rushed to their horses, and were after the runaway pell-mell. But the stallion continued along the broken top of the ridge, where it seemed as if he would surely tumble headlong back into the valley. He dared every obstacle for liberty, leaped treacherous gaps in the rock barrier where his enemies dared not follow, and made his way across fields of huge, broken rocks where no other horse had ever dared.

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On the level, the fresh horses of the men could easily have overtaken him; but among the rocks and chasms of the ridge top, they had difficulty in keeping him in sight. Their horses were not fighting a life-anddeath battle, and could not follow the way the stallion went. They had to make detours where the black forged straight up the slope. Seeing that he was about to gain the second ridge top, the men opened on him with their six-shooters, but he plunged desperately into the growth of scrub just back of the second ridge top, and went crashing headlong out of sight, and safe from the spiteful guns. Ten minutes after the stallion disappeared into the scrub, the men reached the top of the ridge and saw the plain trail where he had entered the thicket. They separated and started circling around the copse in opposite directions, chagrined at their failure to either capture or kill the wonderful black horse. They rode desperately to intercept him when he should emerge from the far side of the sheltering growth. But, as soon as they were out of hearing, the crafty animal came out at the spot where he had entered the thicket, and started westward along the rough ridge top. Sometimes he stopped for a moment to rest, and always he watched the back trail. When he went on again, he followed the roughest way he could find. An hour later, the men from the valley came up and found his tracks, which told once more how the big black stallion had won his freedom. In the second valley, they found where he had joined another wild-horse band. But they knew he would soon leave the band and seek shelter; so they scattered and began careful search for tracks near every thicket. They hoped to find him before he had sufficiently rested to run away from them. It was a game for life and freedom by the stallion, and he never gave up. Leaving the wild herd abruptly, he rested a few minutes, then pushed on to a hiding-place. But he allowed little time for rest; always he went on and on, putting as much distance between himself and his enemies as his strength would permit. Thus it was, he worked his way to the lonely water-hole.

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Through all the long hours, Hank waited at the muddy spring beside it. While he kept lonely vigil, his heart welled up against the foreman and the others. He almost hoped that the stallion would get away. Surely the chase was over, long since, for the sun was dropping low. However, his orders were to wait until dark, and he would stick it out. Not because he cared what any of them thought, or said, or did, but because he was a boy—and almost a man. They had not given him a fair chance, and he knew that they would give the stallion even less. At four in the afternoon, Hank unsaddled Old Baldy, hobbled him, and allowed him to graze away from the spring. Behind a scrub where the sand had drifted, he scooped out a hole with his hands, and snuggled in the bottom with his six-shooter within touch. Long rides, loss of sleep, and constant vigil had wearied him more than he knew. In five minutes he was asleep. The sun touched the distant mountains and sank slowly behind them. A wild snort awakened him, and he started up stupidly, half awake, gun in hand. He arose cautiously. Thirty feet away stood the stallion, legs braced wide apart to keep from falling, muscles all a-quiver. He was reeking with foam and dirt. But his eyes were blazing with that terrible fear and hate of man. The breeze carried the man-smell away from the stallion, and undersized Hank, standing knee-deep in the sand-pit, did not look formidable. For a moment they faced each other across the water-hole, each immovable with surprise. Instinctually, Hank’s gun hand crept out and rose slowly in front, sliding out toward the stallion. He covered a foam fleck between the blazing eyes, held the gun steady there for a second, then he lowered it. “He can’t get away anyhow,” he said aloud. At the sound of his voice, the stallion pulled himself together with a jerk. Plainly though, he was at the end of his race. He must have water or perish. Slowly he advanced. A few steps from the spring he halted, his instinct warning him against nearer approach to his hated enemy. But he was too weak to run away, and, after hesitating, he staggered forward and dropped to his knees at the water-hole.

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“All right, old fellow, you win!” and Hank replaced his gun in its holster and stood watching as the horse buried his nose in the muddy water and drank in great, sobbing gulps, until the water-hole was empty. Hank was glad he had dug it out in the morning. The little hole held perhaps two buckets of dark water, but it made only a taste for the stallion. “Looks like they’d given you a run for your life, old fellow,” and Hank moved forward slowly, continued talking, and edging nearer. Soothingly he talked his way forward while the horse held his hot muzzle pressed against the wet sand, eagerly sucking up the water as it flowed slowly forth. Its slowness made him impatient, and he began pawing wildly. “Now don’t do that!” Hank chided; “don’t you see you’ve filled up the hole?” Far back in his mind the stallion must have remembered that men had been kind to him; for he was not afraid now of this first man-being who had been kind to him since he escaped the Indians. There was something in the gentle touch of the boy that thrilled him with vague memories. He waited patiently while with bare hands Hank scooped out the water-hole. Tears were streaming down Hank’s boyish face as he loosened the two ropes and tossed them aside. Patting the foam-flecked neck, he talked on and on. The horse waited impatiently for the water that came so maddeningly slow. After his second draft, he nosed Hank and whinnied eagerly. Darkness settled unnoticed. Suddenly the stallion lifted his head alert and looked intently toward the east, ears pricked sharply forward, and alarm in his manner. Hank could see or hear nothing, but he watched the revived horse keenly. A moment later came distant hoof-beats, and the stallion galloped stiffly away into the darkness. Soon the rough voice of a man greeted Hank as he stood motionless by the water-hole. “Hello, fellows! Did you get him?” his question saved him from having to answer that question himself, and conveyed to the men exactly

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what he wished it to. He had scooped out a hole in the sand, tossed the ropes into it, and smoothed the sand over them. Hank was silent on the homeward ride. His heart was filled with conflicting emotions, and he heard only part of the talk about the daredevil horse that had climbed rock walls and fought for his freedom. It seemed to be the general opinion that the stallion had joined another band. Fifteen miles across the rough country Hank rode every Saturday afternoon. He had asked, then demanded, of the foreman this half-holiday, and had at last secured it through strategy. In his pockets were lumps of sugar, offerings of salt, bread, and other treats for the stallion. Twice during the first month he had sighted the wonderful black, and had coaxed him to approach and accept the offerings he had brought to cement their friendship. If the stallion failed to keep the tryst, Hank would return to the ranch dejected and morose. It was near round-up time, and some extra work had delayed Hank past his usual starting-time. He did not take the precaution of starting off and circling back to throw the others off his trail, but took a short cut up the valley, climbed the steep trail at its upper end, and emerged through the pass that overlooked the muddy spring. He went down the opposite slope at a rapid pace. Baldy had once been a famous cow-horse, but had grown too old for active service. They were going down the smooth slope like the wind, when Baldy stepped into a hole and plunged downward, turning completely over in his fall. Hank was flung from the saddle, but one foot stuck in its stirrup. Then he lost consciousness. Pain in his leg roused him after a few minutes, and he sat up, dazed. Noticing that his right toe was twisted in, he tried to reach out to it, but his hand refused to obey the summons—his collar-bone was injured, too. His head cleared, and he realized what had happened. Baldy lay with his head doubled under his body; his neck was broken. Hank crawled painfully to his saddle and cut the thongs that bound his slicker. Out of it, with his left hand, he cut strips and slowly bound the throbbing ankle, and made a sling for his useless arm. When he had

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finished his bandaging, he started crawling slowly toward the spring. On one hand and both knees he dragged himself along, stopping often to rest. The stallion snorted at the strange crawling object and circled until he got the wind; the smell convinced him, and he decided to venture nearer. Sitting quiet, Hank coaxed, gave sugar sparingly, and a little salt too. When the stallion was used to his new appearance, he pressed firmly with his left hand behind the horse’s knees. “Lie down, lie down, lie down,” he begged, but the black horse did not understand, and edged away. Water at the hole revived Hank, but at times during the night he was half delirious, calling out for the stallion to come to him; and all night the stallion kept vigil about the spring. Frequently at the call, he would approach and nose the boy, whinny eagerly, and walk round and round him. At daylight, the great black horse was still waiting beside the boy. Sometimes Hank would rouse himself with an effort and try to get the horse to lie down. Toward noon, Hank’s head cleared, and he crawled slowly to an upthrust of rock and coaxed the stallion to him. With a painful effort he dragged himself upon the mighty back, and turned the stallion’s head toward the ranch. They traveled slowly. Many times the rider reeled recklessly, and came near tumbling off. At such times, the horse would stop and wait until Hank gave the word to go on again. Fifteen cow-punchers were lolling away Sunday afternoon in the shade of the bunk-house. Hank’s absence was being discussed. Around a point two hundred yards away came the stallion. At the sight of the men he stopped quickly, and Hank narrowly saved himself from pitching headlong to the ground. The stallion turned his head and looked at Hank. “It’s all right, old fellow; I’ll see you through. Go on!” And the horse went forward at an easy pace, with Hank clinging with his left hand tightly to the flowing mane. Fifteen punchers held the attitude they were in when the horse ap-

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peared—they were frozen with astonishment. Not one of them broke the silence nor moved a hand. At the gate the stallion stopped, and Hank crumpled into the arms of one of the punchers, and then to the ground. He lay quiet so long that the horse gently pawed at him and whinnied anxiously. “I’m all right, old pal,” Hank said aloud, through clenched teeth. “You hit the trail; I’ll see you again, when I’m able to travel.” With head and tail high, mane flowing in the breeze, the stallion galloped away, swinging his magnificent head from side to side as he went, and looking backward continually. But not a man stirred.

Smiley Hewitt and the Prairie-Wolf

 John R. Spears Youth’s Companion, may 9, 1901

The coyote, or prairie wolf, is common in the western and central United States, and although they sometimes prey on domestic animals, they are most often scavengers, surviving on grasshoppers, small animals, rodents, and carrion, as well as fruits and berries. Native Americans believed that the creator chose the coyote, the trickster, to teach valuable lessons to mankind. Easily tamed as pups and readily adaptable to their surroundings, coyotes were domesticated by many Western tribes, who also bred coyote hybrids to use as draft animals. With the influx of homesteaders—and their confined poultry and small animals—the coyote became maligned. Although there has almost always been a bounty on the coyote, with thousands of animals killed each year, their numbers and range have increased over time since their major predators, mountain lions and wolves, have been largely eradicated. In “Smiley Hewitt and the Prairie-Wolf,” a young boy tames a coyote, who teaches a cattleman and his family a valuable lesson in living in harmony with nature. Even the treachery of a sudden blizzard must be accommodated. A journalist and a naval historian, John R. Spears (1850–1937) was

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born in Ohio and died in Hollywood, California. He began as a journalist during the Civil War. Afterward, he entered the naval academy for three years but decided to return to journalism. As a reporter for the New York Sun, he traveled to Death Valley in 1891, the first professional journalist to photograph and report on the region. In his book Illustrated Sketches of Death Valley, published by Rand McNally in 1892, he wrote about his explorations in the borax mines and described the twenty-mule teams, the desert landscape, and the colorful characters living there. The Sun also sent him to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego in 1894, and he compiled his accounts of this little-known “frontier” region into The Gold Diggings of Cape Horn (1895). After serving as a war correspondent in Cuba and Puerto Rico during the Spanish-American War, he published The History of Our Navy from its Origin to the present Day 1775– 1897 (1897) and “Our Navy in the War with Spain,” published in Atlantic Monthly in 1898. In addition to books about the American slave trade, the United States merchant marines, New England whalers, and Captain Nathaniel Brown Palmer, Spears collected his short stories in The Port of Missing Ships (1896).

...... When Smiley Hewitt was thirteen years old his mother’s pet name for him was “nurse-girl,” and his father would jokingly say to him very often, “Well, old hen, how’s the chickens?” Smiley was not in the least a girlish boy, but he had in a way earned these appellations. The Hewitts at that time lived in a little house with sod walls and a sod roof among the low, sandy hills that border the Cimarron River in southwestern Kansas. They had but one neighbor within twenty miles—a cattleman named Herndon, who lived with his wife in a house like that of the Hewitts, three miles away—but they were by no means in a lonely locality. Their house, in fact, stood on the old trail that ran from Dodge City, Kansas, to Tascosa, Texas; and it was known all along the route as the Cimarron Hotel, because the Hewitts, although they had but two beds for guests, were always ready to supply the wayfarers with meals on very short notice. And, as many an old plains freighter now remembers, the number of wayfarers who stopped

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there was great enough to keep Mrs. Hewitt busy at the stove and the table from daylight to dark on many days of the year. It was through this constant demand upon her time that Smiley came to be called his mother’s nurse-girl. He was the oldest of five children, the youngest of whom was four years old. There was no school nearer than Dodge City, and no help could be hired anywhere in that region. So Smiley had to take care of the younger children. But no one should suppose that he considered this a hard task. On the contrary, the life of the youngsters among the sand-hills along the river was one prolonged holiday. From breakfast until dinner, and from dinner until supper, Smiley was free to go away as he pleased, and build forts with which to “play Injun,” or lay out town sites and get rich selling the lots at auction to the four eager buyers; or to—and for this he had a peculiar gift—make friends with the birds and animals that found shelter and food among the dwarf plum-trees and cottonwoods along the stream. Now and then a “tenderfoot” from the far East, while stopping at the house, was known to ask Mrs. Hewitt if she wasn’t afraid that some wild beast would attack the children, or that they would get lost. Mrs. Hewitt always replied politely that “While they keep as healthy appetites as they have now, they won’t get out of range of the dinner-bell;” and as for the wild beasts, that “There’s nothing around here bigger than lynxes and coyotes, and they will run at sight of a human.” Nevertheless, a time came when Mrs. Hewitt’s cheerful confidence received a severe shock. It was on a most beautiful day in April. Mrs. Herndon had come to spend the day, and after Smiley went away down the river with the children, the two women had a most comfortable time together until about noon, when three freighters’ outfits and the Tascosa stage arrived together. There were eleven hungry men, all told, to care for, and Mrs. Hewitt made the dishes rattle as she set the table and kept the things on the stove hot at the same time. One o’clock came before she gave a thought to her own dinner. When at last she began to prepare for herself and her family, she glanced at the clock, and then, seeing how late it was, said, with a fluttering voice:

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“Mercy on us! Where are the children? My goodness, they should have been here an hour ago! Come with me to look for them.” At that, Mrs. Herndon and Mrs. Hewitt put on their sunbonnets and went hurrying away down the river, their fears rising with every step. Ten minutes later they climbed a low ridge half a mile from the house, and saw the children in what seemed such terrible danger that Mrs. Herndon fell half fainting to the ground, while Mrs. Hewitt, with a harsh cry of mingled desperation and fear, plunged forward down the hill to the rescue. For the younger children were all in a bunch, and a dark-coated prairie-wolf was racing around them with mouth open and tongue out, while Smiley, too, was running around them and keeping himself between them and the coyote. Worse yet, just as the two women saw the children, the beast stopped, crouched down and then leaped straight at Smiley’s chest. At the sound of their mother’s voice, all the children and the coyote turned to look at her. Then Smiley shouted: “Hooray! It’s mamma. Is dinner ’most ready?” And the beast began sneaking away, with its head over its shoulder to keep an eye on everybody in sight. More remarkable still, the instant Smiley saw the coyote running away, he began the droning call with which cowboys often quiet nervous cattle: “Yo-o-o-o—hay-ay-ay—yo-o-o-oo!” And at that the coyote stopped and wagged its tail, although it did not turn back, as Smiley wished it to do. The children had gone hunting among the sand-hills for pets, and the feathered and four-footed little people there had in some way understood that in spite of the deadly revolvers carried by the teamsters on the trail, here were five little human beings who were friendly. The prairie-wolf was merely the last friend that Smiley had added to his visiting-list. “I just wish Herndon had been along. He’d taken the play out of the beast quick enough,” said Mrs. Herndon, when Smiley had told briefly about taming the coyote with scraps of food and kind words. “Don’t you know that the coyote’s got the evil eye? You mustn’t play with them,”

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she continued. “They’ll throw a spell over you, and something awful is sure to happen. They’re worse than snakes, enough sight. Ugh! Let’s go to the house.” Mrs. Hewitt did not believe what Mrs. Herndon said about the “evil eye” and the coyote or its “spell,” but she knew Mrs. Herndon was sincere, and so said nothing at the time. She intended to explain to the children that although there was nothing supernatural or ghostly about the prairie-wolf, she had always heard people call the animal treacherous, and she wished that jack-rabbits and prairie-dogs might be cultivated instead; but because of the pressure of work that day she forgot the matter until after the children were asleep, and thereafter she did not recall it again, when they were with her, until the following August, when she was forcibly reminded of it by a remarkable incident of plains life. It happened that Mrs. Herndon was again spending the day with Mrs. Hewitt. It was a most oppressive day. The air was so lifeless that both women wished a hundred times for the less disagreeable hot winds that usually blow over the plains. The children had remained about the house all day, and had displayed as little animation as the grown people. In fact, about the only comforting thought that any one there had was on the total absence of all traffic over the trail. No one had been obliged to do any work worth mentioning. But at three o’clock, while everybody about the house was well-nigh half-asleep, the howl of a prairie-wolf was heard just outside the door— a most startling sound. “Oh, dear, something’s going wrong!” said Mrs. Herndon. “I do wish Herndon was here to shoot the beast. He never misses one that’s less than a hundred yards away, if I do say it, and he hates them as bad as I do.” Going to the door, all of the group saw the prairie-wolf crossing the trail on the gallop. Smiley shouted vigorously, and it stopped for a moment on a low hill and looked toward the house. “Where’s your Winchester?” said Mrs. Herndon to Mr. Hewitt. “Ain’t that a prime shot?”

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Smiley looked up anxiously at his father’s face, but the father made no move toward the rifle, and the next moment the coyote disappeared. But even as it fled, others came galloping over the hills to follow it. Then a flock of prairie-chickens swirled down into the corral, only to fly away again the next minute. Other birds and beasts followed these, until it seemed as if all the wild things of the region had determined to show themselves. It was not the common inhabitants alone that appeared; turkeys and owls and foxes and a bobtailed wildcat were seen within five minutes. And every one of these wild animals showed a state of mind bordering on a panic. It was most remarkable, but while the people at the house looked on in silent wonder, a small black cloud grew in the southwest. In a minute or two a long, increasing tail hung down from this cloud, and a low, buzzing roar became audible. “It’s a cyclone! Climb for the cellar! I knowed that coyote’d bring trouble!” shouted Mrs. Herndon. Every one ran to the entrance of the cave which Mr. Hewitt had scooped into a sand-hill for use as a cellar; and there they paused to watch the coming cloud. But within a few minutes they saw that the route of the tornado lay too far to the east to threaten danger, and they returned to the house to watch it. Mrs. Herndon continued her talk about the mysterious evil that is found in the “sneakin’ coyote.” To all of this Mrs. Hewitt listened without comment because she did not believe it. Nevertheless, she said to Smiley that night: “I forgot all about telling you I wish you wouldn’t play with those coyotes. It’s not what Mrs. Herndon said that makes me feel so. They had nothing to do with beginning the cyclone to-day. They were just scared, like all the other things we saw. I don’t know how they learned it was coming, but I’ve seen geese in a great commotion back home in Herkimer County when a thunderstorm was coming. The howling and fear of the beasts might serve some good as a warning, but still I’ve always heard they were treacherous, especially when they grew old. Have you seen much of that one you were playing with the day I thought it was going to eat you alive?”

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“Why, yes, mamma,” said Smiley, “almost every day. I never could get him to the house, though I know he comes alone nights; but he’s been lots of fun until just a week or so past. There’s another one—a mother with puppies that are all grown up now, and they’d let me play with the puppies and never say a word. They lived in a cave under the steep bank of the old river-bed down below, you know—about a quarter of a mile below where you saw us. I’ve been there lots of times. Why, they won’t hurt anybody, or they’d chewed us up long ago.” The mother smiled, but rather faintly, as she said, “Well, maybe it’s all right, but I wish you’d never tamed the treacherous things.” Thereafter, when Mrs. Hewitt thought of Smiley’s odd four-footed playmates she put the matter out of mind as soon as possible. She knew he would keep away from them if she positively commanded it, but that she did not want to do. She felt that he was deprived of many pleasures which boys in settled regions have, and she could not bear to deprive him of any he could make for himself. So Smiley and his flock continued to frequent the hills as before until toward Christmas, when a sister of Mrs. Herndon came to the Herndon house to spend the holidays, bringing with her a boy and a girl who were so near Smiley’s age and so congenial that Smiley almost forgot about his feathered and furry friends. The walk from the Hewitt house to that of the Herndons was nothing for such a sturdy lad as he. In fact, the younger children often went there as well. These visits, with the return ones made by the newcomers, filled the hours so full of fun that the days never seemed long enough. Now when Christmas was at hand, it was agreed that the Herndons should take dinner with the Hewitts, and during the afternoon before Christmas Smiley was sent alone to carry a message to Mrs. Herndon in regard to this arrangement. It was such a lovely day that Smiley played around the Herndon house and yard in his shirt-sleeves for an hour or so. But at three o’clock he came into the house for his coat, saying the air had grown suddenly cold. Mrs. Herndon laughed at the idea. It was still warm enough where she was at work over the stove, but a half-hour later Herndon came to the house in a shiver, and said:

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“Smiley, I judge by the feel of the air that we’re going to have a norther before long, and maybe you’d better stay all night.” “Oh, I can’t do that. Mamma expects me home.” “Well, then, you’d better go right away. I’m scared of northers, and there’s no telling but it may strike down on us before sunset.” Smiley started away a few minutes later, but the sky was clear, and he walked very leisurely. Even when he saw a low-lying black cloud on the northern horizon, and the air became still colder, he was in no hurry; he had never seen the genuine norther of the plains region. In fact, he was still two miles away from home when on a sudden the snow seemed to gather in the air about him, the wind came with a power that half lifted him on and then he lost sight of everything that was more than two rods away. “I’m glad the trail’s so plain. A fellow might get lost pretty easy in a snow like this,” he thought, as he bent before the blast and started on a jog-trot. It was not long—it seemed only a few minutes—before the snow became so deep that Smiley had to walk instead of run. Indeed, he soon found himself plodding along instead of walking with his usual sturdy stride. Worse than that, he observed, as time passed, that in spite of the work of wading through the snow he was by no means as warm as he usually was when walking swiftly over unobstructed ground. And then, just as the light began to fail, he saw one of the low sandhills that border the Cimarron River rise out of the gloom before him. The sight of that lifted his spirits immediately, and with a shout he put new strength into his efforts; but before he had taken many steps he saw that other hills rose so close on either side of this one that there was no room for a wagon-trail between. Pausing for a moment, he gazed from side to side, striving to find the familiar opening through which the old trail ran, but nothing could he see except the close-lying hills. Next he climbed one of these, but only to find he could see no farther through the driving snow. He was lost in a raging norther; he was already growing cold un-

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der its blast, and night was at hand. Death was before him, whether he stood still or went on. Brushing away the tears that came to his eyes, he put his hands deep in his coat pockets, and plunged ahead among the hills. He thought that if he could reach the river he might tell by the outline of the banks or by the breadth of the water or by an island that lay some distance downstream from the trail which way to turn. It was a most manly struggle. The swirling of the wind among the hills piled the drifts waist-deep, but he floundered through them with such strength as remained, keeping the while before the wind because he knew it was blowing toward the river. But at last his overtaxed muscles gave way and he fell. Thoroughly frightened now, he got on his feet again, and wading ahead more slowly, began to call for help in the cowboy’s droning cry: “Yo-o-o-o—hay-ay-ay-ay—yo-o-o-oo!” It was a sound that would carry farther than any shout of which he was capable, and he repeated it again and again, hoping against hope that it would reach his father’s ears. At last there was a click in his throat, the cry turned into a sob and hope fled. And then, out of the storm on his left, fairly splashing the drifted snow from its path, came the gray-coated prairie-wolf that had been his playmate; it came to leap up on his breast as it had done on the day when his mother had been so badly frightened by it. But even as the animal jumped before him it somehow lost its footing and fell out of sight in snow that tumbled around it; and when Smiley stooped to clasp it, he, too, went plunging into an invisible snow-covered abyss. At the time when Smiley and the coyote were falling together into the snow, Smiley’s father was lying firmly bound on the family bed. On account of the work, no one about the Hewitt place had observed the coming norther until it filled the air with snow. But when it did come, Hewitt, half-wild with anxiety, had started to go seeking on foot for Smiley. A couple of freighters had tried to convince him of the deadly

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folly of the quest, and when their arguments failed they had simply tied him down to save his life. Then they spent the night in watching the clock and talking about the probability that Smiley had remained with the Herndons. At daylight the storm disappeared, and Hewitt and the two men who had kept him at home saddled horses that had endured the fearful night in the coral and rode away toward Herndon’s. When a mile or so out on the plain, they saw Herndon coming. It was a heart-breaking story that Herndon brought. He said: “Neighbor, I can’t tell you how sorry I am I didn’t tie the boy down and make him stay, but it’s too late, for—for—” He choked at the thought of Smiley freezing to death out on that plain. The two freighters rode up beside Mr. Hewitt to say such consoling things as they could. But Hewitt said: “Thank ye kindly, but I mustn’t stop here. I’ve got to find him. I can’t go back to her till I’ve done that.” The men looked at one another. With the whole plain covered perhaps a foot deep, not to mention the drifts among the hills, how could any one hope to find the buried body of a lad like Smiley? None of the three men had any hope of it, but Herndon said: “He’s got to try, men. He can’t help that. And I reckon Smiley must have left the trail about half a mile back toward his home, and after that he’d go right before the wind, just like cattle. So we’ll spread out a bit, and try to follow.” They examined every mound and drift as they rode toward the river, and they were soon wallowing among the drifts in the hills three-quarters of a mile down-stream from the Hewitt home. It was a struggle as heart-breaking as the words of Herndon had been when he met the father on the trail, but Hewitt could not give it up. Dismounting from his horse, he went wading slowly along, working his feet into the snow on the right and the left as he made his way toward the river, while the others slowly followed him with their horses. At this point the hills or sand-dunes were spread out no more than a

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quarter of a mile from the river, while midway in the range was an old gulch where the stream had cut a channel in some forgotten time, and then had given it up again. To the bank of this old bed Hewitt worked his way without a word. When he stood where he could see that the river itself was buried out of sight under ice and snow, except where a tumble or riffle had kept it from freezing, the thoughts which the sight of the ice raised in his mind proved too much for his self-control, and sinking down in his tracks, he covered his face with his hands. At that the men started forward to try once more to comfort him, but the horse of one of the freighters reared suddenly, and plunged forward into a drift with an earth-shaking jump. Then something was seen struggling through the snow under the old river-bank before them, and the next moment a gray-coated coyote went floundering up the old riverbed toward the ice on the main stream. But hardly had it given three jumps clear of the drift when Herndon flashed a revolver from his belt and fired a shot that tumbled the beast headlong and dying. “There’s one less hoodoo!” said Herndon, savagely; but even as he spoke a scream was heard under the bank where the coyote had been, and then the boy for whom they were searching rolled out of the drift, ran to the dying animal, and putting his arms around it, cried aloud. Then he turned furiously to his father and wailed: “He saved me! He saved my life, and you killed him! You—you—murdered him!” And again the boy took to wailing over his playmate. The four men stood speechless and motionless. Then Herndon spurred his horse forward to where he could look over the bank. There he saw clearly that the boy and the prairie-wolf had passed the night in safety, if not in comfort, crouching in the den where the wolf had made its home, and shielded from the deadly blast by the snow that, curling over the bank, had piled itself before them. Turning, he gave one glance at the boy crouching over the coyote, and then he said: “I vow, men, I’m sorry I did it! Smiley’s right. It was just plain murder.”

When Jennie Saved the Windmill

 Clara L. Dobson Youth’s Companion, f eb rua ry 9, 1911

According to the historian Walter Prescott Webb, the Great Plains lacked two of the three elements essential to settling the North American continent: timber and rainfall. While land was plentiful, the near absence of trees and precipitation led early explorers to label the region a desert. Only by making drastic changes to their lifestyles could migrants ever hope to settle this “Great American Desert.” To compensate for the lack of trees, settlers built sod houses; to access water, they dug wells; and to cure loneliness and build communities, they relied on one another. “When Jennie Saved the Windmill” exemplifies the difficulties of being alone on a homestead. Jennie, left at home with the baby while her husband, Steve, and their “only close neighbor” go into town, throws off conventional gender norms to secure the farm windmill against the raging wind. But with no one around to help watch the homestead, a coyote breaks into the house and threatens the baby. Born in 1861 in Des Moines, Iowa, Clara Louise Fink married W. J. Dobson in 1885. Educated at Simpson College, Clara taught for two years, and in 1886 she earned her master of philosophy degree before the couple moved to Nebraska. After the death of her husband in the

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1890s, Dobson became the Frontier County superintendent of schools in Stockville, Nebraska, for three terms. She moved to Lincoln with her adopted son, Charles, and in 1910 she purchased a house at University Place, where she rented rooms. Charles worked in a hotel, and Clara’s unmarried sister Harriet, also a teacher, lived with them. Later, she and her sister moved to Boaz, Alabama, where Dobson taught high school. She died in 1953. Other than readings and speeches for the Nebraska State Teachers’ Association and the Women’s Home Missionary Society in Lincoln, “When Jennie Saved the Windmill” appears to be the only writing she ever published.

...... “Bye-o-baby-bunting, Papa’s gone a-hunting, Gone to get a rabbit skin To wrap the baby-bunting in.”

Over and over the young mother sang the familiar lullaby to the fretful baby in the cradle. The voice of the singer sounded tired and discouraged. Almost two years had passed since the boy brought his girl bride to the sod shanty on the new farm, and they had both borne up bravely under a load of work and care and responsibility never meant for such immature shoulders. While other youths and maidens were going to school, and enjoying sleigh-rides and parties and ball-games, Steve and Jennie had been tilling the field, doing the chores, raising the chickens, tending the garden, cooking, washing, sewing, keeping the accounts, and—for six months now—taking care of Jim. Jim was the baby, a most important member of the firm, too, by no means what you would call a silent partner, especially after he began cutting teeth. The girl had made a noble effort to excel as a housekeeper, but the odds were so often against her that she was almost losing heart. Only yesterday she had whitewashed the cemented walls and wooden ceiling of their one humble room, cleaned its deep-set, small-paned windows, and hung them with freshly laundered red calico curtains, polished the

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little cook-stove, put fresh newspapers on the shelves, and scoured the broad boards of the floor until they were “white enough,” the boy said, “to roll a pie-crust on.” To-day the wind had been raising the dust in great clouds from the loose soil of the fields, and sifting it into the tiny house through every crevice. A layer of grime was on everything, from the shiny stove to the baby’s face. Jennie could feel the grit on her teeth and lips as she sang. The ill-fitting windows rattled like the clatter of hoofs; the hen-house door slammed like the boom of guns; and the windmill, out of gear, veered with the wind, and shrieked. Jennie looked at the tin clock on the cupboard. It was twenty minutes past three. Steve must be already on the road home. He and their only close neighbor, a bachelor named Mike Blackeman, had started before daylight to haul hogs to the nearest railroad town, eighteen miles distant. Steve was going to bring back a load of coal for the school, and Mike would have brick for the foundation of his new house. They had gone together so that they could double their teams on the hills. It would be a tedious trip both ways. They could not get home until after nightfall. Jennie put more cobs in the stove, filled a large kettle with water, and set it over the blaze. Putting on an old coat and tying a scarf over her head, she took the bushel basket out to the cob pile and filled it. Then she went to her little sod hen-house and caught one of the fowls. She deftly wrung the chicken’s neck, and as soon as it was quite dead, ran back, laid it on top of the cobs in the basket, and quickly returned to the house with her load. The water in the kettle was not hot enough yet for scalding the chicken, so after preparing a fresh bottle of milk for the baby, she turned to look outdoors. A new sound attracted her attention. The mill was in gear. Jennie hurried out to pull the lever. She found the ring had not slipped off, after all. The lever was in place, but the wire had come loose at the upper end, and was hanging on one of the crosspieces of the tower. Overhead the wheel was flying as if it would go to pieces any minute. The

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wooden lift-rod was bending almost to the breaking point. The twoinch planks of the platform were heaving with the strain. The whole mechanism, clear down to the cylinder in the bottom of the two-hundred-foot well, was in imminent danger. Something ought to be done to stop the wheel right away. But what, the girl wondered, could she accomplish by herself? With Steve and Mike away, there was not a man within two miles to help her. All her life she had feared high places, and she regarded the tower with particular dread. Whenever Steve started up the slender steps to oil the mill— even on calm mornings—she always went into the house and shut the door, and shuddered until he came back and laughed at her silly fears. She knew that even he would think it a dangerous undertaking to climb in a wind like this and venture within reach of that crazy monster at the top. But that was what had to be done. Into the house she sped, and quickly exchanged her flimsy calico skirts for a pair of Steve’s coarse overalls. She laid the fresh bottle of milk close to Jim’s little hands and tucked the blankets about him. At the granary she secured a coil of clothes-line with a picket-pin attached. The rope was frayed and weather-beaten, but it was the best she could find. Hanging this over her arm and drawing the little scarf closer about her head, she began her perilous task. As she moved upward on the tower, she could feel it swaying in the wind; but she seemed to catch the wild spirit of her adversary, and her lithe young muscles hardened. She gripped the little steel steps and drew herself up with increasing determination. To leave the ladder and creep out on the upper platform was the most dangerous part of the ascent, and when it was accomplished, a nervous terror seized her. As she crouched, trembling, upon the narrow plank, expecting every instant to be swept off by the wind, the words of a verse she had learned at Sunday-school when a child came back to her. The whirring wheel was saying, “He shall give his angels charge concerning thee,” and the clanking pitman was repeating over and over, “They shall bear thee up. They shall bear thee up.” Suddenly the horrible fear loosened its grip on her heart, and her sense of strength came back.

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Cautiously she turned her face toward the center of the tower. She clasped the frame with both hands and drew herself up to a standing position, and waited a moment to get used to the violence of the wind before permitting herself to look at the dizzy whirl of the machinery. When at last she summoned courage to face the uncontrolled wheel, the source of the trouble was apparent to her. The spring that held the wheel at right angles with the fan was controlled by a wire connected with a lever at the ground. By pulling the lever, it should have been possible to cramp the spring so as to let the wheel swing round flat against the side of the fan and stop. But the wire had broken loose, and Jennie saw that somehow she must manage to get the spring cramped without any lever, and tie the fan and wheel fast together. As it would never do to touch the wheel while it was going so fast, she would have to try to move the fan until the wheel ceased to present a broadside to the wind. Instinctively she threw one foot round the slanting tower post, and braced it in the angle. Then, clasping the post with an arm, she managed to steady herself and have her hands free for work. Hardly knowing what she hoped to accomplish thereby, she uncoiled the rope and hurled the picket-pin clear over the fan. It swung beyond her reach, and she almost lost her balance in jerking it back. Again the sickening fear clutched her heart; again she conquered it. Now she formulated a definite plan. She tied the rope to the tower about ten feet from the end and hung the short length across her arm. Grasping with both hands the braces that held the fan, she summoned all her strength and pulled it against the wind. The wheel, thus turned to leeward, at once slackened its speed, and was soon at rest. Nerving her right arm to hold the fan alone an instant, with her left she threw the end of the rope across the brace and drew it tight. Then gradually transferring her strength from the fan to the rope which bound it, she managed to tie the rope firmly to the post. This done, she tremblingly worked her way round to the wheel, inserted a portion of the rope between some of its vanes, and securely fastened it. Returning to the fan, she passed under it and stood out in the

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very teeth of the wind for the next move. She threw the rope over the frame of the fan for leverage, and pulling down with all her might; succeeded in cramping the spring and drawing the wheel round behind and parallel with the fan, where she quickly made it fast. The combined resistance of fan and wheel to the wind put a heavy strain on the weak rope that held them to the tower post, and Jennie saw with alarm that it was almost worn through. If it broke, and the fan swung round far enough, the wheel would probably strike her and sweep her from the platform. With a strength born of desperation, she gripped the braces again and awaited the shock. It came sooner than she had expected. With a jerk that almost tore her arms from their sockets, she was lifted and swung like a pendulum as fan and wheel spun round into line with the wind. When her feet touched the floor again, she knew that her task was done. Her hands were numb and bleeding, and she shook from head to foot with a nervous chill. This passed away after a time, but no exhilaration followed. A great weariness had come upon her. For the first time she thought of how she was to get down, and she feared she never could dare to swing off the platform to get her feet on the first step. Then she happened to think that the wheel was now between her and the corner where the steps were. She was a prisoner on a sixteen-inch board forty feet from the ground. She had been so engrossed with her work and the wind had kept up such a clatter that she had not known when Jim awoke and gave long and vigorous expression of his thoughts upon the subject of deserted infants. That was all over now, for finding that nothing was gained by his cries, he decided to reserve what was left of it for a time of need. Seizing the bottle in his chubby fingers, he was soon comparatively comfortable, and snuggled down for another nap. With the coming of twilight the wind died down somewhat. Jennie heard the squeals of the swine and the lowing of the cattle. She also heard the owls hooting and the multitudinous barking of the coyotes in the cañon. She did not suppose there were many of them in the pack, for

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she knew that every coyote has a dozen voices, and can use them all at the same time. Still, she had missed several chickens lately. She thought of the hen-house door and wished that it was shut. For the first time she ventured to look down. She saw that her house door had blown open, and began to worry for fear the baby would catch cold. She wondered why she did not hear him crying. She strained her eyes and ears, but could make out nothing at all. Presently a dark something moved stealthily toward the door. Jennie shouted with all her might. The thing stopped as if listening, then sneaked on into the house. Jennie heard something upset, and the dark form came rushing out with a large white object in its mouth. Jennie shouted again, and again the animal stopped and listened, then went loping off toward the cañon, its white burden marking its pathway through the gathering darkness. “O my baby! My baby!” shrieked Jennie, in impotent frenzy. Then, listening, she could hear the coyotes in the cañon snarling and fighting over the feast they were having. A mad impulse seized her to leap from the tower, but before she could move a muscle, the darkness of unconsciousness fell upon her, like the snuffing out of a candle. She sank like a dead thing, precariously balanced on the narrow plank. It was pitch-dark when Steve and Mike, returning from town, drove into the yard and brought the teams to a standstill with a “Whoa!” in which the note of satisfaction was only equaled by the willingness with which the command was obeyed. “You be unhooking the teams, Mike, while I run over and start the windmill, so as they can have a fresh drink. I’ll just step to the door and let the little lady know you’re here, so she’ll have your plate ready. I reckon she’s had a time of it keepin’ supper hot so long. And when you come, bring that package under the front seat—it’s the blue dress-goods I got to surprise Jennie.” Going on the run, he paused long enough to slip the ring off the lever, but the mill did not start.

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“Now wind enough,” he said. “I s’pose it is kind o’ tuckered out after the exertions of the day!” he growled, good-naturedly, and came on up to his open door. “Jennie, you little mischief, what are you sitting here in the dark for?” he called out, cheerily. “Got some kind of a surprise for me, I’ll be bound. Well, don’t answer, if you don’t want to. I’ll bet you’re hiding your face in a pillow to keep from laughing. Just wait till I get this match lit, and— Great Caesar! What on earth do you reckon’s happened?” Rushing to the door, he shouted, “Mike, come here! Quick!” Together they searched the tiny hut. The cob basket was overturned in the middle of the floor, the fire was out, and the table was bare. Jim lay asleep in his cradle, his dusty face streaked with tears. Jennie was nowhere to be found. Her skirts were thrown across a chair, and there were great streaks of blood on the floor. Mike was the first to speak: “Get me the lantern, Steve, and I’ll go and put out the teams as quick as I can, and then we’ll hunt this thing down. I’ll just turn on the mill. You said you’d do it, but I guess you forgot,” he added, kindly. When Mike reached the windmill he found the lever loose, but the mill was motionless. It seemed to him there was breeze enough to turn it. Looking up, he saw some rope dangling, and there was also something hanging over the edge of the platform. Going part way up, he decided that it was a boy’s foot, with the wide overalls turned up round the ankle. He continued to the top. There he found the roped wheel, and warily shifting it a little, discovered the body of the woman. It was necessary for Mike to rig block and tackle to the gearing of the mill; to hoist Steve to a point where he could clasp his wife’s body in his arms, and to lower the man and his helpless burden to the ground. They carried her in and laid her on the bed. Mike sprinkled water on her face, and placed his ear close to her heart. “She’s not dead, Steve,” he said. “You sit here and rub her hands while I make a fire and heat some bricks to put to her feet, and make a cup of tea. I believe she’ll come to soon.”

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Almost as soon as the words were spoken she shuddered, and then began to scream, “O my baby! O my baby!” “Jim’s all right, Jennie. He’s here in the cradle, asleep,” said Steve. “No, he isn’t. I saw the coyote carry him off to the cañon.” Then with wild eyes staring away beyond the frightened men, she began to scream again, “O my baby! My baby!” They snatched Jim from his cradle and laid him in her arms. Then that ungrateful cherub proceeded to do some screaming on his own account. It was the best thing he could have done under the circumstances, for he succeeded in diverting his mother’s attention from the awful experiences she had been through. Mike’s suspicions were roused at Jennie’s mention of a coyote, and with the lighted lantern he got down on the floor to examine the streaks of blood. He picked up the basket and filled it with the scattered cobs. He found, just as he expected, that some of them were soiled with clots of blood, in which were a few draggled white feathers. He noticed the large kettle of water on the stove, and muttered, “By Joe, there has been a coyote in here, and it’s a good thing Jennie ’lowed to have chicken for supper, or the little kid would have been a goner.” When, in a few weeks, Mike’s new frame house was done, and he had brought some one to live in it who would make home-coming a joy to him, Jennie, radiant in a blue percale dress, and proudly wheeling Jim in the go-cart, was the first to call upon the bride. The same outfit, with Steve as a delighted attendant, often went to the Sunday afternoon service at the schoolhouse. When Jim was old enough to learn a “golden text,” the first one Jennie taught him was, “He shall give His angels charge concerning thee, and they shall bear thee up.”

A Little Maverick

 Patience Stapleton Illustrated by W. F. Stecher Youth’s Companion, janu ary 23, 1890

Before the railroads, crossing the country was both time consuming and dangerous. Whether pioneers walked beside wagon trains or rode on prairie schooners, they found themselves constantly susceptible to bad weather, injury, disease, and attacks by Indians or bandits. Yet if there was one thing that immigrants found vital to their survival, it was the close bond of kinship. Gilberto Freyre, a Brazilian anthropologist, stated that the “great colonizing factor” in Brazil was the family. In the United States, where “unclaimed” land beckoned each new generation of settlers, pioneer movements were similarly marked by familial and community relations. Even young men who traveled in search of adventure could not escape the pressures of society’s patriarchal obligations. Janet, an orphan girl of twelve, is part of a wagon caravan traveling west in “A Little Maverick.” While on the trail, she fills her days searching for companionship and tending to other children. When one of those children goes missing, Janet is the only person willing to search for her outside the circle of wagons. The two girls endure several threats during their night in the wilderness, but at the core of the story is the willingness of a parent to care for a child who is not his own.

She was a New England schoolteacher going west to better herself. Patience Stapleton (1861–1893) was born Martha Armstrong Tucker in Wiscasset, Maine. She attended convent schools as a child, and in 1877 she graduated from the Moravian Seminary in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. She published her first story in 1879 in the Youth’s Companion. In 1882 she moved to Colorado, where she joined the staff of the Tribune under the name of “Patience Thornton” and became one of the state’s first advocates for female suffrage. She married William Stapleton, managing editor of the Rocky Mountain News, in 1883 and published two novels relating to the frontier: Kady (1888) and Babe Mur-

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phy (1890). She also published The Major’s Christmas, and Other Stories (1886) and “Trailing Yew,” a two-part story printed in Cosmopolitan in February and March of 1892.

......

All that hot August day there had been a cloud of dust in the east like a column of smoke. No breath of air stirred it, nor did it seem to advance a yard. The sky was a steely blue, the air quivered like the white heat from a cauldron of molten metal. In the crisp and dry buffalo grass myriad insect life gave to the simmering air a dreamy, monotonous sound like the humming of far-away bees. The afternoon passed, darkness gathered, and with the rising moon came a cool wind from off the snow-crested peaks. The cloud of dust subsided, and revealed a line of moving, white-covered wagons. As the caravan drew near, a gaunt prairie wolf rose suddenly out of the grass, gave a long, dolorous howl, and fled across the plain. After him, as if they had risen from the earth by magic went a pony and rider, a bronzed, grizzled old man, as gaunt, and evidently dreading the newcomers as much as the wolf. The caravan, numbering thirty wagons, went into camp in the form of a hollow square, the people and animals inside the barrier of wagons. The sound of voices, the smell of cooking, the laughter of children and the red glow of the camp-fires made a bit of welcome life in the solemn land, breaking the soundless monotony of centuries. Later, when the fires were low, and when the only noises were the champing of the animals and the tread of the sentry on watch, a strange, elfish figure ran out of the stockade and began to dance in the moonlight—a girl of twelve or thereabouts, with big, sparkling eyes and short, black curls flying over her pretty brow. A bearded face was thrust out under a wagon-cover, and a gruff but not unkindly voice called: “Come in here, you Maverick, want the Injuns to git ye?” The child laughed mockingly, and continued her dance. After the third call, the big man jumped out of the wagon and ran after her. When she could run no longer she dropped like a log, remaining stiff and still, while he carried her to the wagon.

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“Gritty, aint she, marm?” he said, as the child rolled over like a stick of wood. The lady addressed was a tall, thin person with a wrinkled face, sharp black eyes behind spectacles, corkscrew curls, and a habit of wearing little shoulder-capes in the hottest weather. She was a New England schoolteacher going west to better herself. “‘Gritty’ is Western, I presume, Mr. Chase,” said the lady, Miss Mary Ann Reed. “What on earth do you call her a Maverick for?” Miss Reed clicked her needles viciously. She knitted all day, jolting in a corner of the wagon, a picture of martyrdom. “In my kentry, Texas,” said Chase, “they calls them stray young cattle that don’t git branded Mavericks; they don’t b’long to no herd, an’ them that finds ’em gits ’em.” “She’s got folks in Denver,” said Miss Reed. “I dunno,” whispered the man, with an anxious look towards the sleeping child. “A feller that met me two days ago on the east-bound wagontrain told me her pa and ma hed died suddenly, an’ the children hed scattered, an’ he’d never heered o’ Janet at all. Her gran’marm hed kep’ her from a baby, an’ the old lady dyin’, Janet’s uncle jest shipped her off to Denver where her folks was livin’. Don’t seem nobody to take her.” “Why didn’t you send her back with those folks?” asked Miss Reed. “’Cause they was only harf way, an’ was short for grub; they wouldn’t take her.” Yet the Maverick was a great pet on the journey. Every one liked her, and welcomed her bright presence to their wagons. Around the campfires even the men gathered to hear her sing the quaint old hymns her grandmother had taught her. She held tired babies till her little arms were numb, she told stories to weary children, and was a ministering angel at every wagon—at the last one in the train most of all. This wagon had joined the train in Missouri, and belonged to an unfortunate family that Chase called “Pikes.” The father, a sullen, sickly man, drove the four lean oxen; the mother, half-dead from malaria, seldom lifted her head from her bed; and the nine children, practically or-

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phans, took care of themselves, and of a little, motherless girl, sent to her father in Denver. This baby, Rose, was a merry little creature of three, beautiful and winning, and much liked. But the days were toilsome ones, and as the Browns had charge of her, no one interfered, though many of the party wondered who could have trusted her with them. The two youngest Browns, homely, faded little souls, were faithful guardians over her. The other children were unruly and rude, but these two seemed like some good old folks who had lived out well-rounded lives and been translated back to earth to begin over again. To these children Janet’s presence was the one happiness of their day, nor could she tell stories enough to satisfy them. Once Janet, coming unobserved, heard the youngest Pike telling baby Rose, who was cross, one of her own stories. “You sorrerful little things,” cried Janet, “can’t you make ’em up yourselves of your own?” For a week, at night, the sentry at the stockade saw far-off, black, moving specks on the horizon, and weary and anxious were the hours of darkness, early the start, eager the hope to get on without the attack. Each man would mutter in the gray dawn, as, haggard and white, he harnessed his team, “Thank God, another night of peace, no Indians yet!” “Janet,” said Chase one morning, when she came to watch him harness his team, “ef them Injuns comes an’ gits the better o’ us you git on that ere leetle gray pony, Nance, thar, an’ take Rose an’ set out fur them low hills ’cross thar.” “Nance likes me,” smiled Janet, “I feed her my bread.” “All of us like ye, ye Maverick, yer so chipper allus,” Chase said, admiringly. “The Injuns sha’n’t git ye ef we kin help it.” That day a young wife was sick, and all the long hours Janet tended the wailing baby its mother was too ill to care for. She looked back at the line of wagons and thought of baby Rose, that she loved best of all. “Those good little Pikes will see to her,” she thought, hopefully. But the two little Pikes were weary that day—they lay in a strange stupor, those

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pathetic guardians—and no one noted them. Locked in each other’s arms they lay unheeded, and one was drifting away beyond earthly aid. At the night halt Janet, freed from her charge, ran for Rose. Then the news flew from wagon to wagon, the child was gone and no one had seen her all day. Miss Reed remembered seeing her running among the sunflowers at breakfast-time. “Aint nobody going for her?” cried Janet, in agony. She ran to each wagon, to be met with the same answer, “It cannot be done.” “You see, Janet,” said Chase, a sob in his voice, “there’s fifty women an’ children here an’ only thirty men to guard ’em; there may be hundreds of Injuns out there. We daren’t leave camp or they’ll know it, an’ we’ve searched all the plains with a glass an’ there’s no sign of her.” “But ter-morrer—” choked Janet. “She’ll not be a-wanderin’, missy—don’t arsk me to tell ye, but there’s Inuns an’ perarie wolves.” “We must only tell her father she died—never the whole truth,” said Miss Reed, coming to the wagon for her rubbers, which she wore on the dryest nights. Chase walked away and sat down by the fire. “No, don’t talk no more, Janet,” as the child went to him, “it aren’t no use. I’m the only old Injun fighter in camp. I’ve growed gray at it. I’ve got ter take the lead.” Janet went quietly to her wagon. By the light of a flickering candle, she printed, in a round, childish hand, on a bit of paper, these few words: Mr. Chase, i am goin’ to find Rose an’ take Nance. I aint no good in fightin’ Injuns, an’ I heard you say my folks was dead. Don’t you come for me ’cause they need you. They don’t me that is only a Maverick. janet.

She pinned this note to his blanket, then went softly out in the starlight to the corner where Nance stood. Fearlessly she blanketed the animal, fastened the surcingle, then led her quietly out to an open space between two wagons.

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She looked back at the dying camp-fires, the groups of men sleeping in the light of them, their guns by theirs sides, the silhouettes of the women against the wagon curtains, Miss Reed’s prim and queer with the funny curls. How safe it was here, how lonely and dreadful outside! She climbed on the pony and turned her head toward the east; the animal, thinking of her home, struck into a run. The sentinel saw Nance disappear in the darkness but did not note the little rider. “That onery gray pony as aint been worked all the way hev got loose an’ gone,” he said to the crowd of excited men who ran out at the noise. Every unusual rattling of gravel under Nance’s hoofs quickened the beating of Janet’s heart; every dark object was to her a beast of prey; every sound, the coming of the red men. She thought of the old-time stories of Indian warfare and cruelty her grandmother had told her; of the horrors of the plains the men spoke of by the camp-fires. “But I’m the only one in all that train as hasn’t anybody to care for me,” she said, bravely. “There was only me to be spared.” When the moon rose it showed her no living object on the great plains. The camp was far out of vision, and not even a spark from its fires glimmered on the still air. Absolute quiet and solitude; the world seemed asleep. At the top of a little rise in the road Janet halted to rest her tired horse, and once more to look around the lonely land. The quivering of Nance startled her, and peering ahead, Janet saw a sight she never afterwards forgot. There in the moonlit road stood baby Rose, her yellow curls disheveled, her face tear-stained and dirty, her gown torn, her little feet bare and bleeding. She still clung to her flowers that had led her astray long hours before. Near the child a lean gray wolf sat on his haunches, regarding her with a profound and melancholy stare. At the sight of the pony the wolf gave a weird howl, turned and trotted swiftly across the plains. The child, with a wild cry, ran forward. “I knew you’d tum, Janie. I lost all day an’ hungy an’ the doggie

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comed an’ singed. I had a doggie once, Bounce, where mamma was. Oh, I want my mamma!” Janet held her close, kissed her tears away, and then she gave her the food she had brought—her own supper. She lifted her to the pony’s back, led Nance to some low hills that might give them shelter, and there waited for daylight. “I never knew nights was so long before!” sighed Janet, holding Rose in her tired little arms. “Nance is laid down an’ asleep. Only me awake, an’ I must keep watch for wolves an’ Injuns. Now the moon’s goin’, too, an’ it gets lonesomer. I’ll say all the hymns I know to keep me awake an’ brave.” Try as she would her head would droop, the words growing confused and weary. As the moon sank and the chill increased, the shivering child covered Rose with her own skirt, and then to keep warm and awake walked up and down beside her. What was it, that low, trampling sound, coming louder and nearer so fast? Janet caught up Rose and ran back to the hill; the horse followed, trembling in every limb. Just beyond the hill in a furious gallop came a mass of horses, and dimly amid the fog of dust about them Janet saw the forms of their Indian riders. “Joe said Injuns was wuss’n wolves!” sobbed Janet. “Dear Lord, let them go on an’ not find us!” The Indians passed on their path, marked by clouds of sand that helped the darkness mercifully to hide the children. “They’re gone!” cried Janet; but hardly were the words uttered when there came another louder trampling, the click of arms against saddles, and more horses—hundreds of them it seemed to Janet—and then, bringing joy to her heart, an American voice calling, “Forward!” as the cavalrymen pressed on after the Indians. The danger having passed, the tired child fell asleep with Rose in her arms. When she woke it was bright sunlight. Her dazed eyes saw Nance feeding near by, Rose running toward her, and an oldish man, with a gray beard and bronzed face, looking at her kindly. By his side was the lean wolf Rose had called a dog.

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“I knew it was a tame one!” cried Janet. “In course you did,” smiled the old man. “Me an’ my gal, Ann Reed, fell out twenty odd year ago ’cause I owned a tame b’ar. She went ter Bosting, turned schoolmarm, an’ I emigrated to Iowy.” Janet, very wide-eyed, told him about Miss Reed, who was one of their wagon-party. Gaining courage, she also gave her own history and Rose’s as far as she knew. “Wal, you be a powerful talker!” cried the old man. “Now come eat, an’ then we’ll ketch up with the caravan. Say, though, sis, would you say, ’lowin’ fur age an’ my whiskers, Ann Reed aint no better-lookin’ then me?” “You’re both nice for old folks,” said Janet, politely. He led them to a dugout in the hills, where they found plenty to eat, and then they set out for the wagons, Janet with Rose on Nance, the wolf following the old man’s bronco. “The row last night, sis,” he said, “was Uncle Sam’s sojers arter Injuns, same as has been hangin’ round yer train. Wonder how them serious ways of Ann Reed’s would ‘a’ took with Injuns?” At night they reached the camping-place of the wagons, where there was great rejoicing—Chase, especially, coming often to stroke Janet’s curls, and mutter, “Ef you aint a borned hero, I never knowed one! The stuff of a pioneer!” Janet’s only sadness was that one little grave where the youngest “Pike” lay; the child had died the night before. How many nameless graves, some pathetic, tiny ones, there used to be on that great pathway to the West! When Janet, with Rose in her arms, climbed into her wagon, the hermit approached and said, mysteriously, “It’s the same Ann Reed, sis; an’ she’s there a-pettin’ that wolf like he were a poodle dorg. Aint set agin ’em no more.” Two miles from Denver they met a horseman so pale and anxious they knew who he was even before he called, hoarsely: “Is my baby with you?”

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“Aye, she be,” answered Chase, “but we’d met ye with blank faces an’ sorrerful hearts but for Janet here.” Then he told the story, and the father got down from his horse to kiss her first—before his own child. “I’m well off, Joe,” he said, brokenly. “I can do well for her, and you say she has no one. I will have two daughters instead of one.” “You aint a Maverick no more, Janet,” cried Joe, something shining in his honest eyes, “an’ there aint one of us but will bid ye God-speed. Ef ever a lone little child was worth a father’s love an’ care, you be, an’ the blessin’ of all us that knowed ye goes with ye.” And as she, with Rose and her father, parted from the companions of the long wagon journey, they followed her with loving, tearful eyes, that little Maverick who had found a happy home.

Our First Well in Nebraska

 Fitzroy Greenleaf Illustrated by W. F. Stecher Youth’s Companion, may 22, 1913

As many as four hundred steamboats have sunk in the Missouri River since the early 1800s. Steamboat captains feared floods in the spring and ice jams in the winter, and at all times of the year they worried about hitting uprooted trees and underwater snags. In 1868, after Sioux City, Iowa, replaced St. Louis, Missouri, as the dominate headquarters for steamboat navigators, captains also had to contend with another regular hindrance: strong prairie winds capable of pushing vessels ashore and grounding them on shallow banks. It does not seem improbable, then, that the protagonists in “Our First Well in Nebraska” discover a steamboat, the Mandan, buried fifty yards from their sod house. Several steamboats that traveled the Missouri River carried the name Mandan, and it was not uncommon for vessels that ran aground or got caught in the ice to become separated from the river and buried by sand and dirt. Rather than preserve the items they find, the salvagers in “Our First Well in Nebraska” use the artifacts to recover from the losses caused by droughts, blizzards, and insect plagues. The story also illustrates another plight that many settlers faced. Forced to seek employment outside the homestead, they had no choice but to transfer daily responsibilities to their children, who had to quickly mature into dependable, self-reliant adults.

The cavity below appeared to be a long room. Fitzroy Greenleaf may have been a pen name for Miles Greenleaf, who was born in Illinois in 1886. He came to the Omaha area in 1890 with his parents, Frederick and Ellen Greenleaf, and began writing for the Omaha World-Herald in 1904 as a police reporter. In 1913 he published The Thrilling Story of Omaha’s Tornado, about the devastation of the Easter Sunday catastrophe. A member of the Nebraska Audubon Society, Greenleaf was also an avid ornithologist and wrote regular “bird editorials” published between 1916 and 1923 in the Sunday edition of the World-Herald. In 1930 he initiated a column named “Bird Lore/Feathered Folk Lore” in the Omaha Bee. He also edited and wrote for the Dundee News, a paper that focused on his west Omaha neighborhood. His bird lore column in the Omaha Bee continued even after his death in 1951. Throughout his career, Greenleaf wrote more than 1,100 columns and stories about birds, avian conservation, habitat preservation, and natural history.

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Thirty years ago, when drought, grasshoppers and potato-beetles had done their worst, the entire annals of poverty might have been searched in vain for a parallel to the destitution that prevailed among many of the homesteaders of Nebraska. At that time my family were living in a sod house on the prairie, about four miles from the Missouri River. The crops had wholly failed. From September till November that fall we had nothing to eat except a little drought-pinched corn that we hulled with lye from willow wood-ashes, a few bushels of watery potatoes, the size of walnuts, and now and then a duck that my older brother Sidney snared at the slough. It was a cheerful day with us when my sister Lily succeeded in catching a gopher in a box-trap—for even gophers were scarce and lean. We had a cow, but she gave less than a pint of thin, blue milk. The dry prairie was as bare as a board, and the poor animal had gnawed into the earth for the grass roots. As for the winter that followed—to this day, even in the hottest weather, I shiver when I recall the blizzards that lasted for days at a time, when we had hardly a stick of wood for fuel. We curled up like torpid animals in that little dark, dismal sod house, and suffered the long days through. In March, after we began to thaw out a little and take hope again, the Missouri came and drove us away. For a week we had heard the icegorges rumbling like distant thunder; then, in a single night, the mighty river rose and spread out twenty miles in width. My father waked us at three o’clock in the morning; and we had to drive as fast as we could with our mule and buckboard in order to reach a neighbor’s house two miles away on higher ground. After crops had failed the second year, my father went to work at his old trade in one of the railway shops at Sioux City, and my mother became a stewardess on one of the river steamboats that ran from Yankton down to Kansas City. She left in August, and did not return till the river froze. Sidney, Lily and I lived by ourselves at the claim. My father drove home every second Saturday night, with the mule and buckboard, and generally brought us a bushel of corn-meal, a box of salt fish, and

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a gallon of molasses. One night in September he brought a sledge, and four or five iron tubes from the boiler of a dismantled locomotive at the shops, with which to “drive” a well for us. We had always taken our water from the slough; but that fall the slough was dry, and for a week before father came down the last time we had to carry water in a bucket all the way from the river! “Drive-wells,” as they were called, came into use that year. In some places people could get water in a few hours by driving down an iron pipe with a perforated steel point, and attaching a pump to the upper end of the pipe. Father did not reach home that night till nearly eleven o’clock, and had to leave at noon the next day in order to get back to his work. Nevertheless, he started the next morning to drive a well for us in the bed of the slough, about fifty yards from our sod house. The ground was fairly soft, and the tube went down six inches at every stroke of the sledge, for ten or eleven feet. Suddenly it struck an obstacle. Father said that it was probably a buried log, and that the “point” at the end of the tube would go through, and went on striking. But the obstacle proved too hard. Moreover, when we tried to pull the tube out, we found that we could not move it, even with a lever purchase. “We will have to dig it out!” father exclaimed. Now, to dig to a depth of ten feet or more with a shovel is a hard task. He had got down no more than seven or eight feet when it was time for him to go back to Sioux City; but as he set off, he said that he would come home again the following Saturday, and try to get water for us. The next morning Sidney, Lily and I drew lots to see who should go to the river for water. I was the unlucky one, and was gone till nearly noon. When I returned, I found Sidney down in the hole, digging, and Lily hauling the dirt up in an old pail. After we had had our dinner, all three of us worked at it again, for we were curious to see what the pipe had stuck in.

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Father had started the hole fully eight feet in diameter, so that it would not cave in, and we kept it at about that size. In an hour we reached the obstruction. I was digging at the time, and came to a hard, flat surface. I cleared away the dirt, and shoveled it out clean. The obstacle was not rock, but a solid floor of plank, on which I could see the remains of old tar and canvas. First Sidney, and then Lily got down into the hole. We could not understand what the thing was. Sidney brought the ax, and chopped round the pipe till we got it out. The chips were like those from a sound pine beam; but the floor sounded hollow under the ax strokes, and when we pulled out the “point,” we found there was an empty black cavity below, from which a strange musty smell came up. We were puzzled, and a little frightened. We climbed out, and did not go near the place again that day or the next. But by Wednesday our curiosity got the better of our fears. Sidney chopped the hole out larger, and thrust down into it a tallow candle on a willow stick. Underneath the tarred floor there was a large cavity, or room, fully seven feet deep. We chopped the hole out larger still, so that light from above shone in; but neither Sidney nor I ventured to go down there that day. On Friday we nailed a ladder together, lighted a candle, and climbed down through the hole in the floor. The cavity below appeared to be a long room, with a number of doors that were off the hinges or that hung awry—doors that opened into smaller rooms where by the candle-light we could see pitchers and bowls, many of which were broken; and also what seemed to be shelves with blankets on them. In some of the rooms we saw chests and boxes. We did not remain down there long that first time; to tell the truth, we were afraid. But the next day we went down again, and brought out five or six large bowls and several pitchers of white ware with a purple band round the top. On one side of the long room were four or five apertures like cupboards, all piled full of platters, plates, cups and saucers, all of the same white ware with the purple bands.

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Much of it was broken, and lay in confused heaps; but we carried up twenty-eight plates, more than twice that number of cups and saucers, pitchers of all sizes, and one big platter two feet long. We also found a drawer full of rusted knives and forks, to the number of at least a hundred. My sister was delighted with those dishes. She piled them on the table in our sod house, and then made stacks on both sides of the door outside. When night came we were so excited over what we were finding that we could hardly wait for morning to come. As soon as it was light, Sidney and I were down there rummaging again, opening the boxes and chests that we had seen in the side rooms. Some of the boxes were locked, but we pried the lids off. Many had clothing in them, yellowed and molded, suits of clothes and piles of underwear, gloves and fur mittens. In some were pistols and bowie-knives, and in one a purse with a little more than six dollars in silver. In another we found a Bible and a hymn-book; in still another we found among the mildewed clothes a copy of “Ivanhoe,” bound in red morocco, and also a copy of “Deerslayer.” In another of the little side rooms were two rusted muskets with flint-locks; and about midway of the long room was a stove with the funnel crushed down into the top of it. At one end of the long room we discovered another pantry, containing more crockery. We were bringing up stuff all day long. We filled every nook and corner of our little sod house, and then of the old clothes, dishes, copper kettles and tinware we made stacks round the house outside that reached to the eaves! There were more than fifty buffalo-skins, and almost as many webs of red cotton cloth, but all were very moldy. “What will father say when he comes?” Lily kept exclaiming. “Let’s not tell him where it came from, at first,” Sidney said. “See what he will say.” We looked for him that night, and watched throughout the evening till midnight; but he did not come. At last we fell sound asleep, and were so tired that we did not wake until late the next morning. A noise out-

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side roused Lily; father had come. When she opened the door he was sitting on the buckboard, staring at the house. Probably there was never a man more astonished on getting home. “Lily, what’s happened here?” were his first words. “Where in the world did all that stuff come from?” “It came out of the new well, father,” Lily replied. “Out of the well? What do you mean?” “We got it out of the well,” Lily repeated. “Are you crazy, child? Are you crazy—or am I? Where are the boys?” Sidney and I made our appearance, and led him to the hole. “Must have been some old warehouse!” he muttered. “But that couldn’t be, either.” Lily brought a candle, and he climbed down into the long room. After looking about, he took the ax and chopped a hole in the floor. There was another big, dark cavity below, with water in it. He continued to explore, and several times struck with the ax on iron, which clanged in a strange, hollow way. At last he came up. “It was a steamboat,” he said. “I’ve found the engine and boilers. It was a steamboat that got buried here years ago. But how it ever came to be so far from the river is more than I can tell.” It was not till a year or two later that we learned what was probably the truth of the matter. A way back in 1842, a Missouri steamboat, called the Mandan, on its way down from Fort Union to St. Louis, was overtaken by winter, and frozen into the ice. The crew and passengers abandoned the boat, and reached Council Bluffs on foot. In March there came a freshet that inundated the whole valley and made great changes in the river-bed, for in many places it filled up the old channel and cut a new one. The Mandan was never found; people supposed that it had been broken up by the ice and washed away. Apparently the river had made a “cut-off,” and left the steamer where the bend of the stream had been, four miles from the new channel. Dur-

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ing the great spring flood, sand and alluvial matter had filled up this old bend, and had buried the Mandan completely out of sight. The ice had probably knocked down the funnels and torn off the pilot-house; for we afterward dug out not only both funnels, but the bell and whistle. As the wreck was on our claim, father thought that after all the years that had passed, what was left there belonged to us more than to any one else. He gave up his job at Sioux City, and we all set to work to excavate the hull and save whatever was valuable. We worked for five weeks, and got out great piles of the old planking, boards, doors, and even windows. There was plenty of material for building a cabin twenty feet by fifteen; we used a part of one of the rusted funnels for a chimney, and hung the old bell in a little forked belfry on the roof, and ran a wire from it in at a window. When all that was done, there was enough planking and timber left to give us fire-wood all the following winter. The cabin was not half large enough to contain the old furniture, tables, crockery, kettles, tinware, and other stuff that we had saved. We had a pile outside the house larger than a stack of straw, and allowed several settlers’ families to help themselves from it. Mother came home somewhat unexpectedly. We had not heard from her for nearly two months. The boat she was on had gone down to Kansas City, and at that time there was no way of sending letters to us. She came to Sioux City by stage, and there hired a settler to take her home on a prairie-wagon. She had two trunkfuls of clothing and other things for us, bought with her earnings, and she had not heard a word of what we had found during her absence. Just at sunset on one of the first days of November Lily saw the wagon coming across the prairie. We guessed it might be mother, and father began ringing the bell on top of our new cabin. The team drove up; and mother was as much astonished as father had been when he came home from Sioux City. We were all keeping quiet inside, and the bell was going dong! dong! dong!

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Then we all ran out, crying, “Mother, mother, O mother!” And mother exclaimed, “Lily, boys, what has happened?”—exactly what father had said that Sunday morning when he came home. No doubt the loss of the Mandan in those bygone days distressed her owners; but finding her was a great stroke of luck for us during those first hard years of pioneer life in Nebraska.

The McCulloughs of the Bluff

 Elia Wilkinson Peattie Illustrated by W. F. Stecher Youth’s Companion, ju n e 16, 1898

Two historic events may have provided the idea for “The McCulloughs of the Bluff.” First, small quantities of coal had been found in the river bluffs near Ponca, Nebraska. Beginning in 1878, residents optimistically organized a series of coal mining companies that met with little success. On November 12, 1880, miners finally found a vein of quality coal, but it was only 4-and-a-half feet thick and 580 feet deep. Attempts to find a deeper vein failed. The following spring, the Missouri River rose twenty-three feet, sweeping away entire towns, killing three people and thousands of livestock, and chiseling new channels. This flood eroded Ponca’s dreams of striking it rich. In the following story, a natural catastrophe proves advantageous to the unconventional McCulloughs, who sing, dance, tell stories, and skate through their poverty with cheerful hearts. However, while the enjoyment of life amidst hardship helps the family cope, it does not put food on the table. The children, knowing that their capricious father needs them to be a stabilizing force, work diligently to provide for their family and prepare for their own futures, so that, when the opportunity arrives, they can fulfill their responsible roles in society. Born in Michigan, Elia Wilkinson Peattie (1862–1935) moved to Chi-

The community became suddenly aquatic. cago in 1871 and then lived in Omaha from 1888 to 1896. During her life she authored a prodigious number of newspaper editorials and columns for both the Chicago Tribune and the Omaha World-Herald, as well as novels, short stories, poems, articles, histories, plays, literary criticism, and popular domestic fiction. In addition to a history of the United States for children, Our Chosen Land (1896) and a beautifully illustrated fantasy, Edda and the Oak (1911), Peattie wrote many stories and serialized novels for family periodicals, such as the Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas. Many were republished by Houghton Mifflin into books, including Lotta Embury’s Career (1915), Sarah Brewster’s Relatives (1916), and The Newcomers (1917). Her series of children’s novels centering on Azalea, a girl from the Blue Ridge Mountains, was made into a successful Broadway play titled Thunder in 1919. She collected many of her children’s stories, including “The McCulloughs of the Bluff,” in Ickery Ann and Other Girls and Boys (1899). The eccentric Pa McCullough appears to be modeled after Peattie’s own father, who was also big on dreams and short on cash.

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For the McCulloughs, the long, severe winter of 1880 was particularly depressing, as Pa McCullough was then at the worst of his “coal crankiness.” He was an amiable man with red hair and a genius for chess-playing, whose family loved him dearly, though bound to confess that he was not a good provider; and had it not been for the coal discoveries near Ponca, there would have been no happier family in the country. These discoveries were made at Great Bend, where the McCulloughs lived, on a bluff above the Big Muddy, at the foot of which certain sulphur-charged layers of lignite unhappily appeared. Pa McCullough became drunk on dreams of prosperity, and sent East for experts, who came and tested the stuff in a stove. It smelled to heaven and made just enough fire to spoil the corn bread which Ma McCullough was then baking. “It may be,” said the experts, looking as expert as possible, “that this slight outbreak of lignite may indicate the proximity of a more combustible material, free from sulphuric sediment, within the heart of the bluffs. It might pay you, Mr. McCullough to mine your bluffs.” This piece of amiability was the undoing of the McCullough family. From that day they went without the necessaries of life that shafts might be sunk in the potato patch; they shivered for the lack of clothes that the back yard might be blown up, and at length actually saw the house crack and settle because of the tunneling underneath it—a domestic disaster which did not particularly arrest the attention of Pa McCullough. He, poor man, grew more abstracted every day, and spent most of his time in the shafts, working like a fiend; or in a fit of discouragement he would lie on the sofa with broken springs, back of the wood stove, and stare at a cardboard manikin which sawed wood on the stovepipe. Hugh, Myrtle, and the two little boys, Ernest and Tuppin—such a restless family!—must have revolted against pa’s immolation of them had they not made up for their sufferings by jollity. There was a banjo in the house, and as every McCullough could sing as naturally as breathe, the old bluff used to ring with melody. Ma McCullough liked the fun as well as any one, and had a big, beautiful contralto that would break your heart in a negro melody, such as the McCulloughs were given to singing.

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They all danced, too, and though ma would utter many warnings about shaking the roof down over their heads—it being so insecure since the tunneling—yet, if the jig was not gay enough, ma had to join in it herself, showing, as she did so, a perfectly bewitching foot, which even her old shoes could not altogether disguise. “Your grandfather, my dears,” she used to say to the children, “had the finest shaped leg in the province of Ulster, and in black velvet smalls he was one of the finest gentlemen you would care to see. When I was a little girl I used to unwind his stock for him, and cross my heart! if I didn’t use to run around the blessed man twelve times and a half before it was done, and him standing all the time, like a May-pole in a field, for me to do it.” It may have been from Grandfather O’Connor that all the McCulloughs inherited their remarkable agility; at any rate, it was well known that nobody in that part of the country could compare with them in running, skating, dancing, throwing of quoits or leaping. Myrtle, of course, discreetly concealed her abilities, as became a maiden, excepting in dancing and skating. It must not be thought strange that, in their poverty, the McCulloughs were all the possessors of skates, for they were people who managed to have those things which were necessary to their happiness. Wearing patched clothes did not worry them, and they did not look upon whole shoes as essentials; but when the broad Missouri showed a glare of ice it was necessary for the McCulloughs to have skates. Every one of the McCulloughs—except pa—had bright blue eyes and long, black lashes, and brows that almost met above their straight noses. Their hair curled softly and was black as a crow’s wing, and their bodies, erect, slender and firm, seemed calculated to endure almost any fatigue. Some said that they were not industrious, but the word industry seems not quite the right one to use in connection with this family, which, though capable of fierce spurts of work, had moments—and these were always arriving at the most unexpected and inopportune times—when the pursuit of the joy of life was all there seemed to be for them.

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At such times they gave themselves up to a festival of mirth, and it is probable that all of them, save pa, thanked God every night for being alive. The McCulloughs forgot many things, but never their prayers, and, in fact, they showed such hearty and happy devotion that many of their more serious-minded neighbors looked at them in disapproval. They couldn’t quite understand why the McCulloughs took their religion so naturally and without any accompaniments of depression or spleen. As the cruel winter went on, however, even the cheerful faith of the McCulloughs was tried. They didn’t like to admit it, but they felt the lack of hearty food, and if it hadn’t been for Hugh’s rifle, they would have been more inconvenienced than they were. Myrtle kept on with her studies, hoping there would be a vacancy some day, in some school near home, which she would be asked to fill. She watched the bitter days go by without unnecessary fretting, and rose rather late in the morning because she went to bed late at night. Indeed, when the McCulloughs got around their fire, talking, singing, or storytelling, the night might slip away like a thief, and no one be any the wiser. In spite of all this good nature, things began to grow desperate. There came a morning when Myrtle forgot to twist up her hair after braiding it, but with the massive plaits falling down her back sat dejectedly by the fire. “If there was anything to do ’round here I’d be doing it,” Hugh said, as he had said fifty times before. “Of course, I might go off and try my fortune somewhere else, but the truth is, Myrt, I’m afraid to leave you and ma. Suppose pa should get worse about the coal! Oh, if only something would wipe those lignite beds out of existence! Then pa might come to be as well as ever. But the question is, Myrt, How are we to take care of the family?—for we’ve got to do it somehow!” Myrtle was dejected as only a high-spirited person could be. Her imagination, usually Hope’s faithful handmaiden, was now running numbly after Despair. The sky without was low and gray. The wind got a fierce sweep up there on the bluffs, which stood out on one of the largest bends along the whole Missouri.

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It seemed as if the gales and the sullen waters fumed at this obstacle in their path, while Hugh and Myrtle sat down together that morning to face the problem of existence. Pa had gone to the village for dynamite bombs for blasting, and the little boys were at school, and ma was in the kitchen making bread. “Look at this room!” cried Myrtle at last. “Did you ever see such a place for sheltering humans?” Hugh’s eyes followed the dramatic gesture of her arm. The room was peculiar. The plastering was so cracked that it had fallen in many places. Yet some of Frederick Remington’s Western sketches were pasted over the places of ruin, and a picture of Angelica Kauffmann and the Muse, in a tarnished frame, hung above Myrtle’s desk. Two bricks supplied the place of one of the legs of the stove. The old oak table in front of the fire was surrounded by a number of chairs in a greater or less state of dilapidation. The broken-backed sofa was behind the stove, and the big wood-box at its foot. Ma’s embroidery frame hung on the wall with Hugh’s rifle and Myrtle’s guitar and the family skates. “Well, I say,” said Hugh, who had never before looked at the place with such observing eyes, “it is a queer hole, isn’t it? I can’t tell for the life of me whether it seems more like the retreat of decayed gentlefolk or the home of confirmed cranks!” Just then there was a knock at the door, and Hugh opened it to Donald Bain, the sheriff of Yankton County in South Dakota, across the river. “Ha!” cried Hugh, the glow coming back to his face, “come in, you minion of the law! Come in, you constable, you gendarme, you cop! How’re the heathen at the north? How are the folk in Dakota?” The sheriff was a big fellow with a wilderness of black beard and hair, and eyes as soft as those of an ox. His coonskin coat reaching to his heels, and his cap and gloves of the same material, gave him the appearance of an interesting savage. He divested himself slowly of his wraps, and shook hands respectfully with Myrtle. “I’m thinkin’ they’ll all be well,” he said, replying to Hugh’s question. “But chilly. Folk are chilly, thereabout, Hugh, my boy.”

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“Chilly! I’ll challenge them to be any chillier than we are, Bain; and the worst of it is that our hearts are getting cold, too. Yes, by Jove, they are!” “That’ll no go doon with me, Hugh, man. The heart of a McCullough of the bluff does not grow cold—till the best has gane oot o’ it; but what’s the matter, eh?” “Matter? Why, no clothes, no food, no prospects, no work, no books, no anything but ‘wind and weather!’ Isn’t it so, Myrt? Nothing but ‘wind and weather!’” “‘Poor Tom’s acold,’” said Myrtle, with a mock shiver. Her fit of despondency had vanished. “It grinds me sore,” said Bain, holding his feet to the fire, “to have you folk wantin’ work when it’s in my power to gie it to ye, if you only belonged to my—” “Clan,” put in Myrtle. “To my state. Now you reached your majority last month, Hugh, as you told me, and if you were in my county I’d make you deputy. Hinman died last week, and I’ve his place to fill, and you’re the lad with the brawn and the grit for it. As for your sister,”—his voice took on a tone of greater consideration—, “as for her, if she were in Yankton County I could get her a school up Adelia way. I have friends there who could manage it for me; and they need her up there!” “You would send her as a Roman priestess to the northern hordes, I suppose,” suggested Hugh. “Precisely, man! Precisely! A Roman priestess to the northern hordes.” They all laughed at this so much that ma heard them, and came in with a loaf of hot bread under her arm and a cup of molasses in her hand. As she greeted her guest she cut big slices of the soft loaf, and distributed plates around the table. “Here’s a welcome warm and sweet for you,” she said. “Draw up, Donald Bain, and eat such fare as we have.” “Any fare would have a good taste that you gave, madam,” said the

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gallant Scotchman, placing a chair for her, “and I’ll eat it with a grand appetite if you’ll eat with us.” So they all drew up their chairs, and as they dipped the hot bread in the molasses, they told their stories and cracked their jokes. But while this lightened the hours of the day, it didn’t make the prospects of the McCulloughs any brighter. “If you were only on the other side of the Big Muddy, Hugh, man,” said the sheriff, in parting, “I’d straighten things out for ye! And remember, if things come to the worst, I’ve a shack that’s no so bad, where you and all your kin are welcome.” “Oh, go along, Bain!” cried Hugh, furious with himself for the tears that came over their barriers, “get along home with you! I know that! We all know that! But that isn’t what we want!” After this the sheriff of Yankton County came often to see the McCulloughs. He brought some fine cocks for the little boys to put in their poultry-yard, got the poems of Clarence Mangan and Allan Cunningham for Myrtle, made Hugh a present of “Treasure Island,” kept ma supplied with Ceylon tea, and would, perhaps, have brought pa some dynamite bombs—pa’s favorite luxury—had it not been that he could not approve the “coal crankiness.” However, at the first of April, the young sheriff was forced to discontinue his visits. The ice was breaking up on the river. There was nothing for him to do, but wait till the chinook winds and the abundant sunshine had done their perfect work. Never was such a breaking-up as that of the Missouri in 1881. The river widened into an inland sea, and submerged the richest farms in Dakota. The great ice-gorge reached for seventy-five miles up-stream, solid to the sandy bed of the river, and rose twenty feet above its usual surface. The water, thus obstructed, rushed upon the country, carried away every building on Green Island, took the church of the Santee agency down the river, its bell ringing all the way, and put Vermillion under fifteen feet of water. The community became suddenly aquatic. Hugh McCullough was up to his eyes in exploits, and his blood was

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running faster than it had ever run before. He rescued men from floating trees, took a whole family off the roof of a nearly submerged building, and enjoyed himself better than ever before in his life. Every one he rescued he took to the house on the bluffs, where ma had, most fortunately, a bag of corn-meal and a keg of pork, saved against a rainy day. Meanwhile, events were on the heels of the McCulloughs—and events, as Hugh had many times complained, were among the many things of which they stood in need. One night Pa McCullough stood at the foot of the bluff—or as near the foot of it as the hurrying waters would permit—and by the light of a wild moon, watched the frenzied water forcing its way past the icegorge, and taking with it, inch by inch, the fatal coal-beds. By his side, with her arms around him, was Myrtle, indefinably anxious. The picture before them was a terrible one, yet in the midst of all the tumult, pa seemed quieter than he had for months. It seemed as if the roar grew louder every moment; it sounded subterranean. Myrtle tried to think that her senses were becoming confused, but such consolatory thoughts were banished by Hugh, who came leaping down the bluff, white-faced. “The river’s at its old tricks!” he yelled. “She’s making a new channel, and she’s making it at the base of the bend!” “Get mother,” cried Myrtle, realizing in a second all this might mean. “Get the boys! Let us go together!” But more words were impossible. A deafening roar, a wrenching as if the earth were being torn apart by the elements, and the Missouri had made an island of the Great Bend. The determined waters had tunneled a place for themselves, and rushed through, sweeping along the solid earth, which collapsed and became part of the debris. Hugh and Myrtle dragged their half-conscious father up the bluff and made for the house. Its weak walls had fallen, but the inmates stood safe, and the ground round about was firm and at a secure distance from the cavernous path of the wild river. “The house is gone,” yelled Ernest, as if that fact were not quite obvious.

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“And the coal’s gone,” shouted Myrtle. “Hooray!” “And the farm’s gone!” shrieked Tuppin, who stood clutching his favorite cock under his arm. “And the river,” concluded ma, “is still going!” Well, they got through the night not so badly, what with big fires, and the wildness of the scene around them, and the comforting reflection that thus far no lives had been lost. In the morning the McCulloughs roasted potatoes in the coals, and fed their guests, who were presently taken off in boats; but the McCulloughs stayed where they were. Their friends urged them to leave, but Hugh had a bee in his bonnet, and would not go. “We shall see what we shall see,” he said, kissing his mother. So they utilized one of pa’s old coal chambers for a residence, and put up the remnants of their stove there, and made themselves as comfortable as they could. The Missouri flowed along its new bed, while the ice melted with much groaning. Where the old bed had been were wide bottom lands, still submerged, of course, where, in course of time, the aspen and willow would grow. At the earliest possible moment Sheriff Donald Bain came rowing across this lowland, and Hugh and Myrtle rushed down to the jagged and wave-eaten foot of the bluff to help him land. “Well,” he said, as he shook them both by the hand, “I was trying to devise some way of making you Dakotans, but Providence has taken it oot of my hands. Do ye realize that your territory is forever severed from Nebraska?” “We realize,” responded Hugh, “that we belong to the northern hordes.” “I came over to tell you that you’re to be my deputy as soon as the law can make you such.” “All right,” said Hugh. “What next?” “Get oot your boat and put part of the family in. I’ll take the ladies, and you look after the others. You are to come to my shack till your own house is ready.”

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“Done! We’ve nothing to carry, so there’ll be no time wasted. My boat is in slivers, but you take ma and Myrtle, and in an hour we’ll knock a raft together and be with you.” “Isn’t this wonderful?” said Myrtle to the sheriff, as Hugh went plunging up the bank after his mother. “To think we are going to be free from coal, and to have work and be respected citizens! I do hope we’ll enjoy it!” “Enjoy it! Why not?” “Oh, I don’t know! We’ve been irresponsible so long! I suppose you can get a school for me.” “Why, yes,” he said, slowly, “if you really think you want it, I believe I could get it for you, Miss Myrtle.” “Of course I want it,” cried the girl, shaking back her wayward curls. “Hugh can’t take care of the family alone.” “Oh,” said Donald, growing quite red, “I didn’t say that I wanted him to do it alone.” But just then ma appeared at the top of the bluff. “Hulloa,” she called to the sheriff, “what are you doing on my principality!” “Come to ask for your abdication,” shouted back Donald. “Wait a moment and I’ll assist you down,” which he did, gently, and placed her in the boat. Myrtle leaped lightly in without assistance. As the sheriff seated himself and rowed off across the muddy waters, he could see the two little boys tossing boards over the edge of the bluff to Hugh, who stood below. Pa McCullough waved a saw and hammer at them in farewell. “We’ll have a raft in an hour,” he shouted.

How the Parsonage Was Papered

 Susan Hubbard Martin Youth’s Companion, ju ly 23, 1903

On the frontier, churches represented stability, and a community that could not offer prospective settlers a house of worship could not rightfully call itself “established.” However, few communities had both the population base and the financial support needed to sustain more than one religious sect, so the first western churches were largely multi-denominational. Church leaders tended to relocate almost as often as their parishioners. Churches also were centers for towns’ social affairs and provided growing communities with some of their first schools, orphanages, hospitals, and other similar institutions. Women especially took advantage of these opportunities. Since most states and territories excluded females from politics, women seized important positions in their local churches. Lily Maude is hired to clean the “bleak and cheerless” parsonage in “How the Parsonage was Papered,” but she refuses to let the dreary little residence go unadorned after she learns that the new minister’s wife is bedridden. Lily Maude’s own father is crippled, and her mother is dead, but she constantly remains optimistic. She sacrifices time and effort to ensure that the parsonage becomes a cheerful home for its new inhabitants, and in doing so, she inspires others to commit similar acts of kindness.

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Susan Hubbard Martin lived in Colorado and wrote mostly short stories. Her father, Perry L. Hubbard, was a noted lawyer, school teacher, and Civil War veteran. Martin wrote “Little Jim’s Second Christmas” for the December 1908 edition of Housewife and published “When Sarah Ann Rebelled” in the Youth’s Companion of November 17, 1901. Another of her Christianity-based stories, “Up the Lost Canyon,” was printed in Children’s Missionary Stories (1911).

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The little parsonage stood bleak and cheerless in the wintry sunlight. A window was open, and the February wind, sweeping through the empty rooms, rattled a torn shade that had been left there by the last tenants. Deacon Cummings and the Sunday-school superintendent stood viewing the cottage with speculative eyes. “There’s the salary to raise,” the deacon was saying, “and the extra expense of the new furnace must be met. No, we’ll have to let the parsonage go. I know it does need papering, but we’ve our hands more than full already.” The Sunday-school superintendent looked disappointed. “I think we could manage it,” he suggested mildly, “if—” “No, we can’t!” put in the deacon, decidedly. “The parsonage’ll have to go as it is.” “But his wife’s an invalid,” persisted the Sunday-school superintendent, still more mildly, for, like all the rest of the church-members, he stood greatly in awe of the determined deacon. “Yes, she is,” the deacon assented, a little reluctantly. “Hasn’t been able to do a thing for over a year, I understand. Lung trouble, you know. That’s why they’re coming West. Well, it’s hard for a pastor on a small salary to have a sick wife. Hard for him and the children. I should like to see the parsonage papered, but it’s quite out of the question. The sun comes in finely at the windows, that’s one consolation, and soap and water is another. They’ll have to put up with things as they find ’em. It’s all we can do to raise the salary.” A moment later the two men walked away, leaving Lily Maude stand-

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ing by her scrub pail. Lily Maude was washing the floor. She had been hired by the committee for that purpose. The last minister had been unmarried, and the parsonage had been rented. But with his departure a new order of things was being brought about. A new pastor was coming, and with him an invalid wife and three small children. And Lily Maude was to scrub and wash windows and woodwork, to make ready for the new occupants. Lily Maude was pale and small and stoop-shouldered. Her hair was colorless, and her blue eyes, her only beauty, looked out serenely upon a world that had never been an easy one for her, for Lily Maude’s mother was dead and her father a cripple. Lily Maude made the living now for both. She was only sixteen, yet her small hands were already calloused and toil-hardened. “And the new minister’s wife hasn’t been able to do a thing for over a year.” Lily Maude had heard what the deacon had said, and she knew something of what it meant. She had been used to sickness all her life. Was not her father helpless now, and had not her mother been an invalid for three years? She looked up at the grimy walls regretfully; then, taking her broom, she walked into the small bedroom. Here the walls looked worse than ever. There were soiled finger-marks upon them, and some one had torn from them strips of paper, laying bare the plastering. “And she hasn’t been able to do a thing for over a year, and will have to lie here in a room like this,” thought Lily Maude. “It’s too bad! I’m afraid it’ll make her worse instead of better.” She leaned on her broom-handle meditatively. “If I could only do something,” she whispered, slowly. “I believe,” she added, “I believe I’ll try. This room has to be fixed some way.” By noon the next day Lily Maude’s work was done. The floors were clean, the windows shining, the woodwork spotless. She had done her best. As she turned the key upon the house, her thin face was full of purpose. She hurried down the walk, a shabby little figure in her worn skirt and jacket. Her hands were bare, and the sharp winter wind had

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already made them blue. But Lily Maude was not thinking of anything so small as her own discomfort. She was used to facing cold winds; used to scanty fare and shabby clothes; used to hard work and poverty and deprivations. She walked rapidly until she turned into the principal business street; then she slackened her pace, halted at a certain shop door. Here samples of wall-paper were displayed in the windows, together with a number of cans of paint and a few picture-frames. Lily Maude entered. In the rear of the shop some one was busily working. It was Horatio Robinson, the proprietor. He looked up at Lily Maude. “How do you do?” he said, cordially. “What can I do for you?” Lily Maude flushed a little. “I came to see you about papering a bedroom,” she replied, shyly, “but I haven’t any money. It’s a room at the parsonage,” she added. “The minister’s wife is coming there to live, and she’s sick. I heard them talking about it. The church don’t feel able to do anything, and I—I just can’t stand it to think of her going into a room like that!” She looked up, with the flush still on her face. “I can scrub, Mr. Robinson, and I can wash,” she went on, shyly, “and I thought—for I studied it all out—that perhaps you might let me work for your wife to pay for it. Will it cost very much?” Horatio Robinson looked down into the small face. “That depends upon the quality of the paper,” he answered, kindly. “If it’s cheap—” “But it must not be cheap,” broke in Lily Maude, hastily. “It must be pretty and bright; not too bright, you know, but something that will be pleasant to look at.” “How’s this, then?” said Mr. Robinson, taking down a roll of paper from a shelf above him. “You’ll have to wash a good many days, though, to pay for this,” he added, shrewdly. “Perhaps you wouldn’t like that.” But Lily Maude’s hands were clasped. She was looking at the paper. “Oh, I shouldn’t mind that at all!” she answered, quickly. “I’m used to

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washing, and that paper—it’s beautiful, Mr. Robinson. Will you really paper the room and let me work for you?” Horatio Robinson looked at her kindly. He was a sharp business man, but he had a good heart, nevertheless. “I don’t see how I can refuse you,” he said, smiling. “When people show a disposition to do their part, I like to do mine. So you like the paper, do you? Well, your taste is good, for it’s the handsomest thing I have.” “It’s lovely,” said Lily Maude, dreamily, still gazing at it. “Oh, I hope she’ll be pleased!” Mr. Robinson was touched. He looked at the slight figure, and something rose in his throat. “I’ll do the work for you to-morrow,” he said. “It isn’t every one I’d do it for, but you’re a brave girl.” Lily Maude grew radiant. “Thank you! thank you!” she cried, gratefully. “And I’ll work my very best for your wife!” she added, quickly. “I’m not afraid of that,” was the answer. “You can go up to see her this afternoon and talk it over. She won’t work you hard,” he added. “She’s not that kind.” “I don’t mind work,” replied Lily Maude, blithely, “as long as I can please folks. Here’s the key, Mr. Robinson. It’s the bedroom off the sitting-room. That’s to be her room. I heard the ladies talking about it.” Lily Maude smiled again, and then hurried out. The man looked after her thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, as he turned to his work, “I like a spirit like that. There’s some promise to a girl of that kind, and some Christianity. Willing to scrub and wash to pay for papering a room for somebody that’s sick. That’s religion. Such a frail little creature as she is, too! I think I’ll go to hear that new preacher when he comes. I’m interested in his family already, and I’ll do my best work on that papering, as sure as my name is Horatio Robinson!” The room was finished, and Lily Maude stood by it in awed and admiring silence. Mr. Robinson had himself added a handsome border. The unsightly walls were hidden, and Lily Maude’s heart was full of joy.

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“Isn’t it beautiful?” she cried, ecstatically. “And oh, I’m glad, so glad to think I could do it!” The door opened. Lily Maude looked up and saw Deacon Cummings. “Well, Lily,” he began, pleasantly, “you did your work well, I see. Everything as clean as a new pin.” Just then his eyes fell on the newly papered walls. “Whose work is this?” he demanded. Lily Maude turned pale. “Mr. Robinson’s, sir,” she faltered. “Yes, yes, but who is to pay for it?” Lily Maude looked up bravely. “I am, sir,” she answered. “I’m going to scrub and wash for Mrs. Robinson until it’s all cleared up. You see, sir,” she went on, timidly, “I heard them tell about the minister’s wife being so sick and not able to do anything, and all that, and these walls looked so bad I was afraid when she saw them she’d get worse. Things like that trouble sick people a good deal. I know, for I’ve been with them all my life. I hope you don’t mind my doing it, sir?” The deacon looked down upon Lily Maude in her worn and shabby dress. Then, like Horatio Robinson, he felt something rise in his throat. “No, no, Lily,” he said, huskily, “you did right, quite right.” He went hastily out into the next room. The whole parsonage was papered, and out of the deacon’s own pocket, at that. Then somehow the story of what Lily Maude had done crept out, and others went to work. A carpet was put down that matched the bedroom walls. Rich old Mrs. Janes, hitherto not noted for her liberality, opening her heart and her purse-strings, sent over a beautiful brass bed. Some one else added the coverings, and kindly hands hung dimity curtains at the windows and spread a rug on the floor. Easy chairs and pictures completed the pretty room, an ideal resting-place for an invalid, so fresh was it and so attractive. “Tired, Margaret?”

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“A little, dearest.” The minister’s wife tried to smile, but the effort was a failure. The jolting of the train jarred on the tired nerves, and through the car window the prospect was not alluring. Long stretches of buffalo-grass flashed by, interspersed with white patches of alkali; and every turn of the carwheels was taking her farther from her old home. Still, if she could only get well! And wonderful recoveries were made in the pure, invigorating climate to which they were hurrying. Yet how she dreaded it all! New scenes, strange faces, and perhaps the new friends would not be like the old tried ones she was leaving so far behind. “Cheer up, dear,” the minister was saying. “We’ll soon be there.” “I wish we could go straight to the parsonage,” she answered. “Somehow I dread hotels—and strangers.” “Never mind,” was the cheerful answer. “We’ll soon be settled, and your room shall be first, Margaret. I’ll make it as easy and comfortable for you as I can.” “You always do that,” was the grateful answer. “I’m ashamed to murmur when I have the children and you.” “Gray Rock!” shouted the conductor, and the minister rose. “Home, Margaret,” he said, tremulously. “Come, children.” It was a little station, and only two or three were standing on the platform. Among them was a tall man with a weather-beaten face. It was Deacon Cummings, who came forward hurriedly to meet them. He took the minister’s hand, shaking it warmly. Then he turned to the woman. “I’ve a carriage right here,” he said, anxious at the sight of her pale, worn face. “Let me help you.” She sank upon the cushions, exhausted. The children sat quietly together, wide-eyed and wondering. “We’re in your hands,” the minister said, smiling. “What will you do with us?” “You’ll see,” was the genial answer. In a few moments the carriage stopped. Deacon Cummings alighted.

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“This is the parsonage,” he said. “We thought it would be pleasanter for you to come straight home, so we did what we could. Some time I’ll tell you the story of how it was all brought about. Your wife’s room is ready for her, and the ladies have spread a supper for you in the diningroom. Welcome to Gray Rock, dear friends, and may the new home bring you health and happiness.” “I am sure it will,” said the minister’s wife, taking the deacon’s hand. “I am sure, too,” said the minister. The tears were in his eyes as he half-led, half-carried his wife across the threshold into the pretty room awaiting her. Gently, very gently, he laid her upon the pillows of the soft bed, with all its snow-white draperies. She put both arms about his neck and murmured: “‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.’”

The Doctor’s Visit

 Hamlin Garland Youth’s Companion, ap ri l 20, 1905

Child labor was common in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century. By 1910 more than two million children worked in mines, in factories, in the fields, and on the streets, often twelve hours a day, six days a week. The expansion of industry increased these numbers, prompting the creation of the National Child Labor Committee in 1904. Congress passed an act in 1916 to regulate goods produced by young workers, but it was ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court. Child laborers were not protected until the passage of the Fair Labor Standards Act in 1938. On frontier farms and ranches, children were also economic assets; their work, from breaking the sod to harvesting, was integral to family survival, and they assumed adult responsibilities early. Children learned independence, self-reliance, and determination—traits encouraged by pioneer life—as they did their share in the transformation of the West. In “The Doctor’s Visit” Vincent lies exhausted in bed after a day of walking behind a team of horses in the field, but when his mother rouses him to ride seven miles in the rain at night for the doctor, he does not falter. His kinship with the animals allows him to choose exactly which horse is capable of the task, and his in-

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timate knowledge of the land makes him confident of the route. After the grueling race against time, he expertly cares for the exhausted mare. Only the doctor notes the boy’s bravery, but Vincent finds personal satisfaction in doing his duty. A prolific writer, Hamlin Garland (1860–1940) published over forty books and nearly five hundred periodical pieces in his fifty-year writing career. Although he is best known for his short story collection Main Travelled Roads (1891), a bleak look at the “toil and deprivation” of farming on the frontier, he also published Boy Life on the Prairie (1899) because he believed that “no writer, so far as I knew, had ever put the farm life of the West into literature.” His memoir A Son of the Middle Border (1917) and his autobiography A Daughter of the Middle Border (1921), which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1922, depict a more positive side to the western experience. Garland recycled “The Doctor’s Visit” into chapter 13 of A Son of the Middle Border.

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Worn with his day’s work behind the harrow, the boy lay buried in his bed, close to the garret eaves—deep sunk in slumber by the patter of the April rain upon the roof; but his mother’s voice reached him, pierced him, roused him by reason of its poignant note of alarm—of desperation. “Vincent!” she called, and her voice grew shrill. “Vincent, you must go for the doctor! Your father is very sick. Hurry—hurry!” The lad sprang from his warm bed, reeling, dizzy with sleep, but calling as cheerily as he could: “I hear you, mother! I’m coming.” “Be quick! Call Mary, too.” Groping in the deep darkness, the boy found his clothing and dressed hurriedly, and with limbs still half-asleep felt his way to the stairway, where a faint light shone. Pausing only for a word of warning to his sister, he stumbled down the steep and narrow stairs into the dimly lighted kitchen. His mother met him with white, strained face. “Your father is suffering terribly. You must bring the doctor as quickly as possible.”

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He could hear the sufferer groan—even as he moved about the kitchen, putting on his outer garments. And then, lantern in hand, he hurried into the night, to pick his way through the rain and mud to the barn. It was dark and the wind was cold and raw. The thought of the seven long miles which stretched away into the midnight was appalling, but his heart rose to the task. In the warm barn the horses stood in a row, chewing their hay in pleasant chorus. Dan and Dick, the big plow team, and Jennie and Peg, the brood mares, slow and quiet—these he passed without a word. Then came wild Frank and Kitty, his mate, the driving team, fleet Morgans, saddle-wise and intelligent as dogs. For a moment the lad hesitated. Frank was the stronger, possessed of greater staying powers, but Kitty was the fleeter, the more trustworthy on such an errand in such a night. Her he chose for his adventure. “Whoa, girl!” he called, as he put the lantern on the oat-box behind her. “You must work to-night.” Flinging the saddle-blanket over her, he smoothed it carefully; there must be no wrinkles in it. The saddle he cinched tight, so tight that the mare flinched. “I can’t take any chances of a spill. You must let me draw the buckle up another hole, Kitty.” She took the bit willingly, always ready for action, and a few moments later the boy blew out the lantern and swung to the saddle, to which he clung as naturally as a sleeping jay-bird to its perch. With a spattering rush Kitty passed the well-curb and plunged out into the highway, the mud flying in showers. “Steady there!” called the boy. “Steady, Kit!” and he drew in on the reins till he could feel the motion of her tongue against the bit. He was fully awake now. The cold rain driving into his face caused his head to bow and his eyes to blur. The night was black, so black he could not even detect the gleam of water in the pools on each side of the turnpike; but Kitty felt her way till the boy’s eyes expanded like those of a cat, and began to note each line of light, each shade of blackness in the mud.

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At last he could see the road, running, a river of ink, between the dim strips of grass. The boy’s heart rose with a sort of pride in his heroic task. He was a courier riding to save an army. “Get out o’ this!” he called sharply, and the noble mare leaped away into the darkness like a wolf. She knew her master; together they had herded the cattle on the prairies, and in a hundred races she had proved herself the swiftest of all the leaders of the herds, even when carrying the handicap of the saddle and her rider. She snorted at every leap with a sort of challenge, as if to say, “My heart is strong, I am not afraid, ’tis only play for me!” But the experienced lad drew her down to a steady, swimming gallop, and so the first mile slipped behind. Out of the darkness John Martin’s Carlo barked; this marked the second mile. From here the road ran diagonally across the prairie, a velvet black streak on the pale gray sod. This mile was covered in less time than the first, for the footing was better. Here and there the swales were full of water, but Kitty dashed through them unhesitatingly, sending the icy water in broad sheets from beneath her pounding hoofs. Once she went down in a steep gully, and her rider, unseated, swung round to her neck, but instantly regained his place, and shouted: “Go on, Kitty!” The fourth mile was in the mud, the fifth still worse, and the mare’s proud head began to lower and her breath to labor. She snorted no more in exultation of her strength, but ran silently, and the boy, who knew her ways as well as he knew those of his little brother, realized that she was beginning to flag. It hurt him to urge her on, but the memory of his mother’s white, contorted face and the sound of his father’s agonized groaning tortured his heart. With lips set in determined line, he kept his spur to her side. The sixth mile was a turnpike, and better footing, the seventh mile fairly within the town limits. Ah, there was a gleam of light! Some one was awake, and the world was instantly less cheerless. There bloomed an-

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other! His heart bounded with joy as he drew rein where the red and green lamps of the drug-store threw a jocund light upon the mud of the street. The doctor lived next door, and there, too, a dim light shone. Slipping from his weary horse, and without waiting to tether her, he hurried up the short graveled walk and began to feel for the bell, which he remembered was at the right of the door. When his hand encountered it a thrill of relief ran through him. Once, twice, thrice he pulled— pulled hard and quick, then waited, listening while its imperative jingle died away. The door opened at last, and the doctor, a tall, impassive, blondbearded man in a night-gown, stood before him. “What is it, my boy?” “I’m Vincent Stearn, sir. My father is awfully sick; we want you to come quick!” The doctor looked down at the pale, wild-eyed, water-soaked lad for a moment, then peered out into the dismal night. He was a soldier, a man of resolution, but he hesitated an instant. “All right, my boy, I’ll be there soon.” The messenger turned and ran down the path in haste, to mount his shivering mare before the cold entered her blood and stiffened her limbs. Her spirit was not broken. Snorting with joy, she whirled into the street before her rider was fairly in the saddle, and set off for home with recovered courage. It seemed that she, too, knew her rider’s errand was accomplished, and that the warm shelter of the barn now waited; but the shivering boy held her to a fox-trot, turning often in his saddle to look for the lights on the doctor’s carriage. His heart filled with anxiety. “I hope he’ll come now,” he said many times, and yet he could not have blamed him for waiting till morning. At last the lights of a carriage, rocking crazily, came to view; and drawing Kitty to a walk, he listened. “He’s driving the clay-banks!” he called aloud, and his admiration of this fierce and powerful span came to him. They were the doctor’s pride,

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a pair of wild-eyed but untiring half-breed Morgans, a team he did not spare, a team that scorned to be petted or pitied, a team that would take care of itself on all kinds of road and under all kinds of weather— bony and sinewy. They came rushing, their mouths foaming, their teeth set on the bit, the big doctor, calm, iron-handed, sitting in the swaying top of his light buggy, his feet against the dashboard, silent, watchful, master of his furious broncos. The nigh horse was running, the off one pacing, and the pounding splash of their hoofs, the slash of the wheels, the roaring of their nostrils made the boy’s hair rise. As he drew aside to let them pass, the doctor called out: “Take your time, my boy, take your time!” And before the kindly significance of these words had warmed the boy’s brain, he was alone with Kitty and the dark. His anxiety was gone; whatsoever happened now, his duty had been met. The fetching of the doctor exhausted all human resource; his father’s fate rested now with the man of science—and with God. A greater relief, a sweet loosening of the heart-strings he knew would come to the tortured mother in a few moments, and with utter confidence and loving faith the boy jogged homeward, wet to the bone and aching in every limb, but triumphant. It was good to meet his mother again, good to hear her say, with a tender smile. “Father is better—much better.” It was good to share the delicious hot coffee which the doctor was sipping, and best of all to hear him say, “That was a brave ride, my boy. You deserve a soldier’s commission. You saved your father and mother hours of pain.” Slowly, drowsily, the lad climbed the stairway, and in a half a minute was far away from the howl of the wind and the slash of the rain—deep sunk in boyhood’s dreamless sleep.

In Common

 Laura Tilden Kent Illustrated by W. F. Stecher Youth’s Companion, au g u st 25, 1910

When Americans immigrated to the West, they carried with them the excess baggage of social, cultural, and racial bias. They were especially intolerant of those who spoke a different language, had a different skin color, or practiced a different religion. For early Americans, these differences justified Manifest Destiny. Prejudice against ethnic, racial, and religious groups led to discrimination and often violence and forced many African American, Asian, and Hispanic immigrants to work at the most menial, low-paying jobs. Ethnic groups were forced to intermingle nowhere more than in the mining camps—sometimes over 80 percent of their mostly male inhabitants were foreign-born. However, women’s need for female companionship in the sparsely populated West helped to break down the barriers of age, ethnicity, religion, and social class by creating supportive communities, where women formed friendships for encouragement and assistance. From social activities, such as literary societies, quilting bees, and sewing circles, to providing much needed help during harvest, birthing, illness, and death, women created strong bonds with their neighbors of all ethnicities in order to survive both physically and emotionally. Bee Courtney, the niece of a mine supervisor, accompanies her en-

“An’ las’ night I—I— Oh! I dream of cherries!” gineer brother to a Colorado mine for an adventure. Despite her boredom and loneliness, she considers the only other woman in the camp, the wife of a Portuguese miner, as socially beneath her. Mrs. Manuel’s concern over her mother’s health and the safety of her husband seem ridiculous to Bee until her own brother is overcome by mine gasses. When the immigrant woman helps to restore him and to comfort her, Bee understands that compassion has no prejudice. The daughter of William Crossley Kent, Laura Tilden Kent (1857–

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1932) did not publish widely. Only a few of her stories appeared in periodicals, such as “The Christmas Doll” in the South Jersey Republican in 1914 and “The School Ma’am of Squaw Peak” in Atlantic Monthly in 1917. She also wrote “When the Storm Came” for the Youth’s Companion in 1914.

......

“If you are so lonesome here, why don’t you go home before I do, Bee? There isn’t any real reason why you should stay.” “Go before you do?” Bee looked indignantly into her brother’s troubled face. “Do you think I’d leave you here—to eat that Chinaman’s food? And wouldn’t you be lonesome without me, Tom?” Her face grew wistful, and Tom, who had meant to make her believe that he would not miss her at all, was trapped into admitting the truth. Then he tried to rob the words of their meaning by adding lightly, “Of course I’d miss you, Bee, but I’m so busy that I don’t have time to worry about being lonesome. It really must be awful for you, though. You’d better go. I’d rather you did, honestly.” “Well, I sha’n’t. If you’d miss me at all, I sha’n’t.” Tom could not bring himself to urge it too much. He turned to another phase of the same subject. “Bee, if you’d go down to Mrs. Manuel’s oftener, wouldn’t—” “O Tom! Don’t mention Mrs. Manuel to me. It’s my own kind of people I want to see. It—” “But aren’t all people interesting when you come to know them? Mr. Manuel seemed stupid to me at first, but now I—like him! Perhaps you’d find that you have something in common with—” “Something in common with a Portuguese woman who talks always about her ‘mama’s’ chickens and about fearful accidents in the mines! She’s always telling me the awfulest things—or telling about how she’s afraid the awfulest things may happen. There isn’t any danger, is there, Tom?” “Not any more than in all mines. If the men are careful—” “That’s what I tell her, but she’s so timid. I think it’s affected timid-

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ity, Tom. I think she considers it nice to be worried all the time about her Pedro.” “She can’t be very amusing, then. You really ought to go home, Bee. But I must be getting up to the mine, Good-by, sis!” After he was gone, Bee still stood in the doorway of the tiny frame house, and looked with loathing on the wild, beautiful scene before her—the quiet little rocky gulch, with its thread of water creeping over the stones, the pines, still and solemn on the mountainside, and everywhere the aspen leaves quivering and quivering, restlessly, monotonously in the early morning sunshine. Through a gap in the trees below her she could see the glimmer of a white tent-roof. That showed where Mrs. Manuel lived, but the sight of it brought small comfort to Bee. What if Mrs. Manuel were the only woman in camp, since she was such a woman? A year before, Bee had come with her brother and an aunt and uncle to this Western mining-camp. Uncle Jack was its superintendent then, and Tom, just out of the engineering school, was to have charge of such work as lay in his line. There had been a summer full of new and interesting experiences for Bee, for the camp was large and bustling, and there was much to see and hear. Then things had begun to go wrong. The ore had given out in every direction, the force of miners had been lessened and lessened. Finally Uncle Jack and Aunt Clara had gone away, and Tom had been left in charge of the few miners that remained. The search for ore was to go on in this small way for a year. If nothing was discovered by that time, the mine must be abandoned. Uncle Jack and Aunt Clara had meant to take Bee with them when they left the mine, but she had begged to stay with Tom. “Think of poor Tom’s eating that Chinaman’s horrid cooking for a year!” said Bee, laughing. “That alone would be enough to make him homesick in a week. No, I’ll stay and keep house for him. It’ll be lots of fun.” “I’m not so sure of that,” argued Aunt Clara. “It may seem amusing

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enough now, but you’ll find that our being away will make quite a difference to you. It’ll be lonely here when Tom is gone all day.” “If I get lonely, I’ll go to see Mrs. Brown,” insisted Bee. “We’ll have lots of adventures together.” Mrs. Brown was the foreman’s young wife and a very pleasant girl. She lived hardly a dozen steps from Bee’s door. If anybody had known that the Browns were soon to leave, too, perhaps this story could never have been told. As it was, here was Bee, six months after the departure of Aunt Clara and Uncle Jack, gazing discontentedly down at the glimmer of white that represented the dwelling of the only other woman in camp. And discontent, now that Tom was gone, was fast giving place to an acute attack of genuine homesickness. “I would go down to Mrs. Manuel’s, if I weren’t so sure she’d bore me to death with those same stories of her mama,” sighed Bee. Strangely, perhaps, Bee had been too occupied with her own homesickness to consider why Mrs. Manuel talked so incessantly of her mother. She had never thought seriously of the fact that Mrs. Manuel was still young, too, and away from her mother for the first time. She thought of her only as a fat, tiresome Portuguese woman, who could talk on only two subjects—“mama” and “Pedro.” Mama’s chicken-ranch was always associated with the one theme, while mining accidents were almost invariably suggested by the other. No, she would not call upon Mrs. Manuel. Bee went back into her little house and attacked the morning’s work. It was too little. The tiny house was in perfect order long before it was time to think of Tom’s luncheon. She might embroider—but who cares to embroider when she is sick with longing for her mother and her friends? She might read, but she had read so much. Nothing in books could interest her now, she was sure. She seated herself half-heartedly at the piano that filled a third of the little living-room, but the piano had never been good, and now it seemed to give out only a jangle of metallic sounds.

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Somehow the morning did pass. At last it was time to get luncheon, if she should begin a little early; and there was dear old Tom to eat it. But Tom was in a dreadful hurry. “The compressor doesn’t seem to work right to-day, somehow, and the air in the mine has been pretty bad. I’ve been trying to find out what’s the matter with the thing, but I don’t know yet. I’ll have to rush back and try again.” And he went as soon as he could swallow a few mouthfuls of that carefully prepared lunch. Bee was in a childish mood by this time, and she felt keenly the slight to several carefully prepared dishes. He had not noticed them at all. One of them still went untasted. “He might as well be eating the Chinaman’s messes, if he isn’t going to notice his food any more than this!” sniffed Bee, as she cleared away the little feast. “I wonder whether he really would care if I were to go home?” After the dishes were washed once more Bee wandered again to her door-step, but she was not watching any dazzle of tent-roof now. She watched the road. It was almost time for the mail-carrier to pass in his rickety little cart. The mail! That was the great event of the day. Bee felt her heart pounding excitedly when at last she heard the cart rattling and jolting over the stony road. There was a dreadful moment of suspense, when she thought that the man was going to drive past their mail-box without stopping. Then the cart came to a stand, the carrier leaned out, dropped something into the box, and jolted on. Bee flew to the roadside and seized upon—a paper, one poor, lonely little newspaper! That seemed too much. She flung it from her into the dusty road. She stood quite still, feeling as if this were the last stroke—feeling as if she could bear this isolation not another moment. If she could only cry! But she could not. She stooped listlessly to pick up the paper, and then walked listlessly up the little path to her own door. Half-way up, she became conscious of hurrying, stumbling feet, and

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a panting breath behind her. She turned, to see Mrs. Manuel hastening after her. Mrs. Manuel was wringing her hands distressfully and gasping some half-intelligible lamentation. “What is the matter, Mrs. Manuel?” Bee tried to make her question sound sympathetic, but it was only a half-sympathy that she could give to anybody now. “I—I got to-day no letter from mama!” wept Mrs. Manuel. “An’ las’ night I—I—Oh! I dream of cherries!” “You dreamed of cherries! I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Manuel.” An indignant impatience was struggling for control of Bee’s voice. Then she added, as gently as she could: “Come up to the house and tell me about it. I don’t understand.” Mrs. Manuel had no voice for further explanation until she had been seated for some minutes in Bee’s little sitting-room. Then she checked her puffing and wailing enough to gasp: “I don’t hear from mama for more than a week! I—Las’ night I dream of cherries!” As she reached that fatal word again, she was once more convulsed with grief. “But what have cherries—and a dream—to do with it?” “Oh, don’ you know?” sobbed Mrs. Manuel. “It’s a sign of—death! A certain sure sign of death!” And she wailed more wildly than ever. “Mama! Oh! I will get a letter! It will say some one are dead!” For a moment Bee felt almost shocked at her own lack of feeling for this poor woman. But who could be expected to feel sorry for such a childish, superstitious, foolish creature? How ridiculous she did look— the great, fat thing, sobbing like a baby because she had dreamed of cherries! “Don’t cry so, Mrs. Manuel!” She made herself say it kindly. “I don’t think that’s any sign at all of—anything! You’ll get your letter to-morrow and find that they’re all safe and sound. You mustn’t worry.” “No! No! No!” Mrs. Manuel almost shrieked the words. “It is a sign of death! It’s a certain, sure sign of death! If it is not mama, it will be Pe-

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dro! The compressor, it will not work this morning, Pedro says! There will be mine gas! Pedro will be suffocate! It is Pedro will die!” As this new thought struck her, Mrs. Manuel began to cry twice as hard as before. “Oh, come now! Tom said that the air was a little bad—only a little, you see! And he’s going to fix the compressor. Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Manuel.” But Mrs. Manuel would worry about it, and she was still worrying and weeping when she went away, in spite of Bee’s dutiful but halfhearted efforts to cheer her. She left Bee more depressed than ever. Had it been only that morning that she had promised Tom to stay until he left in the autumn? It seemed years ago, and doubtless every day would be as long as this. Her friends were forgetting her. She would, of course, get fewer and fewer letters from now on. Tom did not care whether she stayed or not. Why should she stay? She could not! She would not! The afternoon dragged wearily on. After what seemed a week, it was time to get dinner, but even when it was ready Tom had not yet arrived. “His old compressor must be giving him a lot of trouble—or he’s talking to the men and has forgotten to come,” fretted Bee. She was walking impatiently back and forth in the kitchen, when the door was jerked abruptly open, and Mrs. Manuel burst in. “Is Mr. Courtney home?” demanded she. “Not yet.” “It is like I said! The mine gas—” Mrs. Manuel flung herself into a chair and sobbed nervously. “Nonsense!” Bee spoke the more sharply because of a little uneasiness that she felt herself. “Nonsense, Mrs. Manuel! Tom was saying this morning that there’s no danger at the mine if the men are careful. You’re always borrowing trouble.” “You—you don’t know the mines!” wept Mrs. Manuel. “I have lived by them always. I have seen—” “Don’t tell any of those dreadful stories, Mrs. Manuel! They’ll be coming home in a minute—Tom and Mr. Manuel, too. You’ll see.”

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But they did not come home in a minute—nor in twenty—nor in half an hour. At the end of that time Mrs. Manuel had ceased to cry. She sat still, with her hand pressed tragically to her breast. “I shall faint! I am going to faint! I cannot bear it!” cried Mrs. Manuel. Somehow her anxiety no longer seemed ridiculous to Bee. She was growing more and more nervous and frightened herself. “I—I cannot bear it, either,” she confessed, at last. “Can we go up to the mine, Mrs. Manuel, and see—” “No, no! We couldn’t do nothing. We must be ready here. We must have hot water and hot blankets and everything they need.” At the first hint of weakness in another, Mrs. Manuel changed strangely. She forgot how near she had been to fainting. She replenished the fire, which had nearly gone out. She brought water to be heated and blankets to be warmed at the fire. She was still working quietly, when there came a sound of shuffling steps at the door, and three men entered, bearing with them—not Pedro, but Tom Courtney, white-faced and limp. “Don’t be scared, miss,” the men began to explain. “It’s nothin’ but a little too much gas. He’d got the compressor fixed an’ started out o’ the mine—seemed one o’ the pipes leaked, somehow—when this got the best of him. Some of us were with him, but for a while we didn’t notice that he’d fallen. And we’ve had quite a time working over him. He seemed to be coming out of it fine, but he fainted again on the way down here. He’ll be all right—” But Bee was not listening. It seemed to her that Tom must be killed. He was so still—so white. How did these men know that he would be all right? She bent over him in a helpless agony. Those who worked over Tom in the two hours that followed were the men and Mrs. Manuel—Mrs. Manuel, who no longer wept, who no longer was “going to faint,” but who was suddenly grown capable and womanly and strong. After it was clear, even to Bee, that Tom was out of all danger, the girl

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crept into the kitchen and burst into tears as nervous as any Mrs. Manuel had ever shed. The Portuguese woman followed her there, and Bee found herself crying upon a comfortable, fat shoulder. “Poor dear, poor dear!” soothed Mrs. Manuel. “I know jus’ how you feel like! I have seen so many of these mine accident!” “If my mother were here—” wept Bee. “I know jus’ how you feel like,” repeated Mrs. Manuel. “I always want my mama.” Then it came to Bee suddenly. This was the reason that Mrs. Manuel talked of her mother! Penitence overwhelmed her as she remembered her own lack of sympathy. But she could not tell Mrs. Manuel what she had thought of her. She could only cry: “How can I ever thank you, Mrs. Manuel, for being so good?” “Thank nawthing! Good nawthing!” beamed Mrs. Manuel, patting her shoulder again. And so she left her. Bee thought it all over after she had gone to bed that night. Mrs. Manuel was a kindhearted, capable woman who talked of her mother because she was homesick—just as Bee was homesick. Mrs. Manuel had some reason to worry over Pedro. Pedro was a miner, and ordinarily in far more danger than Tom would be. Finally, Mrs. Manuel was having a hard time in this lonely camp, just as Bee was. In fact, it was as Tom had said that very morning; she had found that she had something in common with Mrs. Manuel. Why could they not help each other? “It is my fault that we haven’t done it always,” admitted Bee. The next morning she delighted Mrs. Manuel’s hospitable soul with an early call and a good account of Tom’s health. Tom had been able to go to the mine, although he still had a headache, and he should not stay all day. In the afternoon Bee left her own letters unread while she hurried with them down to find whether Mrs. Manuel had received any word from her mama. “Oh, yes, yes!” Mrs. Manuel beamed. “Sure I got a letter from my mama! They are all right, all of them at home.”

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“I knew that your dream—” Bee was beginning, mischievously. One does not tease any but friends in this easy way. “Oh, but it did! It was a true dream!” cried Mrs. Manuel, trying to make her face properly sober, but too glad over her letter to succeed very well. “Some one are dead! It is my uncle in Portugal I haven’t never seen. He—he were a rich man! He has left my mama a hundred dollars. Let me tell you what my mama will spend it for.” The barriers were down. Somehow Bee could listen with real sympathy to Mrs. Manuel’s story—for was not Mrs. Manuel a homesick girl like herself? At its end she lifted one of the letters that lay in her lap. “I have a letter from my mother, too.” She smiled. “May I read it and tell you what she says?” “Oh, if you would!” cried Mrs. Manuel. “I don’t know nothing about your mama!” Oh, yes, there were plenty of things in common between them, after all!

A Matter of Nationality

 Edith Ronald Mirrielees Youth’s Companion, july 2, 1908

As the United States expanded its borders westward, the country came to rely more and more on immigrant pioneers, especially settlers from Europe, to fill the vast stretches of newly acquired land that lay west of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. Seduced by the promises of community boosters as well as railroad companies seeking to unload their federal land grant domains, thousands of families from Germany, Scandinavia, Britain, Russia, the Netherlands, and other parts of central and western Europe abandoned their homelands and crossed the Atlantic. Not all immigrants received an enthusiastic welcome, however. White Americans could be just as cruel to foreigners as they could be to people of other races, as is made clear in “A Matter of Nationality.” The story’s narrator and his older friend Lafe try to impede the efforts of a Norwegian farmer, even though the only major difference the man shows is his accent. When an emergency drags the neighbor away from his claim, the two boys are forced to choose between letting the Norwegian’s alfalfa spoil or taking the initiative to cut it for him. In the end, the narrator and Lafe come to an important realization about what constitutes being an American.

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Born in Illinois, Edith Ronald Mirrielees (1878–1962) grew up in Montana and spent six years teaching in the Montana public school system. She later moved to California and enrolled at Stanford University, from which she graduated in 1907. She joined the university’s faculty in 1910 and retired from the institution in 1944. As a professor, Mirrielees taught creative writing to one of the United States’s greatest western novelists, John Steinbeck. In addition to writing a history of Stanford, released in 1959, she also edited several collections of short stories and published a book about writing fiction, titled Story Writing (1947). Mirrielees edited the Pacific Spectator from 1947 to 1951, and her short stories and articles appeared in such periodicals as Atlantic Monthly, The Blue Mule, The Cavalier, Everybody’s Magazine, Munsey’s Magazine, and Pearson’s Magazine (U.S.).

...... Lafe and I began persecuting the Norwegian almost as soon as he settled on the opposite side of the creek—only we did not call it persecution in those days. Nearly all children are provincials at heart, and neither of us was lacking in our fair share of prejudice. When distant observations showed us that the newcomer was unmistakably Scandinavian in type, we turned to look into each other’s face in disgust too deep for words. “Well—if that isn’t the limit!” Lafe burst forth, at last. “If we had to have neighbors, we needn’t have had a foreigner! If father just had taken up that bottom the way he meant to—” A brilliant idea broke off the speech, and he clapped his hand suddenly upon his horse’s neck. “I tell you, Jim, let’s run him off!” I was Lafe’s guest that summer, and a year or two his junior, and I was aching for excitement. “Let’s!” I agreed, without a second thought, and we rode slowly home, planning our ways and means. Naturally we said nothing to the rest of the household regarding our intentions. Mr. Bradley, Lafe’s father, seemed, after a single outburst of disappointment, to forget the very existence of the newcomer; and as

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for Mrs. Bradley, a woman who objected even to such innocent amusements as the riding of calves and the roping of chickens could not possibly have sound views on the subject of neighbors. Indeed, we had a shrewd suspicion that I and not the Norwegian would be banished if our project came to light. We needed no outside help, however, in devising means of annoyance. The Norwegian’s gates came open and the wires came down from his fences with surprising frequency; the water at the head of his ditch was continually choked by driftwood, and his cows, turned out to graze in the morning, by night were miles away. For a long time the victim of these outrages seemed to lay them entirely to natural causes. Then he must have observed that the days we rode through the hills surrounding his claim were always the days of accident, for he accused us heatedly once or twice of interference with his cattle, and the interference continuing, complained to Mr. Bradley, with the result that we received orders to remain strictly on our own side of the creek. “Though I know you haven’t intentionally harmed anything of Olson’s,” Mr. Bradley assured us. “I told him you were a thoughtless pair, but you were honest, and I want him to see he’s no better off with you away.” That was what we wished also. We echoed the last clause with genuine sincerity, and were scarcely out of hearing before we began scheming for ways to make it come true. “Old meddler!” Lafe growled, unjustifiably. “He’d like to keep us shut up in the barn-yard.” Then he flushed a little. “But I suppose he’s got a right to play back,” he added, urged by a late-born sense of justice. “But he hasn’t any right to drag your father in,” I pointed out. “We don’t go finding fault to his wife,” and both of us seized eagerly upon this new reason for indignation. We were beginning to find it rather difficult to keep up an active dislike for the newcomer. He was a quiet, hard-working man, somewhat

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past youth, and except for a slight lengthening of the sibilant sounds in his speech, with no mark of foreign origin. Then, too, he was poor. His poverty tugged at our sympathies more than once when we saw him dragging wearily home at the end of a day’s work, or patching up his ancient farm machinery to fit it for fresh service. His house was in view from the edge of the creek, and most of the fields where he worked. After our prohibition we used to spend hours wandering up and down the creek bank, watching him and inciting each other to extraordinary revenges, which somehow never were brought to pass. He noticed us one day, and came smiling down to the creek bank. “My fence iss staying up nicely now, thank you!” he called across to us. “But your ditch isn’t staying open any better!” Lafe taunted back, furiously. We had found a point on our side of the stream from which we could float down brush against the opposite head-gate. By one impulse we sprang up to go to it. Then I halted. “He’ll know it’s us for sure if it fills up to-day,” I suggested. We were devoting ourselves to our supper that night when a speech from Mrs. Bradley caught our attention. “I drove over to Mrs. Olson’s to-day,” she remarked to her husband. “She’s going into town to-morrow. I told her Mr. Olson was to use our telephone any time he wanted to get word to her.” “He’s not going to stay with her, then?” Mr. Bradley questioned. “I suppose he can’t at this time of the year.” “He feels he can’t. He’s just going to take her in.” Mrs. Bradley sighed a little over the words, and fell into so serious a silence that Lafe’s indignant interrogation went unspoken. We observed the next day that no smoke rose from the Olson chimney, and for the three days of the owner’s absence we turned our attention entirely away from the adjoining ranch. After our fashion we were honorable adversaries. On the day of Olson’s return, Mr. Bradley departed to his mountain ranch for the second cutting of alfalfa, and Lafe and I, left with the bur-

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den of the ranch chores on our shoulders, found ourselves at first pretty closely occupied. Olson was spending much time in his own single alfalfa-field, bordering the creek. He kept his riding horse picketed outside the field, and every evening, when work was finished, forded the stream and came up to telephone to his wife. Somehow his anxious face made us glad to use our added duties as an excuse for leaving him alone. It was about ten days after his return that Mrs. Bradley came running out to the corral, where we were doing the morning milking. “Lafe, get your horse and go for Mr. Olson!” she called through the bars. “Tell him they want him. His wife’s—worse.” “Oh, send Gert!” Lafe protested; and then, with sudden inspiration, “Pa won’t let us go across the creek.” Mrs. Bradley made no answer, but ten minutes later we saw Lafe’s nine-year-old sister galloping up the slope which led to Olson’s house. I think neither of us wanted to observe the man’s movements, but against our wills we slunk down to our point of vantage on the creek bank. From there we saw Olson run out to meet the messenger, saw him dash back into the stable, and almost at once emerge on horseback and disappear at a pace which meant a fresh horse or a breakdown before the thirty miles to town were covered. “Bet he left his gates down and his fire burning,” I derided. “He never thought of his stock.” But the jeering came hard, and we went back to our milking in silence. Not for the world would we have acknowledged an interest in the deserted place, but all the same, I was at the river bank a dozen times during the morning; and when, a little after noon, I saw a stranger ride in through the pasture and lead his horse to the sheds, I was conscious of distinct relief. “Olson’s sent somebody to stay on his ranch,” I ventured, indiscreetly. “Any of our business?” Lafe scorched me into silence. “He could, easy enough. Plenty of Norwegians along the creek.” Apparently the new man was for household service only; that is, he may

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have milked the cows and fed the chickens and attended to turning out and gathering in the stock, but his industry did not extend as far as the hay-field. Lafe commented on the fact a day or two after his arrival. “They’re going to lose their second crop over there,” he pointed out. “You’d think Olson’d get back and tend to it.” “Of course his wife’s sick,” I excused him. “Serve him right, anyhow,” I hastened, to cover up my weakness. By another day there was no question as to the need of immediate cutting if the alfalfa were to yield a good grade of hay. From end to end of the field the feathery purple blossoms waved above the green. I was less at home than Lafe in ranch matters, but even I could see that the strength needed in the stalk was rapidly being spent upon flowers. Secretly each of us sent many anxious glances along the road by which Olson must return. When he had been gone a week, Lafe, staring at the brilliant field, suddenly announced his intention. “I’m going to cut it!” he declared, and at once flung round to forestall my protest. “I suppose you think it’s all right to let good hay spoil, but I tell you it isn’t only Olson it hurts. If that hay’s spoilt, there’s that much less hay in the valley, and everybody’s cattle—” “How’ll you cut it? Your father’s got the mowers,” I interposed, practically. “Olson’s mower’s here. Come on, let’s get a start on it.” With Lafe, to decide was to act—especially when his father was absent. Our own chores were but half-done, but in twenty minutes we were hitching our horses outside Olson’s wagon shed. The man in charge came up from the calf-pen as we finished harnessing, and stood about, watching us. He was a boy only a year or two older than Lafe, and a Norwegian in good earnest, without a word of English to his credit. He did not object to our taking out the mower, but when we turned it in the direction of the hay-field, he suddenly became vocal with protests.

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“I expect Olson told him to look out for us,” Lafe interpreted. He swung his whip in a wide circle. “It’s all right!” he shouted back. “Good work! Amigo!” The Spanish word did not seem to clear the mazes of the Norwegian mind to any extent. The boy followed, calling out after us until Lafe whipped up the horses and left him breathless in the background. The field was fairly level and the cutting not hard work. Lafe rode the first swath, I the second, and so on, and at the end of every row we stopped to exchange comments on our progress. We had covered perhaps a quarter of the field when suddenly we heard behind us a sound like the explosion of many little, closed buckets of boiling water. We turned, and Olson was standing at the gate, just dismounted, watching us. His mouth was open and his face brick-red. “What—what—” he began, stammering. Lafe faced him in the strength of conscious virtue. “We’re cutting your hay for you. You let it stand so long it’d been spoiled by the end of the week.” He picked up a stalk, on which the blossom was already beginning to brown, and handed it to the owner. Olson took it. He crumbled the top between his fingers for a moment. Then the power of speech came to him. “You were cutting my hay, were you? And I wass raising alfalfa for seed.” He picked up his horse’s bridle and started out of the field. We followed—slowly. We were nearly at the sheds before any one of us spoke. Then, “I—I should think you would be mad!” Lafe gulped forth. “Wass it your father sent you?” the owner asked, without turning his head. “He’s up the creek. We just saw your hay was going to spoil, and we knew your wife—Is she better?” Lafe thought to ask. “Much better,” said Olson. He turned round toward us, beginning to smile. “I cannot stay angry to-day. Tell your mother it iss a boy.”

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“A—boy!” we gasped, in concert. Then Lafe rose superbly to the situation. “Say, call him after me!” he begged. “I don’t mind if he is a Norwegian.” This time there was no doubt about Olson’s smile; it was almost a grin. “But he iss named already,” he explained. “We call him for my father, who came to Minnesota before the war, and wass killed at Chattanooga.” It was not till we were in bed and in the dark that any comment on the day’s events occurred to us. Then Lafe spoke from under the quilts: “Jim, did anybody in your family get killed in the war?” “No,” I admitted. “My father hadn’t come over from Scotland then.” “And my grandfather was up in Canada. Say, I guess Olson stays on that place. I guess he can call himself an American just about whenever he likes.”

The Little Nugget Strike

 George Edmands Merrill Illustrated by A. C. Redwood Youth’s Companion, f eb rua ry 26, 1891

The uncovering of new mineral deposits induced many single young men to go west. The sudden discovery of silver, gold, or lead could propel hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of men to a single location, creating a boomtown effect in regions devoid of any established legal institutions. As a result, mining camps were some of the most violence-prone areas on the frontier. Once men arrived at these boomtowns, they found themselves surrounded by alcohol, prostitution, and guns. In an environment where work could be dangerous and men were permitted (sometimes even expected) to defend their honor at all costs, the amount of violence often reached remarkable levels. In “The Little Nugget Strike” a labor dispute triggers a showdown between organized mine workers and local authorities. Ellen Lybec, the daughter of the mine superintendent, ignores her own safety to stop the gunfight and convince the men involved that perhaps the Winchester isn’t “a proved arbitrator” after all. As the story seems to imply, some of the frontier’s major conflicts might have been avoided if only a reasonable, quick-witted woman like Ellen had been nearby. George Edmands Merrill (1846–1908) of Charleston, Massachusetts, delivered the baccalaureate sermon to his graduating class at Harvard

She called to them to stop firing. in 1869. He went on to earn degrees at the Newton Theological Institute (am) in 1872, Colby University (dd) in 1895, and the University of Ralston (lld) in 1901. He served as a pastor at several churches, including Colorado Springs, where “The Little Nugget Strike” is set, before being elected president of Colgate University in New York in 1899. In addition to his stories, Merrill wrote numerous religious books and articles on football. Some of his works include The Story of the Manuscripts (1881), Crusaders and Captives: A Tale of the Children’s Crusade (1890), The Holy Ordinance of Marriage (1892), and The Parchments of Faith (1894).

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It is quite ten years since the Little Nugget Mine was opened. It is situated on Knob Mountain, ten or twelve miles from the now thriving city of Aspen. It is about eight years since the Little Nugget strike occurred, in which Ellen Lybec played so conspicuous a part that one still hears the miners speak her name with a sort of wondering reverence.

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Her father, Christopher Lybec, had brought his family to Colorado several years before, and his wife had died, after many hardships in their frontier life, just before he had undertaken the superintendency of the Little Nugget Mine. He had brought Ellen, his only child, to the mine, and there she had lived two years, taking care of his little house, and pouring in upon his lonely life the only sunshine that it knew. It was rare sunshine for any man’s life. At eighteen years of age Ellen Lybec was not what every one would call beautiful, but there was a native refinement in her features and manner quite out of keeping with the rough mining camp. It was not often that the wives and daughters of the miners cared to deck themselves with the wild flowers that grew in the cañons and covered the borders of the Little Nugget Creek with bloom; but Ellen was rarely without some blossom, tucked into the bosom of her dress, or twined in her brown hair. It was one of many things that showed her to be of a different stamp from the few other women in the camp. It was a lonely and a rough place for her, but there was nothing to tempt such a girl to yield herself to the molding influences of the life around her. There was, on the contrary, everything to induce her to resist them. What she was in her own home, she sought to be in the homes of others, and she had not been a week in the little settlement before it was plain that the camp would be better for her presence. The superintendent’s house was better than any other. It was a framed structure, well put together, with glazed windows, good stock doors, floors well laid, and with three of the rooms ceiled with plaster. There were in it many evidences of Ellen’s taste. The wild vines of the cañons had been planted by the door, and trained upward over its frame and the adjoining window, and the ugly barbed-wire fence was well hidden under the same graceful covering. John Randal’s old blind mother could have told of the many long af-

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ternoons that Ellen spent in her company, making the hours pass pleasantly in the awful darkness; and when John Randal himself was laid up nearly all winter with the rheumatism, nothing eased the pain so much as Ellen’s presence and gentle ministrations. “Hogerboom’s Patent Pain Killin’ and Ache-Destroyin’ liniments aint nothing to Lybec’s girl,” John used to say, “if she only kind of comes around and looks at ye.” It was so when Mike Bender’s two children were down with the measles. Mrs. Bender had no peace until Ellen came in each afternoon with fresh stories and flowers. When Yellow Jim broke his leg down the shaft, and was brought up cursing so that even some of the men themselves were shocked, he became very quiet when Ellen spoke to him in a low voice; and when she did not leave his little cabin for two days and nights, except when her father’s meals were to be got, Yellow Jim found that there were some compensations, even for a broken leg. Discontent had been brewing among the miners in the Little Nugget. Three men, who were handling so much rich ore for others, began to feel that their wages ought to be a somewhat larger share of what their labor raised from the ground. Yellow Jim was one of the foremost to stir up the discontent, and it had more than once come to the notice of Christopher Lybec that the little knots of workmen who were talking together under their breath, and broke up when he approached, were centered around Jim. He was not much surprised when five of the men, with Jim at their head, came to the office one day and asked for an increase of pay. Lybec knew what this meant. He had no expectation of success when he answered that he would telegraph to New York for instructions. The men did not mean to wait until word could come from directors two thousand miles away. They meant to have the money, whatever answer might be received, and to have it at once. Lybec was a stubborn man. The insolent way in which the demand of the men was put incensed him. He declared that not a man should

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have an additional cent until he received definite orders from New York to pay it. Next morning the men refused to work. Lybec mounted his horse, struck into the trail that led toward the town, and rode rapidly away. At night he returned, and called Jim to the office. “You may tell all the men that they may pack up to-morrow morning and be gone,” he said. “I shall have no work for them. They can go where they can get more wages, if they can find the place. Take them over to the Clara; perhaps they can get work there.” Lybec laughed as he said this. Yellow Jim knew that the Clara Mine had shut down two days before. The taunt put an idea into Jim’s head. Lybec had probably engaged the miners thrown out of work at the Clara. The game was up. Jim reported to the men, who agreed with him on his conjecture. No other explanation could be given for Lybec’s prompt dismissal of his whole force, when the Little Nugget was showing a splendid output, and every day’s idleness of men and machinery meant serious loss to the company. “What do you say, men? Shall we fight it?” It was a nearly unanimous vote to fight it. When Lybec awoke the next morning, the narrow gulch in which the mine opened was walled across by a formidable breastwork six feet high, closing in the mine. Not a man was to be seen in the camp. Not a gun was to be found in any of the cottages. Lybec was pale with rage, but he mounted his horse and rode away without a word. Meanwhile the men proceeded with their undertaking. After Lybec disappeared they came out, collected all the food they could find, took one or two of the women of their families to do their cooking, sent the rest into town in charge of two of the younger miners, who were hardly more than boys, and then worked on completing their barricade. At noon Lybec returned. Ellen met him at the door, and told him what had occurred.

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“What’s the use of their fighting me?” he said. “They are cooped up in that hole; I have the whole universe. The sheriff will be here in an hour, and the new men, too. They have a dozen Winchesters behind the wall; we have fifty, and all the arsenals outside!” But the reckless spirit of the mining camp did not wait upon reason. The men cared little. The Winchester was a proved arbitrator, and generally left no appeal possible. Let it be so now. If they were not to work the Little Nugget any longer, the men were determined that no one should work it. The sheriff and his party, with the new miners lately discharged from the Clara, arrived sooner than Lybec had expected. He and Ellen were still talking, and their hasty dinner was hardly finished before the party appeared. A hurried consultation followed, and the sheriff looked a little discouraged when he saw the great wall that protected the strikers. He thought it might be better to starve them out. But Ellen told them of the abundant stores taken in that morning. Indeed, nothing was left in the camp, and it would be necessary to send into town at once for provisions to feed the people in the camp itself. The sheriff stepped out in front of his command, and called to the insurgents, in formal terms, to come peaceably forth from the mine, and deliver the same to the superintendent, Christopher Lybec. The miners answered with a derisive shout of laughter. Then a bullet whistled over the sheriff ’s head. “Give it to ’em, boys!” shouted the sheriff. “Give it to ’em!” There was a sharp fight. The sheriff received a painful wound in the thigh, and fell to the ground. His followers got behind such shelter as they could find, leaving the sheriff where he fell. Cabin windows flamed suddenly forth. An old hand-car sheltered one man behind it, and a hogs-head half-full of water protected another. From house-corners came quick rifle reports. An imprudent exposure brought another wounded man to the ground. At almost the same moment Christopher Lybec’s left hand was pierced

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with a ball, and his gun fell useless from his grasp. He had been firing from the window of a cabin near his house. As his gun dropped, Ellen sprang across the space between the houses, and was by his side. But she did not remain long. Her face was flushed, and her breast heaved with excitement. Before her father could stop her, she ran out again, straight into the middle space between the combatants, and stood above the body of the prostrate sheriff. Instantly the firing ceased. There was not a man upon either side that would injure Ellen Lybec, as she stood there where an instant before the bullets had been flying. Ellen took no notice of the wounded man at her side, but waving her hand toward the attacking party, she called out to them to stop firing. Then she turned toward the gulch and the barrier across its mouth. “John Randal! John Randal!” she called. The voice rang out, clear and sweet, with no tremor of fear in it. But there was no answer. At that moment John Randal was gazing in awe-struck wonder upon the face of Yellow Jim, who returned his blank stare in equal amazement. Randal could not have answered if he had wished. But still came the same clear voice, and when no response was given, the call changed. “Mike Bender! Mike! Mike Bender!” “Hello, yes! Hello, what do ye want?” Mike’s faculties were more at his command. “Mike Bender, show yourself and talk with me. Come out! Nobody shall hurt you.” A moment later Mike’s head was cautiously thrust out from the end of the wall. Then he advanced slowly, climbing over the loose boulders, stopping to lean his rifle against the stones at one end of the barricade. “Mike,” said Ellen, “you know I would never lie to you. But what I tell you now, I want you to tell all the others. Not one of them shall be

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hurt, if they come out; and not a man shall go into the mine, either, until the men I choose shall decide to let him go in and work. “Now, you tell the men in there that there’s no use in fighting. There are about twenty-five of you. Out here there’s a whole world. You are very foolish to fight. The only way for you to do is to make it right with my father. Talk with him; I’ll talk with him, too; and then we will see who shall work the mine. “Come out—you and all the men; or let me come in and talk there.” “No, ye’ll not come in here, Miss Ellen,” answered Mike. “It’ll be no good at all, and nobody knows what may happen. The girl thet risked her life nussing my Nora aint going to run no more risks if I can help it. Just keep them fellows from shooting, and we’ll come out.” He disappeared a few minutes, and Ellen used the interval to obtain from the sheriff ’s party the promise that no shot should be fired and no movement made to arrest the men, until she herself should give the signal. Mike reappeared, and Ellen again went forward to the spot where the wounded sheriff had fallen. She had sent some of the men to remove him, and he was now in her father’s cottage. “Is it all right?” asked Mike, doubtfully. “Yes,” responded Ellen. “Let them come out. I want to see John Randal, and Yellow Jim, and little Tom, and Nugget Dick—yes, and Beardy may as well come out, too.” They came, and ranged themselves in line, beginning with pale-faced young Tom, and ending with the giant Beardy. Then Ellen began to talk to them. She appealed to each one of them by name; she showed them the folly of their undertaking. She told them she did not want them to go away to work elsewhere; they would not be so well off in any other camp. The Little Nugget had been their home for nearly two years. What would become of the children? There was not a motive that she did not appeal to. Insensibly, as she spoke she drew nearer and nearer to them. The observers at her back lost her words as she passed away from

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them. They could see that she was not wasting her argument, however, for the men were now gathered about her, listening attentively, and occasionally answering. Now and then Mike could be seen gesticulating with impetuosity. Ellen’s father smiled as he noted that Yellow Jim turned away, and quickly brushed his sleeve across his eyes. Then came a strange move. Ellen laid her hand on Mike’s Winchester. He gave it to her. She took his revolver from his belt. Yellow Jim handed her his gun. When her arms could hold no more, the other weapons were given to little Tom. The two brought them down into the camp. In a few moments all the miners filed out from behind their barricade, and marched doggedly down the slope. “I told them,” said Ellen to her father, “that they must do it. I told them you had said you would not take one of them, but that you and I would arrange the whole business, and not one of them should be hurt. Won’t you call in Mike Bender, and see what can be done?” The following Saturday night the secret of it all was freely confessed in Mike’s cabin, as he and Yellow Jim and John Randal and little Tom talked over the strike, while Beardy and two or three others sat around on kegs and boxes. “It warn’t no use. I’d ‘a’ fit a month before I’d ‘a’ given in, but when that gal stood out there, and any one of us might ‘a’ shot her down in an instant, and nobody ever knowed who it was, I was that scared that the cold creeps ran up and down my back. She looked just as she did the day she come in and my little Nora hed the scarlet fever. I tell ye, I’d ‘a’ done anything she asked!” There was a silence of a few moments. It was broken by a half-vicious kick that Yellow Jim gave to an empty keg, which went whirling across the little room with a bang and a clatter. “That’s the leg she nussed,” he said; and he took the pipe from his mouth slowly, looked with commiseration at his leg, gazed a moment into the dark recesses of the rafters, and smoked again.

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“What fetched me,” said Randal, “was the way she looked at me. Them big blue eyes of hern was—well, boys, my poor, old blind mother! How many days and days has she set and listened to reading thet the gal’s blue eyes were doin’ for her! It wouldn’t a-made no difference if Ellen had asked me to come out and be shot. I believe I’d ‘a’ come.” “And then the way she fixed it up! I knew she’d do something. We might have hammered away at Kit Lybec for a year, and we wouldn’t have got so much out of him as she did in five minutes.” A man who had been sitting in the dark corner during the conversation, saying nothing, rose and stepped into the circle of light above the stove. “Boys,” he said, “I tell ye ’taint this one thing, nor that one thing. ’Taint the leg, nor blind mother, nor scarlet fever. I tell ye, boys, it’s Ellen Lybec. It’s character! God bless her!”

The Buffalo Hunt

 James Willard Schultz Youth’s Companion, no vem ber 3, 1910

The American bison, or buffalo, played a crucial role in the material culture of the United States’s first peoples. Long a source of food, clothing, shelter, and tools, the buffalo occupied an important position in Indian spiritual life. But with the incursion of the railroad in the 1860s and the perfection of tanning methods for converting buffalo hide into commercial leather around 1870, buffalo hunting became a lucrative business. The slaughtering of buffalo soon became official government policy in its effort to starve out and exterminate Native Americans. By the time “The Buffalo Hunt” appeared in the Youth’s Companion in 1910, the number of bison on the Great Plains had already dropped from a peak of between thirty million and two hundred million (depending on researchers’ estimates) to near elimination. Published under the headline “Memoirs of a White Indian,” the narrative is a firsthand nonfiction account of the thrills and hazards that Indians faced while hunting buffalo. The story’s tragic climax takes place when Two Bows, a distinguished member of the tribe, charges into a herd of buffalo and leaps atop a frightened bull as his horse falls. Although Two Bows’s decision to mount a buffalo is spontaneous and unintentional, the episode remains an indictment of those who flaunt their courage and act impulsively.

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James Willard Schultz (1859–1947) left his home state of New York at the age of eighteen and went west in the hope of finding Indians and the last of the buffalo herds. His journey took him up the Missouri River by steamboat and to northwestern Montana, where he came to live with the Blackfeet, who accepted him into their tribe, taught him their language, and gave him the name Apikuni. In time, Schultz was permitted to accompany the tribe on war parties and marry a Blackfoot woman. He published numerous articles, stories, and books describing his experiences. Schultz’s first book, My Life as an Indian (published in 1907 and reprinted in 1914), was a best-seller.

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My people said that of all the professions, that of war was best suited to one of my temperament, and I agreed with them. Therefore it was intended that I should go to a military school, preparatory to entering West Point. But my lungs were not so sound as they should have been, and our family physician said that I must go West and live on the high, dry plains for a time. I went, well provided with letters to the members of a great fur-trading company at Fort Burton, Montana. One of them, dear old Kipp—or Berry, as the Indians called him—was appointed my guardian. I was to stay on the frontier a year. I remained there, except for occasional visits East, for so many years that I do not like to count them. I went, a boy of seventeen. I am white-haired and wrinkled now. There were no railways in Montana in those early days. Except Fort Burton, there was no settlement save Helena, Virginia City, and one or two other mining-camps in the mountains. On the great plains were various tribes of Indians, millions of buffalo and other game. My friend and guardian, Berry, followed the buffalo with the Blackfeet, here one year, there another, as was determined by the shifting of the herds, and his trade with the people amounted annually to thousands of fine buffalo-robes, beaver-skins and other pelts. Through him I came to know the Blackfeet, and to love them. I learned their language, lived

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with them, hunted, and warred with them against other tribes and was adopted as a member of the tribe. So I do not write of those old buffalo days from hearsay, but from actual experience. It was Chief Running Crane who gave me my name, Ap-pe-kun-ny— Spotted Robe. I lived for months at a time in his big lodge of eighteen skins. The first winter of my residence on the Montana plains passed, the buffalo shed their heavy coats, and “new lodge time” came—the season when the short-haired buffalo cowhides were most easily converted into soft leather. Our trading post was in the Judith Basin, not far from where the town of Lewistown now stands, and the Blackfeet, three thousand people in five hundred lodges, were in camp near us. All the winter and spring buffalo had been plentiful in the vicinity, but for some cause which no one was ever able to learn they had suddenly grazed away to the eastward, and scouts reported that the nearest of the big herds was in the vicinity of the Musselshell River, near its junction with Big Crooked Creek. Thither the Indians decided to go, as nearly all the families wished to make new lodges, and Running Crane asked me to join him in the big hunt. “Don’t you go,” said my friend Berry. “There isn’t as dangerous a locality in the whole country as that is. Where the Musselshell flows into the Missouri there is a good ford, and war parties from all the different tribes, Sioux, Cheyennes, Crows and the north Indians, are constantly passing. Just you stay here with me and keep your hair on.” “Though the enemy be as plentiful as grass leaves,” said Running Crane, “no harm shall come to this white son of ours. Whenever were my people not victorious over the warriors of the enemy?” In a way, that was not an idle boast; but he might have added that even the victorious may suffer heavy loss. I went with my Indian friend; but there came a day and an hour when I wished that I had remained at the post. To me, not even the sight of a multitude of buffalo, the plains dark

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with them to the horizon, was so impressive as a view of three or four thousand Indians and their twelve or fifteen thousand packed and loose horses trailing across the country from one camping-place to another. They formed a slender column miles long, the pack and travail horses following a three-rut trail deeply worn in the earth, the various bands of loose stock prancing and playing to the right and left of it, as they were herded along by the young boys. What a medley of color there was in the trappings of the horses, the costumes of the riders, the painted rawhide pouches, sacks and other receptacles in which were stored the food and finery and other property of the people! And the people themselves! Hilarious youths and maidens, mischievous urchins, staid mothers with infants clasped to their breasts or perched at their backs, wrinkled and bent old men and women peevishly quirting [whipping] their stolid mounts, proud warriors and still more proud and dignified chiefs and medicine-men, riding in advance of the long column, discoursing of bygone hunts and battles, and of the strange doings of the gods. More than once in the course of a day’s march I would ride to one side and dismount and watch the great caravan go by, and then I would hurry on and regain my place at the side of my good friend, the chief. Skirting the foot of the Moccasin Mountains and the Black Butte, we saw innumerable bands of antelope and deer and elk, and here and there a few buffalo, mostly bulls. The hunters had no difficulty in securing an ample supply of meat for the great camp. Daily Running Crane and I would make a détour to one side of the trail, or ride far ahead, and kill an antelope or two, or a deer or elk, or perhaps a fat young bull buffalo for our lodge. Traveling by easy stages, on the afternoon of the fourth day we came to the mouth of Big Crooked Creek, and went into camp along the border of the Musselshell. Big Crooked Creek is the modern name of the stream that Lewis and Clark named Sak-a-ja-we-ah, in honor of that intrepid Indian woman to whom was largely due the success of their expedition.

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Ever since early morning we had been passing immense herds of buffalo that ran off out of sight in the broken country. Material for the new lodges was assured. The great camp was now under what may be called military rule, enforced by order of the chiefs by the “In-ah-kiks,” an order or fraternity of young men which had several subdivisions. That all might have an equal chance in the great hunt, the country was to be scoured by sections, the hunters starting each morning in a body to run a certain herd selected by the scouts. Should any one go off by himself to hunt, thus disturbing and scattering the game, the In-ahkiks would in reprisal destroy his lodge and property. A big herd of buffalo south of Crooked Creek and west of the Musselshell was the first to be attacked, and early in the morning Running Crane and I, with the several hundred other hunters, set out for the chase, each one riding his best horse, bareback, and stripped to the least possible weight. Besides myself, a very few of the men were armed with .44-caliber repeating rifles. The rest carried muzzle-loaders, smooth-bore and rifled, some of which were flintlocks. Some had no other weapon than a bow and quiverful of arrows, but at the close range of a buffalo run this was terribly effective. Riding up beside one of the huge animals, the hunter would drive an arrow clear to the feathers into it, and often, if no bone was struck, quite through its body. After perhaps a half-hour’s ride we sighted the buffalo—four or five thousand of them—in a basin several miles in extent and much broken by slender, flat-topped buttes on which was a scattering growth of dwarfed, wind-twisted pines. We were far too many to approach the animals in a body, and after a brief consultation, about a third of our number circled off to the west, another third to the east, leaving the rest of us to rush the herd when they should come in to the flanks of it several miles farther on. We had dismounted behind a low ridge which screened us from the watchful eyes of the old sentry bulls, and while we waited, earnest prayers

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were offered by the medicine-men for our success in the coming run, and the gods—the sun and Old Man—were besought to protect us from all danger. We waited there nearly an hour, and then a couple of young men who had been peering over the ridge called out to us to mount; that the other parties were ready. In another moment we were over the ridge, quirting our horses, urging them to their utmost speed. Yet they did not need it; a trained buffalo horse became madly enthusiastic the moment that he was given free rein, and laying his ears flat to his head, he dashed after the fleeing animals with such determination that no bit could check him, much less the leather thong the Indians used in place of one. But he could be guided. He would swerve to the right or left simply from the pressure of the rider’s knee and when the hunter selected some certain fat cow, would use all his energy to run up alongside of it, so that the shot could be given. But no horse could long keep the pace of the frightened buffalo, although at the start and for a mile or more he could outrun them. Their muscles seemed to be tireless, and once started, a run of ten miles and more at top speed was no task for the animals. At the start we were three hundred yards or more from the nearest of the buffalo, which were well scattered over the plain in groups of various size, and singly. Some were feeding, some lying down; numbers of the funny-looking, red-colored calves were playing tag; solitary old bulls stood, head lowered, pawing the fine, white alkali earth, sending the dust skyward in slender columns like smoke from chimneys. As they became alarmed at our rush, they did not, as would deer, scamper away each in his own direction; instead, they formed into a compact herd, and then went southward with a deafening thudding and rattle of hoofs. Fan-like, we spread out and attacked their rear, those riding the faster horses pressing on into the midst of them. I was one of these. I had done it often before, each time telling myself that I would never do it again, for the danger was great. But always excitement would get the better of my discretion.

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Try as they would, so densely were they massed, the animals we rode beside could not crowd more than a gun-barrel length or so away from us, and those we passed closed up the narrow lane we had made. In front, behind, on all sides was all undulating sea of brown humpbacks, black, sharp horns and gleaming coal-black eyes. If a man’s horse fell with him in such a place there was nothing to save him from the sharp hoofs of the dense mass behind. Selecting only the biggest, fattest cow buffalo, I simply poked my rifle out to one side or the other—an aim was not necessary—and pulled the trigger. Nine times I fired in the course of a ten minutes’ run, and then something attracted my attention that drove from my mind all further thought of a big killing. Happening to look ahead, I saw that the other parties of hunters had each massed as large a portion of the scattered herd as we, and each one of them was coming quartering toward us at tremendous speed. When they should all meet, I for one did not wish to be there. I glanced at the other riders near me; they, too, were checking up their now tired horses, all but one man, named Two Bows, and were letting the buffalo pass them. In two or three minutes we were again at the tail of the herd, where I shot one more, making an even ten. Two Bows was a noted warrior, a very successful hunter, but he was not popular with his people. He loved too much to brag of his deeds. He was a very reckless man, taking all sorts of risks, and it was really wonderful how he had managed to come through some of them unharmed. He himself asserted that it was because of a certain under-water animal that had appeared to him in a dream, and said, “When in danger, when in doubt what to do, call me and I will help you. Call me four times: once from the north, once from the south, and from the east and the west, and wherever I may be, I will come to your aid. Failing not to call me, nothing can harm you, and you shall live to be white-haired.” What the Blackfeet dreamed, that they believed really occurred. They thought that when asleep their shadows (souls) actually departed from the body, and went forth on strange adventure.

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So in all his recklessness Two Bows was sustained by his unquestioning faith in the animal of his dream. Where we had withdrawn, he rode recklessly on, urging his horse into the very center of those rushing streams of buffalo, and discharging shaft after shaft from his bow as he went. The three bands met. Imagine it if you can—something like five thousand buffalo, five million pounds of impetuous flesh and bone, rushing to a central point. They packed together so densely that not a few of the smaller ones were trampled to death. The terrific pressure forced others up on their hind feet, and they pawed the air and the backs of those next to them, trying to climb out of the press. There was a deep thunder of groans and grunts mingled with the clash of horns and rattle and pounding of hoofs. When they met, Two Bows was in the very center of the jam, and suddenly we saw him, horse and all, actually tossed up in the air by a huge bull. “He dies!” cried Running Crane, who was at my side; and so I thought. The horse fell and disappeared. Two Bows, however, was more fortunate. In falling, he clutched the long, shaggy hair of a bull, and raising himself, secured a firm seat astride its hump. Instead frightened at its strange burden, the bull bucked and jumped, and unable to free itself, surged forward with prodigious force and speed. At the same time, the now united herd began to break up and stream madly in all directions from the common center. As usual, the old men of the camp, on super annuated ponies, and the women and children on fat, lazy travail mares, had closely followed the hunters, in order to cut up and pack home the game. They could now be seen madly fleeing in all directions. I could plainly hear the shrill “Naya-yah!” of the women and the screaming of the children. But our main interest was in Two Bows. With all his faults, none disliked him so much that they wished to see him die, and with one accord the hunters pressed forward to rescue him if possible.

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Soon clear of the herd, the bull fled eastward toward the Musselshell with far more speed than our tired horses could attain, and we would soon have lost sight of it and the rider altogether had it not stopped now and then to try to shake or jar Two Bows off. I have seen some ludicrous things in my time, but that huge, unwieldy, long-whiskered bull trying apparently to imitate the lithe, lightning-like antics of a wild bronco is fixed in my memory. We soon realized that Two Bows had no weapon of any kind. Had he possessed even a knife, he could have drawn it across the sinews of the bull’s neck. He dared not jump, for once on the ground, he would be at the mercy of the infuriated animal. We followed, several hundred of us, sometimes gaining, sometimes losing ground. “I-kak-i-mat!” (Keep up courage!) we cried, from time to time, as if the poor fellow could hear us! Down into the breaks of the river we rushed, across deep converging coulées, through thickets of berry and rose brush, through groves of low-branched pine, and out on the level bottom at last. Here the bull started bucking and circling again, and we rapidly approached him. If only one of us could get near enough for a certain shot, Two Bows would be free. We were near enough now to see the man’s face; it looked ashy; the eyes were fairly bulging, and watched us with a great appeal for help. Running Crane, I, and a dozen others in the lead, were closing in, calculating when best to aim the delivering shot, and then, like a flash, the animal was off again, straight across the wide bottom toward the river, which there flowed under a cut bank at least thirty feet high. “He’s going to jump!” “He’s going off it!” I heard on all sides of me, and then, with a last, long leap, the bull and its burden disappeared. A moment later we were at the edge, looking down, and again we were too late. The shallow water was flowing over a quicksand in which the bull was floundering, and we got just a glimpse of Two Bows as the frantic animal rolled upon him and forced him down into it. Some one fired and killed the bull; others hurried to collect brush

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driftwood, anything to sustain one’s weight, and they hurried out to the place. Well, why should I describe the rest? The next day the body of poor Two Bows, wrapped in many a robe, was lashed to a platform in a cottonwood-tree, and beside him were placed his weapons. Two horses were killed there, that his shadow might have shadow steeds to ride to the Sand Hills—shadow land—and for many and many a night thereafter we could hear the wailing of the women.

“Old Glory” in the Desert

 Ralph Delahaye Paine Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs St. Nicholas, j u ly 1907

Initially called Decoration Day, Memorial Day was set aside to honor the nation’s Civil War dead and to decorate the graves of fallen Civil War soldiers. The first nationwide observance of Memorial Day occurred on May 30, 1868. On that day, a speech was delivered at Arlington National Cemetery, and flowers were placed on more than twenty thousand Union and Confederate soldiers’ graves. The completion of the first transcontinental railroad one year later, along with passage of the Homestead Act, invited increasing numbers of veterans to move west and to put down roots on land that had been deemed “unlivable” before the war. All across the frontier, in towns and cities where no Civil War battles had ever taken place, Americans continued to celebrate Memorial Day. Jimmy, the young boy in “‘Old Glory’ in the Desert,” lives with his uncle in the Nevada desert. He learns from a four-day-old newspaper that, for the first time in ten years, his uncle, a former captain in the Grand Army of the Republic, will be unable to lead Los Angeles’s Memorial Day parade. Although at first upset about the idea of his uncle missing such an important celebration, Jimmy later learns an important lesson about the true significance of Memorial Day when

At length the object ceased to move, and Jimmy drew near. he finds an ex-Confederate soldier dying of thirst and heat-exhaustion outside Death Valley. The story offers the mutual values of patriotism and respect as ways to put the North and South on friendly terms following the war. Ralph Delahaye Paine (1871–1925) was born in Lemot, Illinois, and received an ab degree from Yale in 1894. After graduation he joined the staff of the Philadelphia Press, serving as that newspaper’s war correspondent during the Cuban Rebellion, the Spanish-American War, and the Boxer uprising in China. After World War I he moved to Durham, New Hampshire. In 1920 Paine earned a master’s degree from the University of New Hampshire. He contributed to numerous mag-

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azines, publishing stories, essays, and articles in such periodicals as the Youth’s Companion, Popular Magazine, Sport Story, the Saturday Evening Post, St. Nicholas, and Century. His books, mostly of a maritime nature, include: The Old Merchant Marine: A Chronicle of American Ships and Sailors (1919) and The Fight for a Free Sea: A Chronicle of the War of 1812 (1920), both published as part of Yale University’s “Chronicles of America” series, as well as Joshua Barney, A Forgotten Hero of Blue Water (1924).

...... There was not even a house within thirty miles of them. Two tents by a driven well, a pile of baled hay, half a dozen drooping horses vainly trying to find a patch of shade, and a row of dusty water barrels comprised the new stage station set down in the heart of the Nevada desert. The white sand and sage-brush stretched desolate to the bare brown mountains that cut the sky-line along the rim of Death Valley. A little dust cloud moved far out on the dazzling plain and marked the crawling progress of a freighters’ outfit. Except for this there were no signs of mankind anywhere beyond the camp. A boy in his early teens came out of one of the tents, and blinked in the glare of sand and sky. He was burned blacker than the deepest seashore tan, and the powdery alkali dust had turned his hair and clothes to a grayish white. He shaded his eyes with a battered sombrero and looked across the desert beyond the dust that hung above the freighters’ wagons. A blue lake sparkled miles away, and its banks were green with trees and undergrowth. The boy was not deceived by the mirage. He shook his head as if to say “You can’t fool me; I know your tricks,” and kept on gazing into the north. His vigilance was well-timed, for presently another whirl of dust showed against the horizon, and the boy shouted to some one in the tent: “Here comes the stage, Uncle John. I hope there are some passengers for us to feed. My, if they’d only bring just one boy through, and I could talk to him for half an hour. Wouldn’t it be great! I haven’t seen a boy since we came in the desert to live.”

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The “boss” of the station replied, as he poked the tent flap aside: “This desert don’t sprout youngsters, that’s a fact, Jimmy. We’re lucky if we get a stray man to pass the time o’ day with. Help me get the relay horses ready, and then dust off an extra plate and cup. Jake may have a hungry passenger. It’s about time. Nobody’s been here in two days.” The boy led a pair of lanky grays out of the little corral by the well, tied them to a post in front of the tents, and scurried inside with an excited air as if great things were about to happen. His few duties were soon done and he was perched on the well box in waiting eagerness long before the stage emerged from its curtain of dust. This was no towering coach with four horses such as “dashed up to the old-fashioned tavern” with a fine clatter and the music of a horn. Two straining horses pulled a battered Concord wagon through the deep sand at a snail’s pace. Their slow walk quickened a little as they drew near the tents, and the boy saw with a pang of disappointment that the bent and white-whiskered driver was the only occupant. He grinned through the alkali mask that covered his wrinkled face and called to the boy: ‘Nothin’ doin’, Jimmy. This route ain’t as popular as if it had Pullman sleeping-cars. I’ve been eight hours makin’ thirty miles. Grub ready?” Jimmy followed the driver to the mess-tent and peppered him with questions about the news from the big outside world beyond the desert. The old man fished a newspaper from an inside pocket, and said: “Here’s a ‘Los Angeles Times’ that was passed along from Las Vegas. It’s four days old, but it may cheer you up some.” Jimmy acted as waiter while the driver bolted his beans, bacon, canned corned-beef and coffee, and then the two shifted the harness to the fresh team of horses. A few minutes later the stage moved on like a boat steering out of sight across a lonely sea, and Jimmy felt the isolation of the desert closing down around him again. His uncle stretched out on a blanket in the sleeping-tent and soon his snores told the boy that there was not a living soul to talk to anywhere. He sat down in the mess-tent, spread the newspaper on the rough plank table, and slowly read the head-lines. It

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was hard for him to realize that men and women and boys and girls were still working and playing in crowded city streets. It seemed a whole lifetime since he had left the home in Los Angeles he had always known, and the faces of his young friends were blurred and fading in his memory. He had been in the desert only three months, but its utter loneliness had made him sometimes think he was getting to be a little old man. He looked through the newspaper idly until this brief article caught his eye: The Phil Sheridan Post, G. A. R., has completed its arrangements for the Memorial Day exercises and parade. There is much regret among the veterans in blue that their old Post Commander, Captain John Bright, will be absent from the ranks. For ten years he had led the Memorial Day pilgrimage to the graves of the heroes who fought for Old Glory. He left the city recently to take up his residence in Nevada, but the old soldiers are hoping that if Captain Bright is alive, he will get here to take his old place at the head of the thinning column.

The boy ran into the other tent waving the newspaper around his head, shouting: “Uncle John! Here’s something for you. Wake up! They haven’t forgotten us back home.” Captain Bright sat up on his blanket and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He read the paragraph and his gray beard could not hide the quivering lip. Then he said slowly, as if it hurt him: “Yes, they’re looking for me, but I won’t be there this year, Jimmy. We can’t go back. Why, it’s only two days to the thirtieth of May. Not that I’ve lost track of the date. Not for a minute. I’ve been thinking of it a whole lot. But we can’t leave the station, and—and—well. I sort of wish I hadn’t seen this. I do, Jimmy.” Jimmy’s sympathies were deeply stirred, and with an unusual show of affection he nestled on the blanket beside Uncle John and flung an arm around his neck. The old soldier re-read the paragraph, this time aloud, and his voice trembled a little when it came to the mention of

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“Old Glory.” Then he rose to his feet and stood very erect as if ashamed of his show of feeling, and rested his hands on the boy’s slim shoulders as he told him: “We’ll make the best of it, Jimmy. There isn’t much chance for a celebration out here, but they have not forgotten us, and you bet we haven’t forgotten them, those above the ground and those that are under the sod. Pshaw, it’s tougher for you to be stuck out here a hundred miles from nowhere than it is for me. Don’t you hate me for it sometimes?” “I get kind of homesick and lonesome, but you’re all I’ve got, Uncle John, and we’re pardners,” the boy responded. “There’s nobody else to grub-stake me, and we’re going to win out yet, you bet. And you’ll go back and lead the Grand Army, sure. Maybe next year.” The old man shook his head. It seemed to him that he had made a failure of his life. A slack and dishonest partner had wrecked the business he had toiled for years to build up. On the brink of old age, and without capital, he had been unable to make a new start in the crowded commercial life of the city. The help offered by his friends had seemed to him little more than disguised charity, and he had grasped the chance to take charge of one of the stations of the stage line flung across the desert to reach the new gold camps in southwestern Nevada. The care of his dead sister’s only boy had sorely perplexed him when he faced the exile that was almost ghastly for a seasoned man to endure. He wrestled with the problem, and it seemed best to take Jimmy with him through the first summer. By autumn he might have saved enough from his wages to outfit the boy for school and keep him there. A touch of selfishness had swayed this decision. The old man sighed over his weakness. But he could not bear to face the lonely life without a companion. Jimmy was the pluckier of the two, the old man thought to himself, as he looked down into the eager face of the lad who wanted to be a help in time of trouble. No more was said about Memorial Day, but after supper they sat together under the stars that blazed low in the velvet sky, and the old man was moved to tell stories that thrilled the blood of youth: of Antietam

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and Fredericksburg, of forlorn hopes, and of thin lines of blue and gray hurled in desperate charges, until to the wide-eyed boy, the dusky desert was peopled with marching men. In the shadows beyond the fire the cactus took shape of crouching sentries, and the serried sage-brush, vaguely glimpsed in the darkness, was like infantry sleeping on its arms. Through the forenoon of Memorial Day, Captain John Bright was restless and absent-minded. His thoughts were back with his comrades. He could see them tramping behind the band to the strains of “Marching through Georgia,” here and there a straggler falling out to rest, and some of those who kept up with the flag walking with feeble and halting gait. He had been one of the youngest and strongest of the little column last year, and he wondered who could take his place this year and step out with something of the old stride that had carried him with Sherman to the Sea. Jimmy wrestled with a problem of his own. He was too young to give up the idea of some kind of a celebration. There were no soldiers’ graves, there were no flowers, but he did find a mite of an American flag that had been brought along with his slender outfit as a souvenir of a Fourth of July parade of the “Golden West Cadets,” in which imposing organization he had been a corporal. He waited until the stage had passed through, and then announced to Uncle John: “I don’t think it’s right to let the day go by without doing something— honest, I don’t. You know that prospector’s grave about two miles over toward the Funeral Range? I mean the man that got lost and died of thirst last year. There’s nothing but a little heap of rocks, but for all we know he may have been an old soldier. You can’t say he wasn’t. And anyhow he was a brave man or he wouldn’t have been going into Death Valley alone. I’m going to ride my burro over, and stick this little flag on his grave. I’ll feel a heap better and it won’t do any harm, will it?” Captain Bright looked pleased and touched, but replied with a slightly worried air: “I’m not sure you won’t get lost yourself. But I think I can see you

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all the way from here. Be sure to fill your canteen, Jimmy, and don’t get out of sight of camp. I’d go with you, but there’s a freight outfit coming in from the southward and they’ll want water.” The boy scampered over to the corral and saddled his mouse-colored burro, which protested with a pair of agile heels and a voice of surprising volume for the absurd dimensions of the beast. With the little flag tucked inside his shirt, Jimmy marched off in the wake of the burro, preferring to go on foot through the deep sand of the fire mile. As he trudged along, steering the wrong-headed burro, which behaved like a rudderless skiff in a big wind, the boy busied himself weaving stories, as he had done so often, about the unknown prospector whose bleached bones lay under the head of rock surrounded by four dusty sage-bushes. Perhaps he had found a mine and was trying to get out of the desert with the news of his treasure when he lost his way and ran out of water. Or maybe he had been hurt or fallen sick, and his burros had run away from him. Was there a boy waiting for him somewhere at home? It was very sad and mysterious, but it was a part of the life of the desert, and Jimmy thought it over as only one of many stories of the same kind that had come out of the Death Valley country. It was the most vivid of all to him, and one that he longest remembered, because there was the pile of stone to make it very real. By the time he had crossed the two miles of brush and sand the boy had made up a new story about the lost prospector to fit the day and the deed. He was an old soldier, a Grand Army man, of course, and he had fought bravely in many battles. This was what made it so hard to think of his losing his life in a fight with heat and thirst, with no comrades to keep his memory green. Jimmy took off his hat while he stuck his flag between two fragments of lava on the rude mound. Then while his burro drifted off to browse on the sage-brush, the boy gathered more stones and heaped them high at the head of the grave. He was tired and hot when he finished his labor of love and plodded after the burro, that had ambled several hundred yards from the scene.

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Having caught the beast, he cinched up the saddle and then gazed across the desert toward the Funeral Range whose ramparts hid the basin of Death Valley. Those bare and ragged walls, swimming in a blue haze of heat, sometimes frightened him. They spoke of the terrors which they hid from his view. He was glad that Uncle John was not a prospector, toiling among those forbidding mountains. He was about to turn his face toward the camp, when he thought he saw something move over toward the mountains. He shaded his eyes and stared with idle curiosity, for he had learned that what you think you see, and what you really see, are different matters in the desert. But whirls of dust like little puffs of smoke rose above the black dot that appeared and then vanished as if it were slowly rising and falling. It was not a man walking, and anyhow no man alone and on foot had any business coming from that direction. Jimmy felt a touch of fear, but he dug his heels into the burro and moved toward the object that was still for several minutes and then seemed to be floundering toward him again. Once it stood erect and Jimmy gasped. It looked like a man. He was afraid no longer. If it was a man, he was in dreadful distress, and needed help. At length the object ceased to move. When Jimmy drew near, he saw a man, naked to the waist, lying face down, and it looked as if there was no more life in him. His shoes were gone, he had no canteen, no hat, and his hands and feet were bleeding where he had been crawling and falling in his last struggle to move on. The boy fell on his knees and tugged at the blistered shoulders with all his might, until he half-turned the helpless man so that his face was clear of the choking sand. Then Jimmy wet the blackened lips with water from his full canteen, and managed to unlock the clenched teeth, and pour a few drops on the swollen tongue. Finally the man swallowed, once, twice. The effect was magical. His eyes opened, he groaned, and tried to raise himself on his hands and knees. But he lurched forward and fell, and Jimmy wrung his hands, for it seemed impossible that he could raise the dead weight to the back of the burro. He was afraid to leave the man here while he

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went to camp for help, and the tears rolled down his cheeks in his worry and grief as he shouted in desperation: “It’s only a little way to camp. It’s only a little way to camp. I’ll help you. Can’t you get up?” Another drink from the canteen, and the man’s wits began to clear a little. “I’m all in,” he muttered. “But I’m not dead yet. Bring the burro.” For a wonder the burro stood docile in its tracks while the man made one great, despairing effort and, pulling himself up by the stirrup-leather, fell doubled across the saddle like a sack of meal. Jimmy could do no more than hold him there as he struggled along beside the burro and its silent burden. It was a slow and heart-breaking journey for the lad, but long before he drew near the camp, Uncle John had seen that something was amiss, and was running toward them. He read the story in a glance, and when he had dragged the unconscious stranger into the tent and laid him on the blankets, he called to Jimmy: “You were just in time. He’ll pull through. Open a can of that beef tea and put the kettle on. Another hour and you wouldn’t have been a bit of use.” The pink and azure twilight was falling when the lost prospector sat up on the blankets, his head in his hands, and said brokenly: “I’m alive, and I ain’t gone plumb crazy. Thank God for His mercies. I wonder where my burros are. Is this here camp in the Death Valley, pardner?” “You were twenty miles out of the Valley when we found you, and you came that far alone and clean distracted, that’s certain,” responded Uncle John. “What was this kid doin’ out where he found me?” feebly asked the prospector. “I was celebrating Decoration Day,” bashfully explained Jimmy. “There is—there is a grave out there.” “There came blame near bein’ another one alongside of it,” was the reply. “Celebratin’ Decoration Day in this God-forsaken hole! Well, you are a lively young patriot! And lucky for me!”

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Jimmy did not want to claim too much credit. “It was all on account of Uncle John—I mean Captain Bright here,” said he. “He’s a Grand Army man, you know, and I couldn’t let the day go by without doing something to let him see that I remembered.” Captain Bright broke in with: “You’re as gray as me, stranger, and there’s a scar that shows across that bald head of yours. Maybe you were one of the boys in blue.” A smile lit up the cracked and blackened face of the old prospector as he spoke, and he stretched out a bandaged hand: “No, I reckon I wasn’t. But I wore the old butternut under Jeb Stewart, and one of Phil Sheridan’s troopers put that dent in my cabeza. I guess we ain’t going to fight it over agin, are we? Here’s how!” Captain Bright smiled back and took the old Confederate’s hand in both of his, as he said: “Here’s where we celebrate the day together, then. And we’ll thank God that your grave isn’t ready to be decorated to-night. You came mighty near giving me an excuse for a parade all by myself.” From outside there came the rattle of trace-chains, and the creaking of wagons, and the noise of a driver’s eloquence hurled at weary mules. Captain Bright hurried out and found a freight outfit pulling up to the well. Its crew made camp near the corral, and when the chores were done the “mule-skinner” and the “swamper” strolled over to buy “a bunch of canned goods.” They sat by the camp-fire when Captain Bright and Daniel Yake, late of the Army of the Confederacy, swapped stories of the great days when they were foemen in arms. Then one of the freighters, a tall Texan, burst into song when he could hold it in no longer, and in full chorus the little company, North and South, the Blue and the Gray, swung from “Dixie” into “The Star Spangled Banner.” But it was the two old men who sang together afterwards, while the others were silent, “We’re Tenting To-night on the Old Camp-ground.” Jimmy murmured, drowsily, as the fire died down and the freighters said good night: “We certainly did celebrate, after all. You can’t lose Old Glory even in the desert.”

A Native Teacher

 Frances McElrath Youth’s Companion, ju ly 15, 1897

In the nineteenth century the United States government adopted a policy that regarded the assimilation of Indians to Anglo-American culture as the only humane solution to the so-called Indian problem. This policy sought to instruct Indians in agricultural and industrial arts, as well as in the social, political, and economic institutions of American society. However, acculturation did not guarantee peace. Even when tribes submitted to the customs of Western European civilization, they still found themselves susceptible to the United States’s evergrowing desire for expansion. Perhaps the most famous example of this occurred in 1838–39, when the Cherokees were forcibly removed from their homes east of the Mississippi River and compelled to migrate to present-day Oklahoma along the Trail of Tears. In “A Native Teacher” a group of cowboys attempt to drive their cattle through a cornfield cultivated by the families of a Cheyenne settlement. When this altercation leads to a showdown between a party of Cheyenne men and some U.S. soldiers, the tribe’s chief, Grey Eagle, calls upon Lizzie Blue Horse to prevent the confrontation from escalating into a full-blown battle. It is not through bravery alone that Lizzie saves her people. The training she received at the first govern-

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ment Indian boarding school in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, makes it possible for her to communicate with the soldiers. While Lizzie’s reward at the end of the story is an opportunity to teach the children of the tribe, she also unwittingly participates in the government’s mandate to eradicate Indian culture. Although the author sympathizes with the injustices Indians faced and presents a strong woman protagonist, she exhibits the race biases and misconceptions of her time. Frances McElrath spent at least some time on western cattle ranches and army posts. Her recently rediscovered novel The Rustler, which first appeared in 1902, draws on the same Johnson County rustler war in Wyoming that inspired Owen Wister to write The Virginian (also published in 1902). Unlike Wister, McElrath presents a more sympathetic account of the motives behind cattle rustling and gives her female characters extraordinary influence. She published no other novels after The Rustler, but she did write a number of stories for the Youth’s Companion between 1897 and 1898.

...... “Grey Eagle!” The majestic old body seated on the ground in front of the log house gave no response. He puffed away at his pipe and made as though he did not see Lizzie Blue Horse standing beside him. He looked contemplatively off at a herd of cattle coming in a steady procession across the prairie from over some low hills in the distance. “Grey Eagle!” There was a ringing determination to have an acknowledgment of her presence in Lizze Blue Horse’s voice. She threw back her small, shapely head with a vigorous, insistent movement. “Grey Eagle!” she said again. This time the old chief turned toward her with heavy solemnity. His large, fleshy face was assertively implacable. His eye glanced disapprovingly at her well-fitting pink calico dress and buttoned boots—a white girl’s attire! Lizzie Blue Horse faced his look resolutely, but there was a pleading note in her voice when she spoke.

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“Are you going to let me teach the little girls, Grey Eagle?” she said. Grey Eagle slowly removed his pipe from his mouth. He felt a lowering of his dignity in entering into a discussion with this presumptuous young squaw, but she seemed compelling him to it. “Teach them what?” he asked, after a pause. “All that I learned at school.” “What did you learn worth while for a squaw to know?” “To read and write and talk English. Many other things.” Grey Eagle studied her half-contemptuously. “Can you set up a teepee properly?” he inquired. “I can keep a house clean and neat.” “Can you skin a bear?” “I can sew and make good, comfortable clothes.” “Can you chop a log straighter than your cousins?” “I can cook a better and more wholesome dinner with it.” Grey Eagle impressively stretched forth his arm, pointing an emphatic forefinger down the line of log huts and canvas teepees bordering the river for a short distance toward the bent form of a young man in a green plot in front of one of the houses. “Your brother is working,” he remarked, laconically. The sight seemed to preach an eloquent sermon against the folly of the list of accomplishments Lizzie Blue Horse had just told off in opposition to the conceded idea of what a squaw should know. Lizze Blue Horse caught the drift of this thought. She set her mouth a little more firmly. “There’s no reason why the boys shouldn’t work,” she said. “Besides, Quick Hand loves to work in his corn; he is prouder of it than anything he has.” But the old chief admitted no defense of her position in that fact. His judgment declared against a squaw who saw no impropriety in a brave doing menial tasks. She had acquired such notions at the boardingschool from which she had recently returned. He shook his head decidedly. “No school for the little girls,” he de-

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clared. “Leave them alone to grow up useful workers like their mothers. That is all the good a squaw can be to a tribe.” “Education will teach them to work better, really, Grey Eagle,” protested Lizzie Blue Horse, disappointedly; but her words fell upon deaf ears. Grey Eagle had suddenly risen to his feet, and was frowning darkly off at the cattle-herd which by this time had reached the cleared line across the prairie that marked the public road. Instead, however, of turning off at this common thoroughfare, the cowboys continued to head their charges straight toward the narrow strip of land occupied by the Indians. There were but thirty families of Cheyennes in this settlement. The small band had been allotted an independent spot some miles from the agency to live on because of the tried faithfulness and peaceful inclinations of their old chief, Grey Eagle. Under his wise government they had dwelt there in friendly relations with the whites for five years. They were making settled homes. Many of the families cultivated bits of gardens, as Quick Hand did. A number of others besides Grey Eagle were watching the approaching cattle. Men and women, gathered in front of the houses, were talking together in low, excited tones. “The cowboys are ready to ruin our gardens to save going a mile farther by the road to the river-crossing,” they said, bitterly. Quick Hand, tall and willowy as one of his own corn-stalks, stood in the middle of his crop, regarding with a still, set face the threatened incursion. The cattle were making a direct line for his patch. Lizzie Blue Horse, thinking of her brother’s distress, started for his side with a sympathetic cry. Before her swift feet had reached him, Grey Eagle’s massive form strode past her with huge, intent steps. “Go home, Quick Hand,” he cried, as he drew near the young man. He turned and waved his hand authoritatively to the groups about the doorways. “Go into your teepees!” he commanded. Most of the squaws and a few of the old men obeyed. Grey Eagle was the powerful chief of his tribe. His word always had been law to his peo-

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ple. For once, however, the young men did not seem disposed to heed him. Quick Hand looked at him sulkily. “Go home and let our corn be trampled down?” he said. “Bah! The squaws will raise more!” returned Grey Eagle. He looked around. “Why don’t you obey?” he shouted, loudly. Nobody stirred. Grey Eagle, willing to waive that point of obedience in favor of a stronger one, called out, “it is all wrong of the cowboys to come here, but let no one molest them. If you do, you know what will happen. A battle, then probably the war-path and our homes broken up. Five years we have had peace with the white settlers; let us sacrifice a little corn to continue it!” An angry murmur went through the crowd. Somebody cried out that Grey Eagle was growing old when he gave such counsel. Grey Eagle, intense in his desire to prevent a disturbance, feigned not to hear. “Remember the liberty we have enjoyed here on the river,” he exhorted them; “if there is trouble now it will be taken away from us. Ah, Quick Hand! My foolish son!” The cattle, urged to faster pace by the cowboys, had reached the gardens. As the first hoof was set in his corn, Quick Hand, overborne by his passion, sprung suddenly toward the steer, yelling and flapping his arms. The steer, thus surprised, halted for an instant, then turned in disorganizing, panicky confusion back among his followers, and in a moment the great herd was stampeding wildly off toward the hills. Quick Hand’s act had undone a fortnight’s work for the cattlemen. One angry cowboy, before starting in pursuit of the herd, discharged his six-shooter at the Indians. The shots missed any serious mark, but as if they were a signal, four braves sprang forward with loaded rifles and shot down four steers at the tail of the retreating mass. The cowboys did not stop to return the shots. One of them, however, instead of going after the cattle, rode rapidly away down the road to the east in the direction of the military post. “What will happen now?” cried Grey Eagle, pointing after him. “He

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takes word to the white chiefs that my Cheyennes are killing cattle! When the soldiers come you must be reasonable and explain.” “We’ll shoot the soldiers like the cattle,” returned a brave, defiantly. It was See-the-Eagle, the young man who spoke English, and who always acted as Grey Eagle’s interpreter with white men. Grey Eagle continued to talk, but nobody would listen to him. Thoughts of the injustice done them set up a wall between his people’s hearts and the old man’s wisdom. Finally he took himself off alone. He went to his own house, and sat down, heavy-souled, to await the issue of events. “We’ll dance,” said See-the-Eagle; “we’ll find out whether the Great Spirit is for peace or war when the soldiers come.” Lizzie Blue Horse, who had watched the proceedings with distressed, clasped hands, ran up to Quick Hand and touched his arm. “Does it mean that we may all go on the war-path?” she exclaimed. The horror of the idea to the young girl, who had just returned to her people after spending six years of pleasant, peaceful school-life, can hardly be described. Quick Hand replied hastily, and left her in his eagerness to help prepare for the proposed ghost-dance. The twilight was now falling rapidly. When night was fully come the camp presented a strange scene in the white moonlight. A tall pole, ornamented at the top with short strips of calico, was erected. Divested of all ornaments and wearing only the regulation dress, a breech clout, moccasins and paint, the Indian men surrounded the pole. An old medicine-man in the middle invoked the aid of the deity, and an unlighted pipe was held up for the Great Sprit to smoke. Manifestly the offer was refused, and this refusal was taken to mean that the deity was adverse to peace. The dancers, with joined hands, kept time to a weird, moaning chant. From dizziness and exhaustion they finally fell one by one, and in this half-insensible state they were supposed to receive the Great Spirit’s message for war. The squaws and children formed a squatting circle about the dancers, joining with spasmodic wails in the song. They remained there all night.

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Lizzie Blue Horse, apart from the rest at her own doorstep, sat with bent head, thinking piteously: “O my poor people, my poor people!” Her heart seemed drawn to them by a thousand cords of love that overcame her feelings of repulsion at their ignorance and superstition. She realized more clearly than ever before how inestimable had been the advantages she had derived from her Christian teachings. The longing to help her people, which had brought her back to the tribe a month before, surged through her with strong, fresh force. Lizze Blue Horse’s parents were dead. Quick Hand was the only near tie binding her to the tribe. Quick Hand came exhaustedly to the house at daylight. He had nothing to say to Lizzie Blue Horse. When he was rested, he looked to his rifle and caught up his ponies. Lizzie Blue Horse, watching his movements, was contrasting with strange dread the life of the Cheyennes on the war-path to that of her Carlisle home, when, at about ten o’clock, a party of infantry was seen approaching the camp. The Cheyennes got their rifles and waited, concealed in their homes. They knew the soldiers had come to arrest the braves who shot the cattle. When the first arrest was attempted, they agreed to rush forth in a band and attack the soldiers. Lizzie Blue Horse had heard all this planned. Watching the soldiers, she estimated the minutes which must elapse before the uprising which must make them all wandering fugitives once more. The Indian settlement presented a deserted appearance when the troops arrived there. Not a soul was to be seen. The little squad of bluecoats, warily suspicious of lurking danger, proceeded to Grey Eagle’s house. They would demand their prisoners of the chief, and in case he did not hand them over, they would take them forcibly. The young men, peering from the various houses, knew this. They saw Grey Eagle emerge from his house as the soldiers drew near. He appeared to talk for a few minutes with the lieutenant in command. The young men were too far away to see what his gesticulations meant.

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Suddenly they saw their chief leave the soldiers abruptly and walk away toward Quick Hand’s house. “He’s going to try to make Quick Hand surrender,” was whispered. That should not be permitted. The clutch on the rifles tightened. The tense feeling pervading the camp might almost have been felt. Quick Hand, sitting with his rifle on his knee, watched, with flashing eyes, the old chief coming. He was prepared to resist alike Grey Eagle’s commands and active military force. His taciturnity had continued since the dance. He had not once spoken to Lizzie Blue Horse, who hovered constantly about him in bewildered agitation. She indeed did not know what to do. She must take the part of her people and follow where they led, but oh! the horror of it! If only the braves would be quiet and reasonable, as Grey Eagle advised! But the excitement induced by the dance had destroyed all possibility of that. Still, in spite of their barbarism, they must have begun to feel the increeping of civilization from the fact that they did not plan a butchery of the soldiers on sight. They waited for just provocation to attack them. Lizzie Blue Horse, fearing that Grey Eagle’s visit was a short preliminary to the outburst, trembled like a leaf as he opened the door. To her surprise, he addressed her instead of her brother. “Lizze Blue Horse, I want you to come with me,” he commanded. She followed him at once with a side glance from Quick Hand’s eyes. The young man knew the girl would not be given up instead of the braves. Lizzie Blue Horse would have gone with Grey Eagle as unquestioningly if it had been so—if surrendering her would have prevented the uprising. She kept up with Grey Eagle’s long strides until they stopped beside the officer, waiting in front of his house. “Now,” said the chief, turning to the wondering girl, “Lizzie Blue Horse, you are to talk to this chief. He cannot understand Cheyenne. Some of these soldier-chiefs are very ignorant. “Tell him,” continued the old man after the spurt of scorn, which really was caused by his own inability to make himself understood by the

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officer, “that my people do not willfully kill cattle. They have not injured anybody or anything since they came to live on the river. They have lived less like Cheyennes than white men, and they have come to feel like the white man about some things. They love their little spots of land better than whole hunting-grounds, and it hurts them to have their gardens destroyed as if a heavy foot was pressed upon their hearts. Explain how the cattle came, Lizzie Blue Horse.” Lizzie felt a wonderful thrill go through her. The moment had come when she could speak for her people. If she spoke rightly, she should help them. All the worth of the knowledge she had gained in her six years of study seemed pressed into this present fruitful moment. She took a step toward the officer, and her eyes were shining. She broke out in quick, short sentences, explaining the situation with a simple eloquence of feeling that she did not realize. She wondered when she stopped speaking whether she had done badly. The officer, looking at her earnest face, felt his own kindling with a flood of indignation at the injustice done the Indians by the cowboys. He questioned Lizzie Blue Horse closely as to the provocation the Cheyennes had had for the assault. The cowboys’ information had been that the Cheyennes had fallen upon a journeying herd of cattle and viciously slaughtered a number. Lizzie Blue Horse pointed meaningly to the four steers still lying in the trampled garden, and the officer believed her story. Lizze Blue Horse and Grey Eagle studied the young man’s face keenly as he stood pondering what course to take. The matter of the arrests was optional with him. For a few minutes the dreaded uprising and consequent breaking up of thirty families hung upon the working of that one mind. At length the decision was made. The young lieutenant took it upon himself to consider the Indians’ cause his own. He would not precipitate trouble by arresting the braves this time. If there was no further trouble from them, he promised that they should be left alone. Furthermore, he would see to it that the case was brought to the civil court, and that the

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cowboys should be taught to use the common road, and to respect the rights of the Indian to the country given him by the government. Lizzie Blue Horse repeated this joyfully to Grey Eagle. The old chief grasped the young officer’s hand gratefully. Presently the soldiers marched off, and the disturbance was ended. The people came out, wondering and curious, and clustered about Grey Eagle and Lizzie Blue Horse. When they heard the turn of affairs the anger departed from their midst as a dark cloud vanishes in the clear sky. Justice was all the Great Sprit demanded for his people, they said. They returned to their homes to remove the war-paint and resume their peaceable lives. As soon as they were settled down once more, Grey Eagle started upon a tour of the families. The old man had recovered his importance and stately dignity. The people, after their temporary disaffection, fell quietly under his rule again. Grey Eagle, emerging from the different houses, was followed by the little girls that lived in them. He had made the rounds of the families to collect them. Preceding his youthful band, the old man appeared at Lizzie Blue Horse’s doorway. “Here,” he said, with a wave of his hand, “Lizzie Blue Horse, you shall teach the children what you know. It is well for a squaw to be something more than a drudge. We shall have all noble squaws in our band. They shall be able to stand up and speak to the white men when the braves make a mistake. Men are hot-headed, and at the least thing fly to war, but the squaws love quietness better. The fighting days of the warrior are over, and he must follow the white man in the ways of peace.”

Fairy “Spuds”

 Theodora Marshall Inglis Illustrated by B. J. Rosenmeyer Youth’s Companion, o ct o b er 18, 1917

Establishing schools was the first order of business for most parents in their homesteading ventures, and although educational opportunities on the frontier were often primitive and erratic, most children had the opportunity to acquire at least the basic skills of reading and writing. At home, books supplemented their learning—usually the Bible and classics such as Plutarch, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and Sir Walter Scott, which could be ordered by mail through the Sears, Roebuck and Company catalogue. Even the poorest families subscribed to a daily newspaper or a family periodical, such as the inexpensive Youth’s Companion, the lavishly illustrated St. Nicholas, or Harper’s Young People. Education beyond the eighth grade, however, proved more difficult to obtain; adolescents had to attend high school in town, living there during the school term and working for their room and board. This often proved a hardship for parents, as they expected the older boys to work in the fields and the girls to help with the younger children and household chores. In addition to the fundamental skills expected by society, schools also instilled moral and cultural values in children in an effort to establish traditional ideals in the new land: Christian piety, respect for

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Over this happy little group drifted and shifted the rosy firelight. authority, loyalty, and a belief in free enterprise and hard work. In “Fairy ‘Spuds’” Agnes personifies all of these traits as she responsibly fulfills her parents’ trust in her to deliver the family’s yearly harvest from their dryland farm on the Colorado plains to the market in Colorado Springs. Her reward, a high school education, will help lift her, and possibly her parents, from a life of poverty. Theodora Marshall Inglis wrote only two stories for the Youth’s Companion, but she published several articles in religious periodicals, such as the Christian Herald and World Outlook, about the people she met in China while accompanying her doctor husband on a missionary so-

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journ at the An Ting Hospital in Peking. She collected these stories in New Lanterns in Old China, which she published in 1923.

...... It was November in Colorado; the air was too soft and balmy, the distant mountains too blue and shimmery, the sunshine altogether too bright and warm as it slipped down from the snowcapped peaks and flooded withered fields and meadows with a deceptive suggestion of golden riches. Mary Lang glanced round apprehensively as she climbed upon the wagon wheel and tucked an extra buffalo robe under the high seat. “If you don’t use this robe yourselves, you may need it to cover the potatoes. Agnes, don’t let anything happen to the load; a frost would ruin it—you know we’re glad to have even potatoes to sell this year.” Mary Lang spoke cheerfully, but Agnes knew that she was making an effort to keep the note of worry from her voice. “Now, mother, look at me.” Agnes’s two brown eyes flashed assurance, while with her one free arm she gave her mother a swift, bearlike hug. “I’ll get these spuds to town with nary a lost one unless we happen to meet the agent who sold father this wonderful dry farm. But if we meet him, I’ll pick the biggest spud in the load and let him have it ker-whop! right between the eyes. Won’t I, Charley boy?” Charley laughed and gazed admiringly upon his belligerent big sister. It would have been such fun to smash the agent, but even little Charley knew that there was no hope of ever meeting him again. “Now, mother dear,” Agnes continued, “don’t you worry. We’ll get to the Springs all right, and I’ll buy Charley the cap and sweater, and get the liniment for father’s lame back—and don’t forget that you said I might forage for some secondhand books. Where, indeed,” and Agnes struck an attitude, “could one better pursue a higher education, than in this natural and productive solitude of nature?—quotation à la Mr. Land Agent of the family of road agents.” Mary Lang, restored to smiles, kissed each young face just as Ben Lang limped up beside her.

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“That’s all right, Aggie,” he said. “You buy your books, and don’t forget to bring mother a little something. Mother, mebbe we can manage to send Aggie in town to school next year or the year after—Aggie sure deserves the best!” Agnes forgot the “Aggie,” which she hated, and turned grateful eyes upon her stepfather. To be sure, he was provokingly visionary, but his affectionate kindness more than offset his thousand faults. From her high seat the girl looked down at them—her dauntless little mother and the big, inefficient, loving man who lifted his wife so tenderly from the wagon wheel. A lump rose in the young girl’s throat, but, shaking out the reins, she called cheerily: “Well, good-by, everyone! Now, Charley, we’re off. You shall be the Potato Prince and I the Potato Princess!” As the wagon rumbled out of the gate upon the grass-ridged road, Agnes cracked the long whip. “Behold my magic wand! With it I’ll touch these old dirty, but enchanted, spuds, and who knows what they’ll turn into?” “What is ‘enchanted’? How could an old spud turn into anything fine?” Hope and disbelief struggled together in Charley’s voice. “Why, kiddie, enchanted spuds mean fairy spuds, and you know fairy things can turn into anything, only you have to touch them with a magic wand, something like my whip; we’ll play it’s all golden and that the tassel is a star on the end. Now, when we get to the Springs, I’ll touch that littlest sack of fairy spuds back there, and I’ll say, ‘Here, you, turn into a nice warm cap with ear tabs and a sweater for the Potato Prince!’ And then to another sack I’ll say, ‘And you, turn into a pretty shirt waist for mother!’ Then to that bulgy, lumpy old sack in the back I’ll say, ‘As for you, you fat rascal, you shall turn into some golden books for the Potato Princess, for, if you don’t, the princess will grow up a perfect dunce!’” “Oh, let’s begin to play it now!” cried Charley. “Lemme carry the wand, and I can tap ’em while you drive! Let’s wish for everything nice in the whole world. Let’s wish for a sled and a kite and a gun and—” Here Agnes began to insert her wishes, for fifteen finds it easy to play at make-believe.

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Thus the first few miles rolled away with the Potato Prince and Princess tapping the fair “spuds” and wishing for everything under the sun. Once on the desolate highway they met a mover’s wagon that was going from the dry-farm region back to “God’s country.” The movers thought that they saw a pretty, rosy-cheeked girl and a smiling little boy sitting upon a loaded wagon, drawn by two slow-gaited horses. What would have been their emotions had they known that they were really gazing upon a jewel-bedecked prince and princess, seated in a golden chariot drawn by champing steeds and laden with the wealth of the world, from airguns to diamond tiaras? The sick woman under the canvas cover leaned forward as the prince and princess passed, and maybe their gleaming jewels did flash upon her, for when the princess called out a cheery greeting the woman’s wan, dejected face lighted up with a smile. “Better watch out, you kids!” warned the man. “Weather’s goin’ to change, and they say the road’s awful nearer town. Some places turrible cut up and others so deep with sand you cain’t hardly pull through.” “Thank you,” Agnes answered. “But we have only twelve miles yet to go, and we must reach the Springs to-night if we can.” But to Agnes’s surprise and disappointment, the bad road began only a mile or two farther on. They ate their luncheon without wasting any time, for the horses pulled harder and traveled slower every mile. At three o’clock a biting wind sprang up; it lifted the fine sand from the roadbed and whirled it against their faces. By that time the fairy game had palled perceptibly, for the princess was chilled through and the prince had snuggled down under the extra robe at her feet. At four o’clock it was colder still, and the sand drifts along the way were ploughed and gouged into deep ruts. Worst of all, the sun stood poised ready, at any instance, to plunge down behind the distant mountain peaks. Under good conditions a very few miles an hour was the best that the old bays could do with such a load. Agnes viewed with alarm the increasing fatigue of the horses.

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At five o’clock the sun was gone, and the prince and princess game was gone, too—at least, for the time being. Plain Charley boy was there, almost whimpering when he meant to smile, and Agnes sat grave and determined, urging the straining beasts on through the darkness. However, the pioneer in Agnes was planning ahead: she decided to stop overnight at the Eaton Ranch. But what with wind, sand and darkness she could not tell how far they had traveled. They must be somewhere near the ranch, but how near or how far? Darkness now encompassed them; the swirling wind almost tore Agnes from the high seat, and numbed her fingers until they refused to close tightly round the lines. She gave the horses their heads and trusted to their instinct for following the road. That was wise, for the old bays picked it out faithfully and well, and half an hour later, as they dragged wearily round a curve, Agnes’s heart beat fast and a little smile twisted her blue lips. With a surge her spirits rose again, and with her foot she pressed Charley’s plump body under the buffalo robe. “Wake up, Potato Prince! We’re here at last!” The prince emerged with unroyal haste and peered out over the footboard. There, not a quarter of a mile away, gleamed the lights of the Eaton Ranch. The big living room of the ranch fairly radiated light and warmth, and in its glow young Mrs. Eaton moved about, pleasantly aware that everything and everyone under her roof were safely housed against the cold. Even her guest, Mrs. Harold, had arrived before the worst of the storm, and now sat beside the fireplace. Mrs. Eaton occasionally paused to look affectionately at her old friend, who sat gazing silently into the fire. “You see, Emma,” Eleanor Harold said at last, turning her fine, reposeful face toward her hostess, “it’s a hard problem; and if I can’t find a satisfactory solution for it, I shall be forced to give up this work that I need and love.” Emma Eaton wrinkled her fair brow and sighed; problems were new to her. Happily, she was spared any immediate attempt to solve this one,

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for there was a sharp rap on the door. Almost immediately the door burst open, a blast of bitter cold air rushed into the room, and Agnes Lang appeared, dragging Charley over the threshold. “Why, Agnes!” Surprise and affection were in Mrs. Eaton’s voice as she rushed forward. “Where did you come from this cold night? You poor dears, come over by the fire. I’ll send the man out to put up your horses.” Then, with sudden remembrance of her guest, she said, “Agnes and Charley, this is my old friend, Mrs. Harold.” Agnes was aware that a warm hand had grasped hers and that kind eyes were gazing at her, but her day’s work was not yet finished. “Please let Charley toast himself right now, but I must run out again before I unwrap to cover our load of spuds. First, however, I’ll tell you why we rushed in the way we did. It was awful, wasn’t it? But we were so cold and so glad to get here, and then we knew that you would be so glad to see us!” And with the merry laugh of a person sure of her welcome Agnes disappeared as suddenly as she had come. When she returned, Charley was seated cozily on Mrs. Harold’s lap, narrating the incidents of the trip. “Well,” he said regretfully, after Agnes had joined the circle, “we didn’t get much for playin’ the spuds were fairies to-day, did we, Agnes? Didn’t even get to Colorado Springs! I don’t think that those old spuds out there even knew that they were fairies, and”—he added in solemn tones— “I don’t think that I’ll ever believe in fairies any more, anyway!” “Oh!” cried Mrs. Harold. “A little boy not believe in fairies—impossible!” “Well, then,” said Charley, with restored confidence in the fairy tribe, “if a spud can turn into clothes for a boy, don’t you think one might turn into a sled or a gun?” “I most certainly do!” Mrs. Harold agreed. When Mrs. Eaton came in a few moments later, Charley was snuggled in motherly arms and Agnes sat on a low stool looking up at Mrs. Harold. The young girl’s face was beautifully aglow and resolute; she was speaking earnestly. Over this happy little group drifted and shifted

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the rosy firelight, lightening and softening—concealing and revealing. It was too bad to call “Supper,” but it had to be done, and soon all were merry round the big table, even though jolly Tom Eaton was away from home. When supper was over, the charmed circle once again drew round the fire, and in the hour that followed Charley chattered of the fairy “spuds” and Agnes revealed more of her heart’s ambition than she knew. Bedtime came all too soon; the children said good night to Mrs. Harold and followed their hostess out of the room. When Mrs. Eaton returned to the fireside a little later she looked much perturbed. “Did you ever hear of such a girl?” she said. “Agnes is building a smudge fire under the wagon bed, and with the robes she has and the bedding I have given her she intends to sleep out on the load of potatoes. She wanted to do it alone, but Charley insists that he won’t leave her; so both are going to sleep out this cold night. I urged her to cover the potatoes heavily and come in, but there’s lots of grit in the women of the Lang family. Agnes says that she can’t take any risk with the load, and she’s determined to stay out there all night and protect it.” And stay out she did, all the long, cold night. Sometimes the moon shone, and sometimes it hid behind scurrying clouds; sometimes the cold wind penetrated even the heavy coverings; sometimes, when she crawled out to stir the smudge, smoke puffed in her face and made her eyes smart; and now and then the wolves set up their piercing howl. At such moments Agnes imagined that she heard soft, padded feet stealing round the wagon, but the thought of deserting the load never entered her mind. Mrs. Eaton’s guest rose three times in the night and drew aside the curtain. Twice she saw a dusky figure hovering over the smudge pot; the third time everything was dark and silent—so silent that she slipped on her fur boots, threw a heavy robe round her and went outside to the wagon. At a glance she saw that the smudge was still burning, and then she climbed softly up on the wagon wheel. What she saw was quite satisfactory—nothing except a huge bundle on top of the load; but once

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the bundle stirred in very human fashion, and the moon, peeping out, revealed two low-drawn stockinet caps and the tip ends of two noses. The next morning Agnes and Charley were up betimes and ready for the road. They were as fresh and rosy as if they had slept on a bed of down. Just before starting, Mrs. Harold called Agnes aside. “Agnes,” she said, in a voice that was warm and tender, “I think that last night’s storm blew in to me the very kind of girl that I have been seeking. A girl who will stay out of doors the whole of a long, cold night, keep up a smudge fire and sleep on her load of potatoes to keep them from freezing will, I think, be faithful to any trust she may undertake.” Mrs. Harold’s eyes glistened, and she went on: “How would you like to spend your winters in town, be my big girl, and take care of my sweet old mother, the only companion left to me? You would have to read to her, thread her needles, wind her yarn—in short, be a good little companion to her during my absences as county superintendent. But,” here her fine eyes twinkled, “you would have so much time between nine o’clock and 3 p.m. that I don’t know how you would occupy yourself unless you cared to go to the high school and later, perhaps, to college. You could start next week. How would you like it?” Agnes tried to speak, but only a little gasp came, and two great tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. But the woman waiting for her answer must have understood, for suddenly she drew the young girl to her and held her in a close embrace. “Emma Eaton,” asked Mrs. Harold, not half an hour later, “are you certain that those potatoes are to be sold to the Perkins firm?” “I am. I asked Agnes very particularly.” Mrs. Eaton smiled, for her friend’s problem had been settled, and in settling it a wonderful chance had come to Agnes! “Well, then,” said Mrs. Harold, picking up the telephone, “I must speak to my old friend, Thomas Perkins, at once.” While she waited for Mr. Perkins to come to the telephone, Mrs. Harold turned to her friend. “Emma,” she asked solemnly, “do you believe in fairies—fairy spuds, I mean?”

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“I do, of course, if you say so,” replied the adoring Emma. “Well, Emma, you’d better, for as sure as the sun shines and Thomas Perkins answers this telephone that precious Charley boy is going to find some of those spuds turned into a sled and an airgun. Oh, is that you, Thomas Perkins?” While Mrs. Harold poured her plan into Mr. Perkins’s kindly receptive ear, the old bays were pulling nobly along over the last lap of road to the Springs. The going was rough at times, to be sure, but the wind had gone down, the mountains lifted glorified peaks, and the sun shone gallantly in a sky of endless blue. Once again, at Charley’s suggestion this time, the game was on, and the Potato Potentate tapped the fairy “spuds.” Strangely enough, ten times in succession he wished for an airgun and seven times for a sled! Now and then the little prince held back his own desires for the moment and asked his royal companion what she wished. But the princess answered vaguely. For her the ugly, bulging sacks had already burst into more than golden realization; even the lumbering old wagon had changed into a winged chariot, and she was journeying fast toward her kingdom.

The Common Sense of John Thomas

 Henry Spofford Canfield Youth’s Companion, ju n e 4, 1903

Of all the hardships that settlers faced on the Great Plains—including droughts, blizzards, and hailstorms, to name only a few—probably none captures the imagination more than the grasshopper plagues of the 1870s. Often appearing without warning, these locust hordes swept through the countryside between 1874 and 1876, devouring everything in their path, even entire crops. In some places swarms were so thick that they prevented trains from gaining enough traction to climb certain grades. In “The Common Sense of John Thomas” a young man, a tramp traveling west from Indiana in search of work, agrees to help a farmer in South Dakota cut his wheat. When a dark cloud of grasshoppers suddenly appears on the horizon, John mistakes it for a thunderstorm. He then formulates a plan to save the farmer’s crop. He does not see the full devastation caused by the locusts until the fight ends two hours later. In saving the crop, John wins the hand of the farmer’s daughter and secures a job on the farm for life. Years later, he uses “common sense” to invent two new grasshopper burning machines. Henry Spofford Canfield (1858–?) grew up in Louisiana, east of the frontier. He clerked in a store as a child but later moved to Wis-

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consin, where he met his future wife, Fannie L. Canfield. He published stories in Everybody’s Magazine, 10 Story Book, The Junior Munsey, Thrilling Western Magazine, and the Saturday Evening Post. His story “In a Forest Aflame” was reprinted from St. Nicholas in a collection of juvenile fiction titled Stories of the Great Lakes (1907). Canfield wrote several books, as well: A Maid of the Frontier (1898), A Paladin in Khaki (1901), Down by the Rio Grande (1901), and The Boys of the Rincon Ranch (1902).

...... The boy, tall as a well-grown man, stood with one foot on the lower front step and with his hat off. The sun, just setting, shone on his reddish hair and lighted up his freckles. His red-brown eyes had a tired look in them, but they were open and frank. “My name,” he said, in answer to the inquiry of the farmer who stood before him in the open doorway of the house, “is John Thomas.” “What’s your last name?” “That’s all of it, first and last.” It was a July day in South Dakota, and the wheat, a golden sea, rolled from sky-line to sky-line. James Svendson, a big man of Norwegian blood, was glad to see the boy. He had one hundred acres of wheat ready for cutting and labor was scarce. “Come in! Come in!” he said. “Supper’s near ready. I’ve caught three tramps and I locked ’em up at night. That’s the only way I can hold ’em until to-morrow’s work. It’s queer you have to jail men to get a chance to pay ’em two dollars a day and good board.” John Thomas had no baggage except a bundle carried on a stick. He had walked most of the miles from Indiana, and was, as he said, “flying light.” There was no work at home, and he had decided to come West and “grow up with the country.” He found a good deal of country to grow up with. He had made for a wheat-belt because he knew work was to be had there. The farmer’s wife, with sleeves rolled above her elbows and her arms white with flour, came to the door.

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“Got another hand?” she asked. Svendson nodded. “Come back here,” she said to John Thomas. She led him through the house to the kitchen. “Supper won’t be done for half an hour,” she went on. “If you can’t wait, you can have one o’ those pies.” He said he could wait. “You don’t tell!” she exclaimed in wonder. “Well, you’re the first one that’s ever waited a minute after getting here. Lots of times they eat, and when I go out after an armful of wood and come back, they’re gone. I can see ’em fifty yards down the road. Most men that come by here ain’t afraid of anything in the world except work. You say ‘Work!’ to ’em right loud and sharp, and they jump as if you’d thrown a plate at ’em.” Pleased by her own humor, Mrs. Svendson went on with the supper. John Thomas found a little bench and a tin basin, a bar of yellow soap and a clean roller-towel, and took off the dust of travel. The three tramps, strangely clean, sat with their backs against an outhouse and talked of things that had happened to them from Maine to California. The supper was good, and the farmer and his wife did not seem to notice the strangeness of their company. For all appearances they might have been a party of old friends. “Reaping begins to-morrow,” said Svendson, rising at last and stretching his long arms. “Breakfast at daylight. I don’t want to have to come out and wake anybody up; I might pick up a hoe-handle on the way.” The beds in a loft over the stable were hard but smooth, and John Thomas slept without a dream. He was awake when the eastern sky was turning gray, and was prompt at breakfast. A kerosene lamp burned in the center of the table. One of the tramps was gone. “There’s two of you left,” said Svendson, looking hard at the remaining wanderers. “That’s a good average, but I ought to have locked that door last night.” The sun had just cleared the horizon when they reached the golden field where the grain-stalks stood as solid as a wall. The wheat-heads made a level, beautiful floor, which swayed slightly under the pressure of a breeze.

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“It’s so pretty it seems a pity to cut it, doesn’t it?” said Svendson, looking at it lovingly. “There’s a heap of dollars in there, though. Wade in, boys!” They “waded in,” the broad blades of the reaper whirring in destruction. There was something inspiriting in the labor. Even the tramps, with unusual perspiration pouring down, were gay. At nine o’clock a considerable space had been cleared, only the closecropped stubble showing above the dark ground. The wind had freshened, and was now blowing a strong breeze from the southwest. Svendson stopped and ran his shirt-sleeve across his forehead, leaving a streak of white; the rest of his face was nearly black with dust. He looked at the sky steadily for a moment. Then a pallor showed under the grime. “Look yonder!” he said, shortly. John Thomas glanced southwestward in the direction of the pointing hand. He saw a dark line moving upward slowly. It stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. He had never seen a storm-cloud just like it, but he was not uneasy. He thought that the farmer was alarmed because the cut grain would be wet by rain. “Going to have a shower, maybe,” he said. Svendson scowled at him. “Shower! Don’t you know what that is? But of course you don’t; you’re a tenderfoot! That’s grasshoppers!” The boy was impressed somewhat, because he had read of the devastation sometimes caused by the pests, but he was still far from realizing the import of the farmer’s words. “What’ll they do?” he asked. “Do?” Svendson shouted, furiously tossing both arms up. “Do? They’ll eat up every living green thing in a swath as wide as they are. They won’t leave a grain of wheat in this field by night. To-morrow there won’t be a leaf in the country. It’s a whole year’s work gone, and I in debt!” He took to crying—his breast heaving hard—and the tears made white channels down his grimy cheeks. The tramps stood by in dull indifference. The line of cloud had now assumed a light dun hue, and hid the sky

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far up from the earth-line. Borne on the breeze, the insects were coming fast. It was a strange scene, the ill-assorted men, the wide, beautiful, fruitful field, the sun of summer shining on it, and that threatening, silent force of destruction bearing down on them swift and terrible, relentless as fate. Once before the farmer had been through a thing like this, and the memory of it paralyzed him. He did not even turn toward the house, in which he knew his wife, too, was crying. He simply stood, and waited for disaster to fall and crush him. This was horrible to John Thomas. He wanted to do something, to be moving, to fight. Supine inertness did not belong to him. His red hair and red-brown eyes were against it. He had a quick brain, and it was working fast. Words fell from him slowly: “My mother—we had a big peach orchard back in Indiana—father was away—there was a big frost coming that night to kill the blooms— my mother built fires and stayed up all night—built fires north of the trees and the breeze blew the heat through them—everybody lost their peaches but us. Mosquitoes and gnats hate smoke; maybe grasshoppers— Say,” turning excitedly to Svendson, “build fires along the edge of the field!” “What for? ’Twon’t do any good!” “Fight ’em with smoke! Try it! Try it!” He grasped the farmer by the arm and shook him. The horde of insects was plainly in sight now, a vast fog of them. “All right!” said Svendson. “All right! But there ain’t anything to it. You can’t fight the plague of Egypt—the plague of Egypt!” Fifty yards away was a big haystack, fresh made. The boy assumed command instinctively, and led the way to it. He knew just what he wanted to do. The men grasped great armfuls of the hay, and returning to the southern edge of the field, piled it up. Then they made another pile on the edge, fifty yards distant, and another and another, and so on until there was a pile of hay as high as a man’s head, and ten feet through for each

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fifty yards of that side of the hundred-acre field—fifteen piles in all. They picked up water-buckets and ran to the creek, and coming back, drenched the piles one after another. It was hard, desperate, panting work to build those piles along a line of seven hundred yards and then dampen them, but it was done in an hour, and at no minute of it did the pace of the men decrease to a walk. The tramps without protest did their best. The grasshoppers were almost above them now. Some had fallen upon the field, coming down singly, just like the first drops of a shower. The men and the boy, taking matches, hurried from heap to heap and touched the flame to them. The piles caught fire, but the water made them burn slowly. At once columns of thick smoke rose, and widening as they soared, blended into a great arch. The men could not see the sky for it, but they could see the advance-guard of the insects darting through it. Then they could see no more insects. Svendson had his wagon and horses by this time. He put a full barrel of water on the wagon, and taking one of the tramps, went to the stack and got a load of hay. Then he drove from pile to pile, throwing off wet hay; so the great columns of smoke were kept up. Left to himself, John Thomas saw a sight he will never forget. A halfmile to the southward the wall of grasshoppers, glinting white in the sunshine, rose at a sharp angle. They went up until they reached an altitude where the smoke was thin, and passed on. A mile to the northward the insects sought and found their proper level. Some of them came down through the smoke, but these were few; not enough, in fact, to do any damage that could be seen. The flight lasted for two hours, and during that time the farmer and the tramps burned hay, but the wheat was saved. Mrs. Svendson had come to them and worked hard, moaning now and then about the fate of her orchard and garden; and when it was over she kissed John Thomas with a red face, and told him he must never leave them. “We’ve done enough for to-day,” said Svendson, laughing heartily. “We’ve beat the plague of Egypt. We’re the only folks that ever did it. We’ll eat now.”

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They went home and ate a cold dinner. It was past two o’clock in the afternoon. John Thomas borrowed a horse and rode through the countryside. Into his boyish mind came a knowledge of what the plague of locusts meant to the agricultural people of the Nile Valley thousands of years ago. He had passed on foot only yesterday down a road which ran between smiling farms that spoke of peace and plenty. Now he saw only desolation. Sad, weeping women looked at him from the doors of houses that had been white, but were now dull brown from roof to lintel with grasshoppers. The children were crying; the men stood about with arms hanging dejectedly. They were trying to understand this incredible destruction of a year’s labor. Poultry and swine and cattle, all of which had sought refuge from the storm, were still much disturbed, and fluttered and grunted and moaned according to their natures. Horses had been driven almost mad with fear; stanch house-dogs had crept under the floors like beaten curs. The fields were black with the swarms, and the ground, covered in many places to a depth of a foot, seemed to shift and writhe. Against fences and trees and buildings the grasshoppers had drifted and piled like a dark snow. As they crawled, the millions of them buzzed, and the sound of their wings clicking against each other was like the tinkling of little bits of brass. All the waving wheat had been eaten flat with the ground; even the shocks were being gnawed to powder. Some men were driving about, looking at the ruin, and the wheels stirred up such clouds of insects that the spectators were forced to keep their faces covered. The insects were crunched sickeningly in the ruts. Their bodies clung to the tires, and it seemed as if the horses were pulling through heavy mud. The big horses plowed along doggedly, although frightened. Their hoofs sank into grasshoppers in the middle of the road clear to the fetlocks. Every tree of every orchard, every lawn, every garden had been eaten to the last sprig. The insects, thirsty from long flight and heat, sought water. They ate clothes hanging on lines; they ate the curbings

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from old wells. They perched in layers five and six thick on the steel rails of the transcontinental roads, making them more slippery than ice. No locomotive could carry sand enough to overcome them. John Thomas went back to the Svendson home saddened, and as he came in sight of it the standing wheat struck him with a sense of oddness. Surrounded on every side for miles with desolation, it seemed a miracle. Tears came to his eyes. “I am glad I thought of the smoke,” he said. “I am glad.” He stayed on the Svendson farm all that winter and the next spring and summer because there was a daughter of the house, with the flaxen hair and blue eyes of the Norse people. Since then he has invented two machines for burning grasshoppers, one for cutting up the pests and one for burying them, and has made much money. All of these machines are full of common sense, but his father-in-law tells him that wet hay was the greatest invention of all, and that was due to the loving and proud woman back in Indiana who once saved the peach-blooms from the frost.

The Successes of Jimmy Sylvester

 Leonard Kingsley Smith Youth’s Companion, ju ly 28, 1904

Perhaps nowhere in American history is the rags-to-riches story more alluring than on the late nineteenth century Western frontier. Although criticized for promoting an image of the American Dream that ignored some of the realities of poverty and discrimination, popular writers entertained many readers at the turn of the century with works about poor young boys who, through a little bit of luck and a whole lot of pluck, achieved incredible material success. These stories often involved cowboys. Isolated from society, frontier cowboys used bravery and ingenuity to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps and build cattle-raising empires on the open plains—enterprises that they in turn had to protect from cattle magnates and rustlers. “The Successes of Jimmy Sylvester” is a reminder of how difficult it was for some settlers to succeed in the West. Forced to support his mother and father, Jimmy takes a tremendous risk by buying a few crippled steers, hoping to nurse them back to health without any knowledge of cattle. Persistence proves to be a powerful virtue as Jimmy eventually constructs a homestead, and even the adults around him are amazed at his independence and prosperity. Born in Boston and educated at Harvard University and the Epis-

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copal Theology School at Cambridge, Massachusetts, Leonard Kingsley Smith (1876–1955) earned ab and bd degrees and was an Episcopal clergyman. A poet and contributor to Boys’ Life magazine, he served nine years as a scoutmaster in Iowa and Washington before moving to Grosse Ile, Michigan. His books, written mainly for boys, include Corey Takes the Scout Trail (1931), Tommy of Troop Six (1937), Corley of the Wilderness Trails (1937), Phil Burton, Sleuth (1937), Scouting on Mystery Trail (1937), Forty Days to Santa Fé (1938), Lyrics and Meditations (1952), and Moods and Memories, a book of poems published in 1923.

...... He stood peering through the fence of the stock-yards in the little Colorado town, watching the weary cattle as they stumbled in a mad stream from the train, for their twenty-four hours of water, food and rest. A felt hat, long since colorless and beyond redemption, sat jauntily above his merry, boyish face, a blue shirt hung limply about his wiry shoulders, and a pair of patched and faded overalls, held up by one frayed suspender, clothed his gaunt legs. He was barefooted. The boy turned questioningly to a portly bystander, redolent of selfesteem, who was also scanning the cattle with the eye of an expert, and making rapid calculations on a scrap of paper. “Ain’t those steers from Texas?” he asked. “Yes.” “Where they going?” “North—Montana. Two-year-olds always go North to graze. Grow bigger. Breed in Texas, raise in Montana, fatten in Kansas—everybody knows that.” “Oh!” The boy relapsed into silence, but his brows were knit as if with a new idea, and a serious look hovered a moment about his lips. A big steer, thin and wild-eyed, tottered feebly down the runway and fell in a heap at the bottom. A mounted cow-man prodded him with a pole, but failing to move him, tossed a lariat over the animal’s horns and dragged him roughly to a separate corral. “What’s the matter with him?” asked the boy again.

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“He’s a cull. Don’t bother me. Can’t you see I’m busy?” The boy’s brows knitted themselves again, and at length he burst out: “I’m sorry to bother you, mister, but there’s one thing I’ve just got to find out. What’s a cull, and what are they unloading here for?” “A cull is a sick steer—poor, lame, car-tired!” retorted the stranger, with sharp annoyance. “They stop here to feed—do you suppose cattle can travel all that way without rest?—and the culls they cut out and sell. Now you shut up!” The empty train rolled away. The cow-men swept in and out of the great herd on their wiry ponies, urging fallen cattle to their feet, and driving the cripples, and such as were lean and bony, into corrals by themselves. Several, too weak to stand, were dragged there. A dusty overseer came over to the fence, where a knot of some dozen prospective speculators in lean beef stood waiting. “Well, men, what’s bid?” he said, briskly. “How many have you got to sell?” “There’s forty cripples, too lame to travel, but otherwise sound. They are worth twenty-five apiece anywhere, but I’m forced to sell—say about fifteen dollars a head. There’s another forty poor ones that will go for less, and there are six that are down and can’t get up. They may die or may not—it’s your risk—but a hide is always worth a dollar.” “Ten dollars for the crips,” said the stout man. “Oh, you go on! I said fifteen.” “Twelve!” came another voice. “Fourteen!” “Fourteen ten!” “See here! I don’t want any ten-cent bids, Booker. My time is money, and I won’t talk to a man who lives on the ten-cent basis. Who’ll give fifteen?” “I will,” said a lank ranchman, sidling up from the outskirts of the bunch. “I guess they’re—” “Take ’em away. Now for the poor ones. All they need is grass, gentlemen, and you’ve got it.”

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But lean stock seemed to be at a discount, for the buyers turned slowly away. “I’ll give you twelve dollars,” said Booker, brusquely, “and they’re a dead loss. Seventy-five cents for the other six,” and he looked over the few competitors who still lingered with a glance of scowling challenge. “Oh, I guess they are yours, Booker. I don’t want ’em,” said a little, booted man who leaned against the fence, chewing a straw with an air of negligent prosperity. “They’re the worst I ever saw. I expect you may make as much as ten cents apiece on ’em, though.” “I’ll give a dollar a head for those,” broke in the boy, with a flush. Booker snorted at him in malevolent contempt. “You? Where will you get six dollars? I don’t believe you ever saw sixty cents.” The boy said nothing, but fumbling in the pockets of his overalls, drew forth a little roll of money, which, opened, revealed two small bills, some silver and a lot of pennies. “I reckon there’s six dollars here,” he said, as he counted it and handed it over to the overseer. “It’s all I’ve got, and I don’t reckon I ought to spend it, but I believe I can nurse them steers till they are all right.” “Hold on there!” snapped Booker. “This sale ain’t closed yet. I’ll give you a dollar ten,” and he frowned at the boy in insolent triumph. “You are too late. The boy’s paid his money, and the steers are his. I’m glad he’s got ’em, and hope he won’t lose ’em. What do you suppose I care about your old sixty cents?” The overseer sauntered away in disgust, and a suppressed chuckle of approval went up from the bystanders. Booker was evidently unpopular. He hemmed and hawed a little, and then turned to the boy more affably. “Boy, you’re a cute one. How’d you like to make sixty cents on those steers?” “They are not for sale.” “Come, I’ll give you one twenty.” “They are not for sale.”

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The discomfited Booker strode angrily away, and when he had gone the little man by the fence spoke again: “Boy, you are all right. I’ve seen many a man with money let Booker bluff him out. Hope you won’t lose your money. If you’ve got a wagon, go get it, and the boys and I will help you load. My name is Prusser. What’s yours?” “Sylvester. I’ve got a wagon, all right, and two bully mules. We’re camped down here in the bottoms, mother and dad, and four more kids. Dad’s got the asthma, and we’re pretty near broke. If I can get the steers down to camp, there’s good grass there, and I believe I can cure ’em.” When he rattled up with his wagon, willing hands helped him load two of the steers, and promised to wait till he came back for the rest. The garrulous Prosser insisted on going down to camp with him to help in the unloading. “You are sure you could spare that six dollars?” he asked, tentatively, while a lean hand furtively sought his vest pocket. “Well, we do need some flour right bad, but I reckon I can earn that before night. We all need something every day, but I never got left yet. I don’t believe a man ought to have anything he don’t earn.” “Where are you from?” “Arkansas—come by wagon. Couldn’t pay fare, and dad figured on making expenses on the road, but he’s been too sick. Dad thought Colorado would do him good, and says there’s lots of work here if a man will hunt for it.” In a grassy grove by the river, where a white tent gleamed and ripples of childish laughter came up from the edge of the water, a faded woman in blue calico came to meet them. “This is mother, Mr. Prosser. She’s afraid I’ve been foolish. But she trusts me, too. It’s all right, mother.” Prosser reassured her also, and expatiated swiftly on the virtues of her son and the healthful climate of the West. They unloaded the steers and went back for the others. When the task was done the boy brought a great roll of sacking out of the tent.

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“I guess, now, I’ll make the poor brutes some trousers. My, but won’t they look funny?” Twelve pairs he made, Prosser helping, under the boy’s direction, in quiet amusement—twelve pairs of great, ungainly bags—and drew them over the cattle’s feeble limbs. “Now for suspenders,” said the boy, with a laugh. He wove some stout ropes about the branches of the trees, and fastening them to the sackcloths, at last succeeded in swinging his steers up till their feet just cleared the ground. “I reckon that’s a pretty good job,” he said, surveying his work with pride. “Mother, tell Billy, when he gets done swimming, to fix some grass and water so they can get it. I’m going to town to earn some flour.” Prosser accompanied him. The boy swept the surrounding country with a long, comprehensive glance—the parched prairie behind them, the thriving town in the foreground, and the half-circle of enclosing foot-hills. “My, but that’s fine!” he exclaimed. “What a farm a man could make if he could only get water on that prairie! There’s coal in the hills, isn’t there?” Prosser, like all Westerners, only too ready to exult in the prosperity of the land, dilated enthusiastically on the great coal-mines of the adjacent mountains, the prominence of the town as a commercial distributing point, and the great sheep and cattle industries of the surrounding prairie. “Mr. Prosser, do you know anybody that wants trash hauled away?” interjected Sylvester, abruptly. “No; but I tell you what you do. You go up to Bloom’s mine and get me a ton of coal. They’ll charge you a dollar there—which I’ll lend you— and in town you get two dollars. It’s about two miles out there.” “Does coal cost only a dollar a ton?” “When you haul it yourself. But they won’t let you sell it for less than two.” Sylvester hauled the coal, and later in the day Prosser saw him carting

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ashes from a back yard. At sunset he was headed toward the river bottoms with a half-load of old boxes, two bales of hay and a sack of flour. A week later he was again at the stock-yards, where he bought two dry, lame cows. He encountered Prosser on his way home. “How are you getting on?” asked his friend. “First class. You know the old Radford ranch up here in the hills, that no one has lived on for so long? Mr. Radford gave me leave to live there—said there wasn’t any water there—and we moved over yesterday. I dammed up a couple of gullies, and the rain last night gave me two big ponds. I’ve cleared about three dollars a day hauling trash, at fifty cents a load, and Billy’s got a job carrying papers. Say, two of my steers died, and I took the hides to Booker’s. I offered them for a dollar each, but he wouldn’t take them, so I carried them across the street and got one twenty-five.” “Others all right?” “Fine as can be. Two limping round, and the other two have their feet on the ground. Billy’s tending mostly. It takes me all my time to earn enough to keep them in hay.” Jimmy Sylvester became a frequent visitor at the stock-yards, where he occasionally bought a cull. He wore the air of activity and accomplishment which won him friends and work. He took a contract for cleaning out the track stables for the July meet. One day there was a freight wreck in a cut below town, and three carloads of cattle were tipped over against the bank, and bruised, trampled and gored. They were thrown hastily on the market; but the speculators in culls, always cautious, were particularly indifferent at this time, owing to a dry season. Jimmy Sylvester surprised everybody by purchasing a car-load at six and a half a head. “Let’s see, now,” calculated Prosser, when he heard of it. “Twentyfive head—one hundred and sixty-two dollars and a half. How long has Jimmy been here? June, July—four months. Capital, six dollars and a pair of mules; experience, none; brains, medium; pluck, unlimited. Prosser, that boy can teach you something!”

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A dilapidated buggy was soon added to the Sylvester possessions, in which the boy began to take his mother and his father, who was now much improved in health, to church on Sunday evenings. He gained friends, some of whom gave him orders for hauling coal and trash; while some, less discreet, who offered him more direct pecuniary assistance, learned a new lesson in independence from his flat refusals. He bought some hens, however, and worked up a brisk trade in eggs; and late in the winter he announced that his dry cows had calved, and that he had milk to sell. Billy and another brother, barely ten, had cow ponies, kept for their feed, and looked after the cattle. The family no longer lived in the tent, but had scraped together some makeshift furniture, repaired the old ranch-house, and lived in respectability. The winter fell over a dry range, but somehow Sylvester’s cattle prospered. He managed to keep some water on a bit of meadow-land by damming up another arroyo, and when the grass was very short there, he fed hay. Meanwhile, out on the prairie, the snows overcame cattle by the thousand, and in New Mexico other thousands died of the drought. On Christmas day Jimmy Sylvester sold out his herd of twenty odd steers, still somewhat lean, for five hundred dollars. “I believe they are worth more, and would be worth double by spring, but I can’t afford to keep ’em,” he said, regretfully. “I can’t buy hay without going in debt, and go in debt I won’t!” Four hundred dollars he put in the bank, and with the other hundred he went to Radford’s commission house, and asked for the proprietor. “Mr. Radford,” he said, when that good-humored gentleman appeared, “I don’t know what I owe you anything for it in law, but the ranch has been worth a good deal more than a hundred to me. If you’ll let me stay on, I’ll try to double this next year.” “You mean you will pay me two hundred a year for those old, dry, gravelly hills?” “That’s what I mean.”

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“Well, son, you are honest, but you are foolish. I was out there the other day to see what you’d done with the place, and I must say I owe you money instead of you owing me. Take your money back. If you like the place, stay and improve it. Meanwhile, why don’t you take up land? Back a little farther in the hills you can pick up a quarter-section for yourself almost anywhere. But there isn’t any of it with water on it.” “I’ll get water,” said the boy, decisively. In January he filed a claim in the name of his invalid father. Then for weeks at a time he disappeared from his accustomed haunts in the city, where the useful Billy took his place on the wagon—it was an express wagon now—and announced that his brother was up on the claim. “He’s getting water. He’s got a stone corral and a shed built, and part of a house, and now he’s getting water,” said Billy. Those who heard laughed—except Prosser and Radford. But Jimmy Sylvester was getting water. He had no running stream, but his quick brain told him that the heavy rains of March and August might be saved; and week after week, by one-man power, he dug trenches and built dams, until across a little meadow he had constructed a veritable fortification. When the spring floods came and tore holes in it, he bought blasting powder and cement, and built much of it over again of stone, till the little trickle of water at the bottom of the arroyo, assisted by occasional downpours, spread out into a broad, shallow pond across the whole upper half of the valley, and the lower half was all a smiling green. Then he cut trees, made adobe brick, and completed a low, commodious cabin. In June the Sylvesters moved to their new house. They had no windows as yet, and no floor, but the nights were warm, and fresh air, as Jim said, was “good for dad’s asthma.” Once more Jimmy Sylvester was at the stock-yards, buying cattle, not cripples this time, but sound, plump cows and calves. The old overalls were replaced by neat corduroys, tucked into new boots, and a jaunty blue silk kerchief was knotted about his bronzed neck. “Are you going broke again?” asked the yardmaster, jokingly.

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“Again. Spent all I had—four hundred dollars—on those twenty head. Look at ’em. Do you think they aren’t worth going broke for?” A day or two later Prosser rode out to the new homestead. “Jim,” he said, “I’ve been watching you for about a year, and find you can stand it. How would you like to look after my place down the river?” The boy meditated. “On shares?” “No, salary.” “Thank you. I can’t do it. I’d like to have something sure for father and mother. But this is home, and I don’t want to leave it. I’ll be twentyone in the fall, and then I’m going to take up a claim in my own name. I need more land. Thank you just the same. People are good to me.” “You must be thinking of going into the cattle business pretty heavy,” said Prosser, regarding the boy with new interest. “I am.” “Well, if it was any one else I’d say you were a visionary young fool; but seeing it is Jimmy Sylvester, I guess you’ll do as you say. Meanwhile, if you ever want help, see me. The best of us fail sometimes, you know. But Jimmy Sylvester has not failed.

The Girls at Overtown

 Mary Austin Youth’s Companion, no vem b er 19, 1903

The Victorian ideal of True Womanhood, which centered a woman’s life around the home, was being eroded at the beginning of the twentieth century by the exemplar of the New Woman. Young girls sought independence from conventional roles through education and employment and even began insisting on the right to vote. However, society dragged its feet on granting them equality. In 1903 women still had miles to travel over dangerous tracks before their efforts would be properly rewarded. Public recognition of their ingenuity and courage in fiction, however, may have been one of the first factors in the increasing recognition of women’s abilities in real life. “The Girls at Overtown” exemplifies the independence typical of frontier girls living in isolated communities. Nora, a waitress at the Overtown Hotel, is the only person in town who knows how to drive a train, for she has been accompanying engineers on their routes. When a violent storm strands neighbors in a nearby mining village, she is the only one who is able to rescue them. On the trip back to Overtown, someone urges an engineer who is on board to take over, but he respects Nora’s strength and courage and allows her a well-deserved moment of glory. Nora meets the challenges of the West, and she triumphs

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both physically and emotionally. News of Nora’s heroism reaches the railroad’s superintendent, who announces that, because of her bravery, she will be given a new position. Does Nora’s dream of becoming a railroad engineer finally come true? Of course not. When the sun comes out, and the flood waters recede, society upholds the traditional male and female roles. The superintendent offers Nora a promotion to manager of the new lunch counter at Carson. Remembered predominantly as a nature writer, Mary Austin (1868– 1934) moved to southern California with her brother in 1886 to homestead. By 1900 she was regularly publishing short stories and poems in leading magazines. Her major works, The Land of Little Rain (1903) and Lost Borders (1909), depict the California desert country. Austin also published three collections of works appropriate for children: The Basket Woman: A Book of Fanciful Tales for Children (1904), The Trail Book (1919), and One Smoke Stories (1934).

...... That Alma Winters, Hattie Clark and Nora Darrah had not been drawn together by any real likeness or liking you would have guessed when you heard the men on the road call them separately, Miss Winters, Hattie Clark and Nora; but collectively, from Boraxo to Candelaria, they were “the girls at Overtown.” Overtown is the last, least station on the I. & C. R. R., where the road comes out of the hills down Argus Wash to the long, level valley of Salina, after loops and turns innumerable, to tap the mines of Argus Range. Candelaria is the summit station, twenty-two miles up from Overtown, topping the pass under the lee of a strong shoulder of the granite range. In the season rains gather and break and bluster on the slope and along the summit, but over toward Salina, especially as far down as Overtown, rain falls rarely or not at all. All the wells there have a brackish taste, and no sweet water enters the town except what comes in the tanks of the I. & C. engines, or the foamy yellow stream that, after a storm, descends Argus Wash and makes runnels in the Overtown streets.

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That the town lay chiefly in the wash did not particularly matter to the inhabitants at that time. The cobble-paved bottom made easier walking than the loose sand. A dozen buildings centered about the station; a quarter of a mile above these were the cabins of the section-hands and the schoolhouse, while lower down were the reduction works and the ill-smelling shanties of the Chinamen, all right in the track of Argus water. But the Indians, for the marsh was worked by Piutes, had built their wickiups on the mesa above. At Candelaria the town lay much in the same fashion, because it was convenient to the road, and because the wash here is hardly more than a gentle swale. From Candelaria it goes down by windings to Overtown, and the railway follows its sharp, shallow cañon, but always above the water-mark. The engineer who surveyed the line and the Indians who built the wickiups knew that what Argus water had done it could be counted on to do again; but the people who built the towns had to learn. Eleven persons made up “society” at Overtown. The cream of society was “the girls”—Alma Winters, who taught the nine children of the section-gang; Hattie Clark, who performed the offices of station agent, train dispatcher and operator; and Nora Darrah, the waitress at the Overtown Hotel. They were just turned twenty, all three of them, but it was Nora who made them all girls together. The trim little station agent had grown used to doing without friends, and Alma Winters had never before seen her way to an intimacy with a waitress in a public house. But there was no resisting Nora, who, having no prejudices, would have thought it small courtesy to suppose them in another. Within a week after Nora took them in hand they were calling one another by their first names. When the boys—all the unmarried men on the I. & C. were “the boys”—discussed them, as they often did with no disrespect proffered or imagined, they said that Miss Winters was “smart” and had “nice ways,” that Hattie Clark was “a good looker, and had no nonsense about her,” and that Nora—but only MacFee, the red-headed, red-fisted Scotch-

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Irishman, who was boss of the section-gang, could express what they thought of her. He had a string of soft Gaelic endearments that suited Nora the better that nobody could say exactly what they meant. It was wearing on toward the last of November. Mines along the high ridges were shutting down in anticipation of snow, and the extra engine that was to clear the track from Overtown to the summit was standing ready in the engine-house. The man who was to run it was expected on the next of the triweekly trains. It was on the off night, when all the air was heavy with the sense of storm, and they had not seen the summit for two days, that all of Overtown who could be spared had gone across the valley to Boraxo to an entertainment, and the three who could not had gathered in the station agent’s rooms to make pinoche. Hattie had a cozy room opening out of her office, and the big office stove afforded particular convenience for candy-making. Moreover, there was always the chance for a talk over the wire with the operator at Candelaria, a friendly, boyish fellow. So when the syrup was whispering on the fire and Nora was cracking nuts, it was quite the thing to tease him with his inability to share the treat. The operator expressed his regrets handsomely, but he did not respond much in general conversation. It was raining “pitchforks,” he said, at Candelaria, with a cloud-mist shutting out the lights of the town and Argus water foaming in the streets. He confessed himself weather-bound in his room; the rain seemed to have dampened his spirits. He called once to say that he smelled something burning, and wanted to know if the candy had boiled over, and again to say that Argus water was up and raging, and they were to look out for chicken-coops coming their way. After that he seemed to have abandoned the wire, and the girls fell to talking among themselves. Suddenly the little station agent sprang off the table as the machine began to sound again. Nt—Nt—Nt. That much, the call for Overtown, the others understood; but they could not understand why, as the key clattered on, the operator should turn so white and clasp her hands against her throat.

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Tick—a-tick—tick went the incessant key, and after a gasp Hattie began to interpret in a dull, strained voice. “Candelaria,” she said, “cloudburst—town wiped out—not known how many lives lost. Joe Ruis pulled them out of the water with riata—station safe.” The girls never recalled just what they thought or said in the moment of the shock, or how long they stood wondering and exclaiming. Those sharp, sudden downpours known as cloudbursts were not infrequent on the other side of the summit, but never within memory of the Overtown slope. Suddenly the excited clack of the key recalled them. “Nt—Nt—Nt,” it called. “Look out! look out! Argus water, look out!” That was it! Whatever came down Argus Wash must come through Overtown. Nora flung open the door of the station, and the distant roar of the storm came to them. “Oh, the women!” cried Nora. “The women and the little childer!” Hattie Clark was lighting lanterns with quick, cold fingers. Without a word Nora took one of them and swung off up the track, that glinted before her as she ran. Hattie grasped Alma’s hand and pulled her out into the street. “Wake the hotel,” she said. “I am going down to the works.” Alma saw her as she ran, flashing her lantern, and far down the street heard her shrill, wild cry, “Ar-rgus water! Ar-r-rgus water!” and presently heard herself repeating that cry in the dark halls of the hotel, beating upon doors as she ran, growing reassured as she saw lights moving and heard voices in the rooms. There were not many to rouse in the town. It seemed an interminable time before she saw Nora’s lantern twinkling back from the sectionhouse and heard MacFee’s voice and the feet of the men. Almost at the same moment the foreman of the reduction works came up at the head of his chattering coolies. Even then it seemed as if they could hear the increasing crash of descending waters. A car of ore sacks from the Green Monster stood on the siding, and these the men under MacFee began to pile in the path

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of the water, to turn it as much as possible from the houses; but before this was fairly done the flood was upon them. It was spent and scattered somewhat by the broadening of the gully, so that it came into the town no higher than the sills of the windows; but it was very swift and strong, turbid and frothing, full of storm wrack, trees, and floating lumber from Candelaria, and a rubble of small stones that crunched and ground against the walls of the frail pine houses. The girls were back in the station, Hattie at her instrument. When she heard the roar of the water where it came out of the hills, she tapped off the news to Candelaria and climbed up on the table with the others. The families of the section-hands had gone to the high ground above the wash. The track and the station were built on the bank of the wash, out of reach of all ordinary disaster, and consequently got no more than a foot of water and a dredging of mud; but for one dreadful moment, when the water began to pour under the doors, the girls did not know how it might go with them. The subsidence of the water began almost immediately after it reached its flood, and they soon heard shouts. Nora waded out to swing her lantern and answer MacFee’s hail. As soon as it was perceived that the flood had abated, the people of Overtown began to wade about to look after their chickens and bits of floating property, and the operator began to talk to Candelaria. That town, it seemed, was a wreck. It had been warned by the rising of the water in the streets before the final downpour. A few of the townspeople, about forty all told, were at the stationhouse, which stood above the flood; but most of them were huddled on the opposite bank with no shelter, and, at present, no possibility of a fire. Rain was falling heavily, and a deep, swift torrent ran between the two groups. Later word said that the line was down between them and Benton, the next station below, and, still later, that the rain had changed to sleet and bitter cold. Women and children, hurried out of their houses with scant clothing, were suffering greatly. At that word Nora’s hour arrived. She took down the station agent’s bunch of keys from the wall.

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“Which is the key of the engine-house?” she said. “I’m going after them at Candelaria.” “O Nora!” cried the girls, dumfounded; but Nora was gone. Everybody in Overtown knew a little about an engine, Nora more than most. Often when the trains came in she would ride out with the engineer on the four-mile branch road to the Green Monster, and run the engine most of the way herself. Now, as she threw open the door of the shed that sheltered No. 303, and saw it scarcely wet and all in running order, she felt strong for the work she meant to do. Water still stood in the streets, but the track was clear. A wind had blown the cloud wrack out across the valley, so that rain had begun to fall as Nora ran up the road-bed to the section-house, and hammered at MacFee’s door. Mrs. MacFee sat on the bed, with all five of the children, whimpering, while MacFee waded about in the mud to light a fire. “MacFee,” cried Nora, “there’s a washout at Candelaria, and never a roof left to cover the heads of the women and childer, and the sleet afallin’! Will you take the engine with me to bring them back again?” “O dear! O dear!” whined his wife. “Never you go, Mac. ’Tis like the track’s out on this side, too, and none to run the engine that knows how.” “The engine stands ready and waiting, and I’ll run it myself,” said Nora. “Never say you’re Irish, MacFee, if you come not with me this night!” and Nora swung off to the cabins of the other men. She found three who would go, and by the time they had floundered back to the track MacFee lumbered slightly up behind them. The little station agent met them at the door of the engine-house, holding the knob fast in her hands. “But, Nora,” she cried, “how can I let you take the engine without orders? It’s in my care.” She looked drawn and old with doubt, and ghastly in the glare of her green lantern. Every man of them understood to the full the weight of the responsibility upon her. MacFee spoke: “Is that the key of the engine-house, mum?” Nora nodded. “Give it to me, thin.” It disappeared in his broad hip pocket. “Now

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whatever will be falls on me.” He put his great hand over her two small ones and turned the knob. Hattie gave up with a sigh of relief. She had done her work, now Nora would do hers. Nora took the engine and MacFee fired for her. With the help of the men they ran out and coupled on to an empty box car that stood on the siding. Slowly, with short tentative puffs, 303 felt her way out of the slush to the clean, long, shining track, and the operator tapped out the news to Candelaria. It is a stiff up grade all the way from Overtown, rain was falling, and about a third of the way up, rounding a bluff, the wind caught them, and 303 put her nose into the murk of a mountain storm. The glare of the headlight cut only a little way into the night, and showed the two rails shining like silver bands. Up here the rain had been falling for twelve hours; runnels of water from the steep hillside had cut under the track and over it. Slowly as the engine climbed into its patch of light, they had yet to watch every foot of it. Up and up they worked the old 303, through the cut, across the Tilby trestle, and round the front of Minon’s Butte. At every trestle MacFee and his men got out and explored the foundations of it, calling up to Nora, who was fumbling on in the dark. Crossing the mouth of a little cañon tributary to the Argus, the rails were out of sight under a racing stream of yellow water, but the men felt for them with their hands, and the engine pressed on after. Once and again they stood out in the gale to prop the sagging ties, doing things that night that put their ordinary section work to shame. All this time the wind shook them as a terrier shakes a rat, and Nora stood at her post, smudged out of her native fairness, her cheeks blistering to the furnace heat or stung by the driving sleet; and as the stress of the work grew, so the light in Nora’s eyes and the glow in her blood and the strength of her young body rose up to meet it, and the cheer of her strong heart bubbled up in laughter as she tossed the hair out of her face and called to the men across the storm. So they won up from Overtown, and at about three o’clock of the dreariest morning saw the light of Candelaria station, and the lights were set, “All right, come ahead.”

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It turned out that, thanks to Nora and Joe Ruis, there were but three lives lost in the Candelaria washout—one a sick child who died of exposure, and two men who were asleep in their cabin when the flood broke. When the engine drew up at the station, Joe Ruis threw his useful riata across the still plunging water, and with the help of the men all the drenched and shivering townspeople were drawn safely across. There was another person who did a fine thing that night, not set down in anybody’s good books. He was an engineer, at Candelaria on leave, and some inconsiderate person urged him forward to take the engine. But when he saw Nora and realized the thing she had done, he went back to his place with no word said, and Nora took 303, with its unhappy freight, back in triumph to where Hattie and Alma had hot blankets and breakfast waiting. And that seemed to be the end of the adventure. The mud was cleared up and the dead buried; 303 was safe in the engine-house again, and Hattie Clark carried the key. The track was repaired on the other side of the summit, and the triweekly train came in fifteen hours late. There was a little buzz of excitement when it was learned that the superintendent of the line was a passenger. It was rumored that his business had to do with the unwarranted trip of 303. For no reason that anybody would have been willing to give, the superintendent found, when he came in to his morning meal, that every boarder in the hotel had elected to have breakfast at that hour. And Nora waited on them all. The hotel was under the management of the road, and nobody complained that the superintendent required an unusual amount of attendance. He was a long time about his breakfast, but so, for a wonder, was everybody else; and when he finally pushed back his plate and called Nora to him, every man of them left off breakfasting for the business of eavesdropping. “Miss Darrah,” began the superintendent, “how long have you been in this place?”

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“Five months, sir,” said Nora, pink and white, and fumbling the plates. “It seems,” he said, after a considerable pause, “that on the night of the twenty-first of this month you got possession of the key of the engine-house, and, against the agent’s expressed orders, took engine No. 303 to Candelaria and back that same night. Is this true?” “Yes, sir.” “In consideration of which direct violation of the company’s regulations, Miss Darrah,” he said, “I find it my duty to notify you of your discharge from the company’s employ, to take effect immediately.” There was a sudden, angry rustle in the room, the beginning of a demonstration of disapproval, instantly checked as every man remembered that he was listening to what was probably not intended for him to hear. Poor Nora was pale and still, looking neither up nor down. “And in further consideration of your unprecedented act of forethought and heroism, the company wishes to make due acknowledgment by offering you the position of manager of our new lunch-counter to be opened near the car-shops at Carson, on the first of December.” This time, eavesdropping or not, the room broke into a storm of clapping and laughter, and the superintendent blew his nose. He stood up, with his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You’re the right sort, Nora,” he said. “You make me wish more of the fellows were girls.”

A Life Like Maggy’s

 Marianne Gauss Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty Youth’s Companion, may 20, 1915

The rush of immigration to the United States between 1898 and 1914 swelled the population of large cities in the West. Lured to the frontier by hopes of success, both economic and matrimonial, young, single women flocked to cities such as Omaha, Denver, and San Francisco. Unfortunately, a high unemployment rate, coupled with a lack of suitable jobs for single women, forced many into laundry, restaurant, or domestic service, where the pay was poor and the hours arduous. “A Life Like Maggy’s” realistically documents the deplorable working conditions, the poverty, and, worst of all, the desperation of western girls as they attempted to better their lives. Ruth is discouraged over her inability to find a nurse’s apprenticeship in a hospital and suffers from fatigue and headaches from her work in the laundry. She gives up hope and nearly resorts to “sleeping powders”—probably morphine, sold over-the-counter at the turn of the century and commonly used—to numb her physical and mental pain. Although the young women form a community and befriend each other as they face the challenges of life on the urban frontier, it is an older woman, Maggy, who teaches them never to give up on their dreams, no matter how humble. Maggy’s life is a lesson in compassion, and her reward is in helping others succeed.

“Why, Maggy,” cried Ruth, “I guess I was nearly starved!” The daughter of a Presbyterian missionary who ministered in the slums and prisons of Jefferson City, Missouri, Marianne Gauss (1873– 1966) moved to Colorado as a cure for tuberculosis in 1900 at the age of fifteen. She then moved to Greeley in 1902, where she resided until her death. In 1907 McClure’s, edited by Willa Cather at the time, first published three of Gauss’s short stories. Others followed in McClure’s, as well as in Atlantic Monthly, Collier’s, and Harper’s Weekly. Twenty-eight stories, including a serial novel, appeared in the Youth’s Companion. In 1925 she published Danae, a novel about a woman law-

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yer caught in a political intrigue in Denver. Gauss devoted the rest of her life to writing children’s books centered on horses, wild animals, and nature, which were profusely illustrated by her sister, Charlotte, a Greeley art teacher.

...... Maggy worked in a rooming house—one of those very old ones on the street behind the new hospital; it was narrow and tall, and blackened by soot and smoke; outside, at the rear of the building, was a flight of rickety stairs; over the creaking front steps hung the sign “Furnished Rooms for Light Housekeeping.” The house had no furnace; in each room was a miserable little fireplace. Lodgers carried their ashes down to the pit; they could leave garbage on the fire escape for Maggy to take away. Maggy was the only person, Ruth Sullivan thought, whose life was harder than her own; and it was harder only because Ruth was young and could hope for better things, whereas Maggy was an old woman. “If I were in her place,” Ruth said to Rose McGinn, “I know I shouldn’t want to live.” Her temples that morning throbbed with a sick headache, and she dreaded the heat and the foul air at the steam laundry where she worked. She wondered how she would feel if she had to look ahead to years of working in the laundry. “But you needn’t feel sorry for Maggy,” Rose said. “She’s tickled to death to have this job. When the new landlord came, he was going to turn her off and get a man. Maggy cried for two or three days; the roomers told the landlord they’d leave unless he kept her. So she stayed.” “What did she want to stay for?” Ruth asked. “Oh, she’s used to things here, and thinks a lot of some of the roomers. I think she likes to scrub; you can make her happy telling her how clean she keeps the hall. And then—Maggy’s not bright, and maybe she couldn’t get a new place.” Singing a hymn in a flat, loud voice, Maggy came down the stairs with a garbage pail in each hand. She was a big woman, in a purple dress, with huge brogans on her feet.

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“Now ain’t it too bad?” she said, when she saw Ruth’s white face. “Y’re sick with yer head agin.” “You ought to take a headache tablet,” said Rose. “No, Rose,” Ruth answered. “I’ve quit on headache medicine. I’m beginning to depend too much on those tablets.” “The walk in the fresh air’ll cure yer head,” Maggy predicted cheerfully. But the air was damp and cold; it was a cloudy morning and a raw wind was blowing. In the street Ruth’s teeth chattered from cold, and the sharp wind sent darts of pain through her head. She was almost glad to step into the hot laundry. Other girls whom she knew had relatives, but there were none for her. Dear old Grandma Sullivan had taken her from the State Home. When Ruth was eighteen Grandma Sullivan had died. She had left no money, for she had lived on a monthly sum that her son gave her. Of course there was no reason why he should do anything for Ruth. It was no one’s fault; and the officers of the Home, who had so many girls, were well satisfied to enter her name on the books as “Ruth, called ‘Sullivan,’ employee at Ocean Foam Laundry.” At first she had thought the laundry work was only temporary; she hoped to get a place at some hospital where she would serve for small wages and get her training as a nurse. The Sullivans had several friends who had done that. But there were many applicants for positions of that kind. From the cloakroom of the laundry Ruth could see a corner of the new hospital—one of the very few at which she had not applied. Somehow, as she looked at it this morning, she felt she could never again ask a head nurse for work. “Say, you look as if you ought to be over at the hospital,” a girl said kindly. “Is it your head again? Well, it’s just the heat of this place makes headaches.” The air in the large basement into which they turned seemed particularly sticky and enervating. The oblong windows near the ceiling

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were gray with soapy fog; and all day the electric lights burned. Ruth stood sorting soiled things that the wagon drivers brought: lot after lot of soiled hotel linen; a private wash, with fine shirt waists that smelled of violets, and a great heap of napkins that told of some one’s evening party. To stamp these things she had to bend almost to the floor, and the effort increased the pain in her head until she feared lest she should faint from it. All the time she thought about St. Luke’s Hospital. Her Sundayschool teacher had promised to speak to the head nurse there; perhaps when Ruth reached the rooming house in the evening there would be a letter for her on the hall table—one of the square blue linen envelopes used at St. Luke’s. Looking forward, hoping for that letter, helped her through the morning. Noon came; but the thought of eating made her shudder. She lay down on a heap of laundry bags and closed her eyes. “Can’t you eat no dinner?” asked Rose. “I feel as if anything to eat would make me sick,” Ruth said. “To-morrow’s the holiday, and I want to be able to stand on my feet.” The clock hands crawled to three. Then a rush order came from a railway, and Ruth stood for a long while sorting table linen and waiters’ aprons. She knew then that they would work until nearly midnight. She did not know just when it began to grow dark outside; when she glanced up, she saw that the windows looked black through the sticky steam of the room. A little later, the girls went out for supper, and she lay down. “It’s the heat makes your head so bad,” a girl said as she passed her. “I can’t stand it any longer; I’ve got a job to wait in a restaurant. It’s less money, but, as mother says, if I get rid of the headache, what’s money?” The tears started to Ruth’s eyes. At first, after lying down, the pain in her head was far worse; then, gradually, the throbbing dulled a little. By that time the girls had come back and work was beginning again. One of the girls brought her a ham sandwich, but the sight of it made Ruth feel faint.

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At last, about ten o’clock, Ruth and Rose McGinn finished their work. Ruth put on her coat over the thin, wet shirt waist in which she had been working, and they went out into the night. There had been sleet during the day; the sharp wind swept through the fog that hung over the city. By the time they were passing the new hospital, Ruth was chilled through; but when they reached the rooming house Ruth forgot that she was cold, for there on the hall table was a square blue linen envelope. Eagerly she snatched it up; it was addressed to her, and in the upper left-hand corner was printed, “St. Luke’s Hospital.” Her fingers were so numb that at first she could not open the envelope. At last she drew out the folded sheet of paper and spread it out. The letter was from the head nurse; it was a kind letter, but—Ruth put the sheet back into the envelope. “It was about a job I wanted,” she said to Rose. “I didn’t get it.” “You’d better take one of my sleepin’ powders and not lie awake all night. Stop at my room and get one.” “All right—I will.” Ruth said the words fiercely. She knew that the powder would make her ill the next day; instead of spending her holiday, as she had always done, in search of work, she would stay in bed. “I’ve given up—it’s no use,” she said. “Sure, there’s no use lying awake,” said Rose, as they paused at her door. On the table were breakfast plates, sticky with syrup; a greasy frying pan was on the little oil stove; a heap of soiled quilts lay on the bed. On the bureau was a tangle of fancy things—chiffon collars, old gloves, and pink ribbons—and among them Rose found the tablet. “You’re ever so good.” Ruth’s cold hand closed about it. “I’ll get some to-morrow and return this.” “What are you goin’ to do to-morrow? Look round for a job?” “No. Sleep!” Tears came to her eyes, and she turned and hurried to her room. She would find no comfort there, she knew. She had been too ill that

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morning to make her bed; there would be no fire in the little grate— only a heap of dead ashes. She had left her breakfast dishes unwashed in the morning; they would be there on the dirty table. Grandma Sullivan had taught her to crave cleanliness and order; but of late Ruth did not seem to care about those things. As Rose said, what is the use of making your bed in the morning, since you only rumple it again when you go to bed at night? At least, she thought she could never again go asking for work at the hospitals; only pain came from that. Crushing the blue envelope in her hand, she pushed open the door of her room. To her surprise, the room was not dark or cold. The ashes were gone from the grate; the floor was swept clean; the dirty dishes had been taken from the table; on the stove was a brown teapot and something wrapped in white cloth. Maggy was at the bed, putting on fresh sheets and pillow slips, a day before the usual time for them. She had a bad cold, and her nose was large and red. “Why, I didn’t hear ye come!” she said. “I was up to bring you a taste of my fish, warmed up, and a hot baked potato; and while I was waitin’, I done a little to the room. Sit down and have yer supper.” Ruth put her head down and sobbed, “I’m too sick to eat. I’ll just take my medicine and go to bed. Thank you, though.” “Yer medicine!” said Maggy scornfully. “It’s gre’t medicine—makes ye too sick to stand up. Here’s the tea.” Ruth looked at old Maggy; she, too, was tired and ill, yet she had stayed out of bed to make this cup of tea for her. She could not refuse. So, with her shaking hand the girl lifted a spoonful of tea; it was fragrant, and hot, and good. She ate a bite of Maggy’s fish, and suddenly made the discovery that she was hungry. With evident joy Maggy watched the girl eat. “Why, Maggy,” cried Ruth, “I guess I was nearly starved! Only you’re— too good—to me!” She bit her lip suddenly and blinked her eyes. Ruth did not take the headache powder that night. A powder always

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made her sleep suddenly; it was like falling into a black gulf, to wake hours after, faint with nausea, but free from headache. It was not that way to-night; slowly, waking again and again from the pain in her head, she drifted to sleep. When she woke, sunlight sparkled on the icy town; the hospital building gleamed like glass. Outside her door she heard a heavy tread and a loud, flat voice; Maggy was singing a hymn as she carried the garbage down. Ruth sprang up, weak from her illness, but blessedly comfortable—and hungry. She cooked her breakfast, and then, carefully dressed in her best, set out for the new hospital. She never forgot that half hour that she waited in the office, although it was much like the other times when she had waited at other hospitals. Finally the white-clad head nurse came down the hall stairs, and Ruth’s heart beat a wild tattoo of fear and hope. She rose and put one hand on her chair to steady herself. Then the head nurse smiled, and Ruth was asking the question that she had asked so many times at other hospitals. This time it seemed more momentous than ever before, but her voice did not tremble, and she looked straight into the grave, kindly face before her. Then came the answer that was memorable, because it was the beginning of her new work and her new life. After Ruth entered the hospital she began to plan to do something for Maggy; but it was hard to do anything for a person who was so content, and whose only worry was her fear that she might lose her place at the rooming house, and so become dependent in her old age. “But when that time comes,” Ruth used to think, “I shall help her.” So she waited, and the time passed, and she became a tried and trained nurse, in the white linen of service. No helpless old age came to Maggy, however; she kept her place at the rooming house until the end. One day they took her over to the hospital, and a week later she was gone—but not back to her rooming house, or to any other earthly task.

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A great many people came to inquire for her at the hospital. Most of them were strangers to Ruth, but they all said they had known Maggy at the rooming house. One woman brought a box of roses, which made her hands and dress look very rough by contrast. “We roomed at her place after we were married,” she said, “and when Joe lost his job and was in trouble, she loaned us the last dollar she had in the world, to pay our rent.” “I see. I wish I could have a life like that.” The words came suddenly from Ruth’s lips, and surprised her a little. She went to a window and stood alone. The roses filled the tiny hospital room with fragrance. Outside, the setting sun shone on the rear of the rooming house; the building was still blackened, shabby, and forlorn, but its windows burned for a moment with glory.

Aunt ’Phroney’s Boy

 L. Frank Baum Illustrated by George Avison St. Nicholas, d ecem b er 1912

Although steam-powered, electric, and even gas-powered cars had been around since the 1800s, only the extremely wealthy could afford one of the few that were assembled. The luxury did not begin to spread across America until Ransome Eli Olds created the assembly line and began mass producing his curved-dash Oldsmobile in 1901. However, it wasn’t until 1913, a year after “Aunt ’Phroney’s Boy” appeared in St. Nicholas, that Henry Ford’s conveyor belt assembly line reduced production costs so that average Americans could afford a “no-hoss keeridge.” An automobile in South Dakota in 1912 would, indeed, have been quite a novelty. In “Aunt ’Phroney’s Boy” the son of a wealthy South Dakota banker illustrates the principle of noblesse oblige (the help of the less fortunate by the wealthy). Both the young man and the old lady he meets are lonely, neglected by the people they love most, and they form a bond through which both gain a sense of importance. The story also demonstrates, in a humorous way, a lesson in women’s rights. L. Frank Baum (1856–1919) grew up on a large estate in New York, where his father was in the oil business, and his mother was a women’s rights activist. He was a reporter for the New York World, then a poul-

“Come! Let’s go afore I faint dead away!” try farmer, and next an actor. In 1882 he married Maud Gage, daughter of another American feminist, and moved to Aberdeen, South Dakota, where he operated a general store and then a local newspaper. When both ventures failed, Baum moved to Chicago and took a journalist position with the Chicago Evening Post before becoming a traveling salesman. He began publishing for children with Mother Goose

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in Prose (1897) and Father Goose, His Book (1899), both based on stories he told to his own four sons. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900) is an example of the modern fairy tales that he wanted to create for children. His adult version of the book became a musical that was a Broadway hit for nine years. He wrote a series of seventeen Oz sequels, as well as other children’s stories under various pseudonyms. In 1910 he moved to Hollywood, where he formed the Oz Film Manufacturing Company. The venture failed because the motion picture industry saw no need for children’s movies, and he sold the company to Universal Studios.

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The boy realized he had made a mistake before he had driven the big touring car a half-mile along this dreadful lane. The map had shown the road to Fennport clearly enough, but it was such a roundabout way that, when the boy came to this crossing, he decided to chance it, hoping it would get him to Fennport much quicker. The landscape was barren of interest, the farm-houses few and far between, and the cross-road seemed as promising as the main way. Meanwhile, at Fennport, the county fair was progressing, and there was no use wasting time on the road. The promise faded after a short stretch; ruts and ditches appeared; rotten culverts and sandy hollows threatened the safety of the car. The boy frowned, but doggedly kept going. He must be fully half-way to another road by this time, and, if he could manage to keep on without breaking a spring or ripping a tire, it would be as well to continue as to turn back. Suddenly the engines began muttering and hesitated in doing their duty. The boy caught the warning sound, and instantly divined the reason: he had forgotten to replenish the gasoline before starting, and the tank was about empty. Casting a quick, inquiring glance around, he saw the roof of a farm-house showing through the trees just ahead. That was a joyful sight, for he had scarcely dared hope to find a building upon this unused, seemingly abandoned lane. He adjusted the carburetor, and urged the engines to feed upon the last drops of the precious fluid they

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could absorb. Slowly, with staggering gait, the automobile pushed forward until just opposite the farm-house, when, with a final moan, the engines gave up the struggle, and the car stopped dead. Then the boy turned and looked at the lonely dwelling. It was a small, primitive sort of building, ancient and weather-stained. There was a simple garden at the front, which faced the grove and not the lane, and farther along, stood a rickety, rambling barn that was considerably larger than the house. Upon a tiny side porch of the dwelling, directly facing the road, sat an old woman with a battered tin pan full of rosy-cheeked apples in her lap. She was holding a knife in one hand and a half-pared apple in the other. Her mouth was wide open in amazement, her spectacled eyes staring fixedly at the automobile—as if it had been a magical apparition and the boy a weird necromancer who had conjured it up. He laughed a little at the amusing expression of the old woman, for he was a good-humored boy in spite of his present vexations. Then, springing to the ground, he walked toward the porch and removed his cap, to make a graceful bow. She did not alter her pose, and, with eyes still fixed upon the car, she gasped: “Laws-a-me! ef it ain’t one o’ them no-hoss keeridges.” “Nothing wonderful about that, is there?” asked the boy, smiling, as he reached the porch. “Why not?” said she; “ain’t they the mos’ wunnerful things in all the world? Mart’n Luther’s seen ’em, but I never thought as I’d see one with my own eyes.” Her awe and interest were so intense that, as yet, she had not glanced once at the boy’s face. He laughed, in his quiet way, as he leaned over the porch rail, but it occurred to him that there was something pathetic in the fact that the lonely old woman had never seen an automobile before. “Don’t you ever go to town yourself?” he asked curiously. She shook her head. “Not often, though sometimes I do,” she replied. “Went to Fennport a year ago las’ June, an’ put in a whole day there. But it tired me, the waggin jolts so. I’m too old now fer sech doin’s, an’

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Mart’n Luter ’lows it ain’t wuth pain’ toll-gate both ways for. He has to go sometimes, you know, to sell truck an’ buy groceries; he’s there today, ‘tendin’ the county fair; but I’ve stayed home an’ minded my own business ’til I hain’t got much hankerin’ fer travel any more.” During this speech, she reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the automobile and turned them upon the boy’s face. He was regarding her placid features with a wonder almost equal to her own. It seemed so strange to find one so isolated and secluded from the world, and so resigned to such a fate. “No near neighbors?” he said. “The Bascomes live two miles north, but Mis’ Bascome an’ I don’t git on well. She ain’t never had religion.” “But you go to church?” “Certain sure, boy! But our church ain’t town way, you know; it’s over to Hobbs’ Corners. Ev’ry Sunday fer the las’ year, I’ve been lookin’ out fer them no-hoss waggins, thinkin’ one might pass the Corners. But none ever did.” “This is a queer, forsaken corner of the world,” the boy said reflectively, “and yet it’s in the heart of one of the most populous and progressive States in the Union.” “You’re right ’bout that,” she agreed. “Silas Herrin’s bought the lates’ style thrash’n’-machine—all painted red—an’ I guess the county fair at Fennport makes the rest o’ the world open its eyes some. We’re ahead of ’em all on progressin’, as Mart’n Luther’s said more ’n once.” “Who is Martin Luther?” asked the boy. “He’s my man. His name’s Mart’n Luther Sager, an’ I’m Aunt ’Phroney Sager—the which my baptism name is Sophroney. Mart’n Luther were named fer the great Meth’dis’ leader. He had a hankerin’ to be a Baptis’ in his young days, but he dasn’t with such a name. So he j’ined the Meth’dists to make things harmoni’us, an’ he’s never regretted it.” The boy smiled in an amused way, but he did not laugh at her. There was something in her simple, homely speech, as well as in the expression of her face, that commanded respect. Her eyes were keen, yet gen-

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tle; her lips firm, yet smiling; her aged, wrinkled features complacent and confident, yet radiating a childlike innocence. “Ain’t ye ’fraid to run the thing?” she asked, reverting to the automobile. “No, indeed. It’s as simple as a sewing-machine—when you know how.” “I’d like to see it go. It come so sudden-like past the grove that when I looked up, you’d stopped short.” “I’d like to see it go myself, Aunt ’Phroney,” the boy answered; “but it won’t move a step unless you help it. Just think, ma’am, you’ve never seen a motor-car before, and yet the big machine can’t move without your assistance!” She knew he was joking, and returned his merry smile; but the speech puzzled her. “As how, boy?” she inquired. “The ‘no-hoss keeridge’ is a hungry monster, and has to be fed before he’ll work. I hope you will feed him, Aunt ’Phroney.” “On what?” “Gasolene. I forgot to fill up the tank before I started, and now the last drop is gone.” “Gasolene!” she exclaimed, with a startled look; “why, we don’t keep gasolene, child. How on earth did you expec’ to find sech a thing in a farm-house?” “Don’t you cook with gasolene?” he asked. “My, no! We use good chopped wood—splinters an’ knots. Mis’ Bascome had a gas’lene stove once, but it bu’sted an’ set fire to the baby; so they buried it in the back yard.” “The baby?” “No, boy; the stove. They managed to put the baby out.” The statement puzzled him, but his mind was more on the gasolene. “Doesn’t your husband use gasolene around the farm?” he inquired.

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“No, ’ndeed.” “And you haven’t any naphtha or benzine—just a little?” “Not a drop.” “Nor alcohol?” “Mercy, no!” The boy’s face fell. “Where is the nearest place I might get some gasolene?” he asked. “Lemme see. Harpers’ might have it—that’s six mile’ west—or Clark’s store might have some, at Everdale. That’s seven mile’ off, but I ain’t sure they keep it. The only place they’re sure to have it is over to Fennport, which is ‘leven mile’ from here by the turnpike.” The boy considered all this seriously. “Can I borrow a horse from you—and a buggy?” he asked. “Mart’n Luther’s gone to town with the only team we own. We ain’t had a buggy fer twenty-two years.” He sighed, and sat down on the steps, looking disconsolately toward the big touring car that was now so helpless. Aunt ’Phroney resumed her task of paring the apples, but now and then she also would glance admiringly at the automobile. “Come far?” she presently inquired. “From Durham.” “To-day? Why, Durham’s thirty mile’ from here.” “I know; that’s only an hour’s run, with good roads.” “Mercy me!” “But the roads are not good in this neighborhood. I wanted to run over to Fennport to see the fair. I thought there might be some fun there, and I’d jog over this morning and run back home to-night. That wouldn’t have been any trick at all, if I hadn’t forgotten the gasolene.” “Live in Durham?” she asked. “Yes; Father has the bank there.” “Pretty big town, I’ve heard.” “Why, it’s only a village. And a stupid, tiresome village at that. Lonely, too. That’s why Father got this touring car; he said it would help to amuse me. May I have an apple?”

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Aunt ’Phroney smiled indulgently, and handed him an apple from the pan. The idea of one who lived in the thriving, busy town of Durham becoming lonely filled her with amusement. For her part, she hadn’t left the old farm-house, except to go to church, for nearly two years, and days at a time she never saw a human being other than her silent, morose husband. Yet she was not lonely—not really lonely—only at times did her isolation weigh upon her spirits. “Got a mother, child?” she softly inquired. He nodded, biting the apple. “Mother’s an invalid. She doesn’t leave her own rooms, and keeps two trained nurses and a special cook, and she studies social science— and such things.” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know; it’s only a name to Father and me. But Father has the bank to interest him, and as I’m not ready for the bank yet, he lets me run the automobile.” Aunt ’Phroney gave him a pitying look. “Guess I un’erstan’ your hist’ry now,” she said gently. “You needn’t say no more ’bout it. Hev another apple?” “I will, thank you. They’re fine. Grow ’em here?” “Yes. Mart’n Luther’s entered a peck at the county fair, an’ hopes to git the premium. It’s two dollars, in cash. He’s put up our Plymouth Rock rooster an’ some pertaters fer prizes, too, an’ seein’ he’s entered ’em, it don’t cost him anything to get into the fair grounds—only the ten cents fer toll-gate.” “Why didn’t you go with him?” asked the boy. Aunt ’Phroney flushed a little. “That’s some more hist’ry—the kind that’s better not studied,” she remarked quietly. “Mart’n Luther took it from his pa, I guess. His pa once cried like a baby when he lost four cents through a hole in his pocket. After that, ev’ry penny was kep’ strapped up in his leather pocket-book, which were never unstrapped without a groan. Yes, Mart’n Luther’s a’ honest man, an’ God-fearin’; but I guess he takes after his pa.”

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The boy finished his apple. “Come out and see our touring car,” he said. “I’d like to show it to you, although I can’t take you to ride in it.” “Thank you,” she eagerly replied. “I’ll come in a minute. Let me git this apple-sass started cookin’ first.” She went into the kitchen with the apples, but soon came back, and with a brisk air followed the boy across the patch of rank grass to the road. “I can’t walk six miles or more, you know,” he remarked, “and lug a can of gasolene back with me; so I’ll have to wait until your husband comes back to-night with the team. You don’t mind my staying with you, do you?” “Of course not,” she answered. “I like boys—boys like you, that is. We—we never had no children of our own.” He showed her all the parts of the automobile, and explained how they worked and what they were for, all in a simple way that enabled her readily to understand. She was in a flutter of excitement at her close proximity to the wonderful invention, and the luxury of the seats and interior fittings filled her with awe. At first, he could not induce Aunt ’Phroney to enter the car and sit down upon the soft cushions, but, after much urging, she finally yielded, and was frankly delighted at the experience. “It must ‘a’ cost a lot o’ money,” she observed. “I guess your pa is pretty good to you. Like enough he didn’t take after any one with a strapped pocket-book.” “No,” laughed the boy; “Father is always kind to me. But I wish— I wish—” “What, child?” “I wish we lived together on a farm like this, where we could enjoy each other. All day he’s at the bank, you know.” “If he worked the farm,” said the woman, “you wouldn’t see much of him then, either, ’cept at meal-time. Mart’n Luther gits up at daylight, works in the fields all day, an’ goes to bed after supper. In heaven we

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may find time to enjoy the sassiety of our friends, but p’r’aps there’ll be so much company there, it won’t matter.” “I think,” said the boy, solemnly, “we need a good deal more here than we shall need in heaven. Does any one get what he needs, I wonder?” “Some may, but not many,” she rejoined cheerfully. “Some of us don’t get even gasolene, you know. Funny, ain’t it, how such a little thing’ll spoil a great big creation like this? Why, in some ways, it beats Silas Herrin’s new thrash’n’-machine; but it ain’t so useful, ’cause the thrash’n’machine runs along the road without horses to where it wants to go, an’ then its injynes do the thrashin’ better ’n hands can do it.” “I’ve never really examined one,” he replied thoughtfully; “it must be very interesting.” “Come into the barn,” she said, “an’ I’ll show you Silas Herrin’s new one. He brought it here yest’day, but he an’ all his crew are at the fair today, an’ they won’t begin thrashin’ our crop till nex’ Monday.” He followed her to the barn, willing to while away the time examining the big thresher. It filled nearly all the clear space on the barn floor, and towered half as high as the haymow. With its bright red body and diverse mechanical parts, the machine certainly presented an imposing appearance. The boy examined it with much curiosity. “There are two distinct engines,” he said musingly; “one a motor, I suppose, and one to do the work. The big one runs by steam, but this smaller one seems a gasolene engine.” “Perhaps it is,” said the woman; “I never had it explained to me like you did your own machine.” “If it is,” he suddenly exclaimed, “there must be some gasolene among Mr. Herrin’s traps to run it with! If I can only find it, I’ll borrow enough to get me to Fennport.” Eagerly, now, he began the search, the woman looking on with interest. In a short time, he drew out from the interior of the thresher a tengallon can, which proved to be filled with the fluid he sought. “Hooray!” he cried joyfully. “We’ll have our ride, after all, Aunt ’Phroney.”

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“It—it ain’t stealin’, is it?” she asked doubtfully. “This all b’longs to Silas Herrin, you know.” “It’s a law of the road, ma’am, that any one needing gasolene has the right to help himself—if he pays for what he takes. I’ll pay Silas Herrin a good price, and he’ll have plenty left to run his engine with.” He got a bucket, measured out about three gallons, and placed a silver dollar on top of the can for payment. Then, when he had “fed” his automobile, an operation watched carefully by the old woman, the boy turned and said: “Aunt ’Phroney, I’ve a proposition to make. Get on your things, and I’ll take you to the fair at Fennport and give you a good time.” “Land sakes, boy!” she cried, holding up both hands; “I couldn’t think of it.” “Why not?” “There’s the work to do.” “Cut it out for to-day. Martin Luther’s having a holiday, and I’m sure you’re entitled to one, too.” “He—he might be mad.” “I don’t see why. It won’t cost him a cent, you know, and perhaps we won’t see him at all. We’ll have a good dinner somewhere, see all the sights, have a fine auto ride, and I’ll fetch you home in plenty of time to get supper for your husband.” The temptation was too strong to be resisted. Aunt ’Phroney’s face broke into a beaming smile, and she hurried into the house to get on her “bes’ bib an’ tucker.” Her reappearance caused the boy’s eyes to twinkle. She wore a plain, black gown, baggy and ill made, an old-fashioned “Peasley” shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and a wonderful hat that no milliner would have recognized as modern head-gear. But the boy did not mind. He helped her to the seat beside him, saw that she was comfortable, and started the engines slowly, so as not to alarm her. The lane from the farm-house to the Fennport turnpike was in much better condition than the other end, which Aunt ’Phroney said was sel-

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dom used by any one. They traversed it with merely a few bumps, and on reaching the turnpike glided along so smoothly, that the old woman was in an ecstasy of delight. “I almos’ hope Mart’n Luther will see us,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t he be s’prised, though, to see me in this stylish no-hoss keeridge?” “I think he would,” said the boy. “An’ jealous, too. Mart’n Luther says I take life easier ner he does, ’though my work’s jus’ as hard fer me as his is fer him. Only diff ’rence is, I don’t complain.” “Is—is your husband a poor man?” the boy hazarded. “Goodness, no! Mart’n Luther’s pretty well off, I’m told. Not by him, mind you. He only tells me what he can’t afford. But our minister once said he wouldn’t be s’prised if Mart’n Luther had a thousan’ dollars laid up! It’s a pretty good farm, an’ he works it himself. An’ he’s so keerful o’ spendin’.” “Doesn’t he give you money for—for clothes and—and things?” “Oh, yes; he’s good ’bout that. We made an agreement, once, an’ he’s stuck to it like a man. Ev’ry New-Year’s, he gives me five dollars for dresses an’ hats, an’ ev’ry Fourth o’ July I git fifty cents an’ no questions asked.” The boy’s eyes grew big at this. “Doesn’t he spend anything on himself, either?” he inquired. “A little, of course. He gits his clo’s second-hand from the drug-store keeper, who’s about the same size as Mart’n Luther, but some fatter, an’ he puts five cents in the contribution box ev’ry Sunday, an’—an’— well, there’s the toll-gate he has to pay for ev’ry time he goes to town. That toll-gate makes him orful mad. We’re comin’ to it pretty soon. You don’t mind, do you?” “Not at all,” he cried, laughing merrily. “Mart’n Luther’s savin’, an’ no mistake,” she continued musingly. “He wouldn’t let me put him up no lunch to-day, ’cause he said Tom Dwyer would be sure to ask him to eat with him, an’ if he didn’t, he could easy get hold o’ some fruit on exhibition. He said to save the food fer his supper to-night, an’ he’d git along somehow.”

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“He ought to be worth several thousand dollars, at that rate,” observed the boy, not without indignation. “But what good is his money to him, or to you, if he doesn’t enjoy it? You ought to have a better allowance than you do, for you’ve certainly helped him to accumulate the money.” She heaved a little sigh. “He says he can’t afford any more,” she replied, “an’ I’m satisfied, as things be. I used to long to buy pretty things an’ go ’round, once in a while, but I’ve got all over that now. I’m happy, an’ the Lord takes keer o’ me. Didn’t He send you here to-day with the—this—orto—orto— machine o’ yours?” “I wonder if He did?” returned the boy, gravely. “Oh, here’s the dreadful toll-gate, Aunt ’Phroney.” It was nearly eleven o’clock when they entered the big gate of the fair grounds. The automobile attracted considerable attention, although there were two or three others in Fennport. As the boy assisted Aunt ’Phroney from the car, she was recognized by several acquaintances who frequented her church, and it was good to witness the old woman’s pride and satisfaction at the looks of bewilderment that greeted her. She took the boy’s arm and passed through the crowd with her chin well up, and presently they were in the main pavilion, where the largest part of the display was centered. “Let’s look at the fruits an’ veg’tibles,” she eagerly exclaimed. “I want to see if Mart’n Luther’s won any prizes. Do you know, boy, he promised me all the money he won that come to over four dollars?” “Did he really?” “Yes, he were feelin’ quite chirky this mornin’, ’fore he left, so he promised it. But if he won first prize on ev’rything, it’d be only five dollars altogether, so I guess he didn’t risk much.” They found the fruits, but Martin Luther’s red apples had no ribbon on them, either blue or red. “They don’t look as good here, ’longside the others, as they did to home,” sighed Aunt ’Phroney; “so I guess the jedge was correc’ in lett’n’ ’em pass by. Let’s see how the pertaters turned out.”

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Martin Luther’s potatoes had failed to win. They lay just between the lots which had drawn the first and second prizes, and even the boy’s inexperienced eyes could see they were inferior to the others. “They bake well,” murmured Aunt ’Phroney, “an’ they bile jus’ fine; but they ain’t so pretty as them others, thet’s a fact. I guess Mart’n Luther won’t hev to give me any of his prize-money this year—’specially as he don’t git any.” “Didn’t you say you had a chicken in the show?” asked the boy. “Yes, an’ a mighty fine rooster he is, if I do say it. I’ve looked after him myself, ever since he were an egg, an’ he’s that high an’ mighty, I named him ‘The Bishop.’ Seems to me he’ll be hard to beat, but p’r’aps when he’s compared to others, the Bishop’ll be like the apples an’ ’taters.” “Where is he?” “The poultry show’ll be in a tent somewheres.” “Let’s find him,” said the boy, almost as interested as his companion. They inquired the way, and, in passing through the grounds to the poultry tent, they passed a crowd surrounding one of those fakers so prominent at every country fair. Aunt ’Phroney wanted to see what was going on, so the boy drew her dexterously through the circle of spectators. As soon as they reached a place of observation, the old woman gave a violent start and grabbed her escort’s arm. A lean, round-shouldered man with chin whiskers was tossing rings at a board filled with jack-knives of all sizes and shapes, in a vain endeavor to “ring” one of them. He failed, and the crowd jeered. Then he drew a leather wallet from his pocket, unstrapped it, and withdrew a coin with which he purchased more delusive rings. The boy felt Aunt ’Phroney trembling beside him. “See that ol’ feller yonder?” she asked. “Yes,” said he. “That’s Mart’n Luther!” They watched him with breathless interest, but not one of the rings he threw managed to capture a knife. Others tried them, undeterred by

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the failure of the old farmer, and, after watching them a short time, out came Martin Luther’s leather pocket-book again. “Come!” whispered the woman, in deep distress; “let’s go afore I faint dead away! Who’d believe Mart’n Luther could be sech a spen’thrift an’ prodigal? I didn’t b’lieve ’t was in him.” The boy said nothing, but led her out of the crowd. To solace his companion’s grief, he “treated” Aunt ’Phroney to pink lemonade, which had the effect of decidedly cheering her up. They found the poultry tent almost deserted, and, after a brief search, the woman recognized the Bishop. A man down the row of cages was even now judging the fowls and attaching ribbons to the winning birds as he went along. “He’ll come to the Plymouth Rocks in a minute,” whispered Aunt ’Phroney; “let’s wait an’ see what happens.” It didn’t take the judge very long to decide. Quite promptly he pinned a blue ribbon to the Bishop’s cage, and Aunty ’Phroney exclaimed: “There! we’ve got a prize at last, boy!” The judge looked up, saw the boy, and held out his hand with a smile of recognition. “Why, how are you, Mr. Carroll?” he exclaimed cordially; “I thought I was the only Durham man on the grounds. Did you drive your new car over?” The boy nodded. “They sent for me to judge this poultry show,” continued the man, “but it’s the poorest lot of alleged thoroughbreds I ever saw together. Not a really good bird in the show.” “That ought to make your task easier,” said the boy. “No, it makes it harder. For instance, there’s the Sweepstakes Prize for the best bird of any sort on exhibition. Tell me, how am I to make such an award, where all are undeserving?” “Very well, I’ll tell you,” returned the boy, audaciously. “If I were judging, I’d give this fellow”—pointing to the Bishop—“The Sweepstakes.” “Eh? This fellow?” muttered the judge, eying Aunt ’Phroney’s pet critically. “Why, I don’t know but you’re right, Mr. Carroll. I had it in

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mind to give the Sweepstakes to that White Leghorn yonder, but this Plymouth Rock seems well set up and has good style.” The Bishop had recognized his mistress, and was strutting proudly and showing to excellent advantage. While the judge considered him, he flapped his wings and gave a lusty crow. “I’ll take back my statement,” said the man. “Here is a really good bird. Guess I’ll follow your advice, Mr. Carroll”; and he pinned a bright yellow ribbon marked “Sweepstakes” next to the blue one on the Bishop’s cage. Aunt ’Phroney drew a long breath. Her eyes were sparkling. “How much is the Sweepstakes, jedge?” she inquired. “It’s the largest money prize offered—twenty-five dollars—and there’s a silver water-pitcher besides. I’m sorry such a liberal premium did not bring out a better display. But I must hurry and make my report, for I want to catch the two o’clock train home. Good day, Mr. Carroll.” As he bowed and left the tent, Aunt ’Phroney was staring proudly at the Bishop. “Twenty-five dollars!” she gasped, “an’ two dollars first prize for Plymouth Rocks! Twenty-seven dollars an’ a silver pitcher! Boy, do you know what this means? It means I’ll git twenty-three dollars—an’ Mart’n Luther’ll git jus’ four.” “Will he keep his promise?” the boy asked. “Yes. Mart’n Luther’s a’ honest man, an’ God-fearin’—but he ain’t got much jedgment ’bout ringin’ jack-knives. Dear me, who’d ever think he’d turn out a squanderer?” The boy took her away to the big dining-hall. It was divided into two sections by a rail. On one side was a sign reading: “Square Meal, 25c.” On the other side was the legend: “Regular Dinner, with Oysters and Ice-cream, 50c.” Disregarding his companion’s protests, the boy led her into the latter section, which had few patrons compared with the cheaper one. No sooner had Aunt ’Phroney tucked her napkin under her chin than she grew pale and stared amazed across the rail. The boy’s eyes followed hers

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and recognized Martin Luther seated at a table facing them, and eating with ravenous industry. “Twenty-five cents gone—an’ he might ‘a’ took the lunch I offered him!” wailed the old woman. Perhaps the magnetism of their combined gaze affected Martin Luther, for he raised his eyes and encountered his wife’s horrified stare. The man was justified in being equally astonished. Motionless, with a piece of beef poised half-way to his mouth, he glared alternatively at the strange boy and at Aunt ’Phroney. His face betokened bewilderment, shame at being discovered, and, at the last, an unreasoning panic. He slowly rose to his feet, turned his back, and ignominiously fled from the hall. “Never mind,” said the woman, her lips firmly set, “he’ll know he’s got somethin’ to explain when he gets home; an’ if Mart’n Luther ever hears the last o’them jack-knives an’ his prodigal ‘square meal,’ my name ain’t Sophroney Sager!” After the dinner, with its accompanying luxuries of oysters and icecream, was over, they saw the balloon ascension and the races; and then, early in the afternoon, the boy put Aunt ’Phroney into the touring car and they drove to Fennport, where the tank was filled with gasolene. During this operation, the boy noticed that the old woman shivered slightly in the cool autumn weather, and drew her thin shawl more closely around her as she sat waiting in the car. “You ought to have brought a heavy coat,” he said. “Why I haven’t got any,” she returned, smiling at him cheerfully. “No coat! What do you wear in winter, when you go to church?” the boy asked. “When it’s real cold, I wrap a comforter ’round me on the way, an’ then wear this shawl into church. Aunt Sally left it to me when she died. It’s real Peasley.” “Get out of the car, please, Aunt ’Phroney,” the boy said quietly. “Why cert’nly, if you say so; but what for?” I had a birthday last week, and Father gave me a check. I want to buy a present for my best girl at this store, and I wish you to help me pick it out.”

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She went in, then, full of interest, and the boy whispered to the clerk, who began to display a collection of thick, warm coats in sober colors. “Try this one on, Aunt ’Phroney,” urged the boy. Suddenly she became suspicious, and flushed like a school-girl. “Boy,” she began, “if you dare—” “Hush, please!” he pleaded. “Do you want to shame me before all these strangers? And spoil my birthday? And prove that I haven’t any best girl?” The appeal was effective. The old woman meekly submitted to the “try-on,” and presently he said to the clerk: “This one will do. Mrs. Sager will take it with her and wear it home, as the air is a bit chilly.” Before she could recover from her dazed condition, they were once more in the automobile and speeding down the turnpike toward the farm. “Feel warm enough, Aunt ’Phroney?” asked the boy, turning a merry face toward her. Then he saw that her eyes were full of tears. She nestled closer to him and murmured softly: “you know, boy, we—we never had a chick or a child of our own!” That evening father and son were seated in the banker’s library. “I spent twenty dollars of my birthday money, to-day,” said the boy. “Indeed. In what way?” “Trying to make an old country woman happy.” “Really, my son?” “Really, Father; and I think—I’m quite sure—that I succeeded.” And then he told him the whole story.

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