The homesteader
by Oscar Micheaux · English · Gutenberg #39238 · 812,388 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The homesteader
a novel
Author: Oscar Micheaux
Illustrator: William McKnight Farrow
Release date: March 24, 2012 [eBook #39238]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39238
Credits: Produced by Cathy Maxam and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOMESTEADER ***
Produced by Cathy Maxam and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE HOMESTEADER
[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"SOMETHING HAPPENED AND I WAS STRANGELY GLAD AND CAME HERE BECAUSE
I--I--JUST _HAD_ TO SEE YOU, JEAN."]
THE HOMESTEADER
_A NOVEL_
BY
OSCAR MICHEAUX
Author of "The Forged Note"
_ILLUSTRATED BY W.M. FARROW_
SIOUX CITY, IOWA
WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY OSCAR MICHEAUX
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
BELOVED MOTHER
THIS
TO
YOU
PUBLISHERS TO THE READER
_How much of the story of Jean Baptiste is a work of the author's own
imagination and how much comes from an authentic source we do not
consider it necessary to say. But that he has in this instance drawn
more largely and directly from fact than is the practice of the novelist
is admitted, and we have his consent therefore, to make certain
statements concerning himself that relate to the story, and why he has
written it._
_To begin with, that which any writer has been more closely associated
with, are the things he can best portray. Wherefore, in "THE
HOMESTEADER," Oscar Micheaux has written largely along the lines he has
lived, and, naturally of what he best knows. His experience has been
somewhat unusual; his association largely out of the ordinary. Born
thirty-three years ago in Southern Illinois, he left those parts at an
early age to come into his larger education in the years that followed
through extensive traveling and a varied association. Purchasing a
relinquishment on a homestead in South Dakota at the age of twenty; five
years later he had succeeded and owned considerable lands in the country
wherein he had settled. Always literarily inclined he wrote articles for
newspapers and magazines as a beginner, and then during his twenty-sixth
and twenty-seventh years occurred the conflicting incident that changed
the whole course of his life, and gave him more than anything else, the
subsequent material for the building of this story._
_Shortly after this his first book appeared, and he at last had found
his calling. He wrote his second book two years later. But the episode
that had changed his life from ranching to writing was ever in his mind
and always so forcibly until he was never a contented man until he had
written it--and "The Homesteader" is the story._
CONTENTS
EPOCH THE FIRST
CHAPTER PAGE
I AGNES 13
II THE HOMESTEADER 21
III AT THE SOD HOUSE 28
IV SHE COULD NEVER BE ANYTHING TO HIM 37
V WHEN THE INDIANS SHOT THE TOWN UP 43
VI THE INFIDEL, A JEW AND A GERMAN 49
VII THE DAY BEFORE 56
VIII AN ENTERPRISING YOUNG MAN 61
IX "CHRISTINE! CHRISTINE!" 75
X "YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE" 80
XI WHAT JEAN BAPTISTE FOUND IN THE WELL 85
XII MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER 89
XIII THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD 97
XIV THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL 107
XV OH, MY JEAN 115
XVI "BILL" PRESCOTT PROPOSES 123
XVII HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT 131
EPOCH THE SECOND
I REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES 143
II WHICH? 153
III MEMORIES--N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY 159
IV ORLEAN 174
V A PROPOSAL: A PROPOSITION; A CERTAIN MRS. PRUITT--AND
A LETTER 186
VI THE PRAIRIE FIRE 190
VII VANITY 196
VIII MARRIED 207
IX ORLEAN RECEIVES A LETTER AND ADVICE 212
X EUGENE CROOK 221
XI REVEREND MCCARTHY PAYS A VISIT 227
XII REVEREND MCCARTHY DECIDES TO SET BAPTISTE RIGHT,
BUT-- 234
XIII THE WOLF 240
XIV THE CONTEST 247
XV COMPROMISED 252
XVI THE EVIL GENIUS 259
XVII THE COWARD 267
EPOCH THE THIRD
I CHICAGO--THE BOOMERANG 279
II THE GREAT QUESTION 284
III GLAVIS MAKES A PROMISE 294
IV THE GAMBLER'S STORY 299
V THE PREACHER'S EVIL INFLUENCE 305
VI MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK 311
VII A GREAT ASTRONOMER 317
VIII N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY PREACHES A SERMON 325
IX WHAT THE PEOPLE WERE SAYING 332
X "UNTIL THEN" 339
XI "IT'S THE WRONG NUMBER" 346
XII MRS. PRUITT EFFECTS A PLAN 354
XIII MRS. MERLEY 363
XIV "OH, MERCIFUL GOD! CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!" 369
XV "LOVE YOU--GOD, I HATE YOU!" 376
XVI A STRANGE DREAM 385
EPOCH THE FOURTH
I THE DROUGHT 395
II THE FORECLOSURE 400
III IRENE GREY 407
IV WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 414
V "TELL ME WHY YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE LAST LETTER
I WROTE YOU" 421
VI THE STORY 427
VII HER BIRTHRIGHT "FOR A MESS OF POTTAGE" 436
VIII ACTION 440
IX GOSSIP 446
X A DISCOVERY--AND A SURPRISE 456
XI THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION 464
XII THE BISHOP ACTS 479
XIII WHERE THE WEAK MUST BE STRONG 482
XIV THE TRIAL--THE LIE--"AS GUILTY AS HELL!" 488
XV GRIM JUSTICE 495
XVI A FRIEND 502
XVII THE MYSTERY 508
XVIII "VENGEANCE IS MINE. I WILL REPAY" 515
XIX WHEN THE TRUTH BECAME KNOWN 523
XX AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING 529
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Something happened and I was strangely glad and came here
because I--I just _had_ to see you, Jean" _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
He was young, The Homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and
vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous 22
He raised on an elbow and looked into her face while she staggered
forward in great surprise 35
"But, Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for you I
would have done for anybody. It was merely an act of
providence; but yours--oh, Jean, _can't you understand_!" 138
"Miss Pitt was so anxious to meet you and I was, too, because
I think you and her would like each other. She's an awfully
good girl and willing to help a fellow" 159
"He's going to kill you out here to make him rich, and then
when you are dead and--" "Please don't, father!" she almost
screamed. She knew he was going to say: "in your
grave, he will marry another woman to enjoy what you have
died for," but she could not quite listen to that 245
He tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to
hang on like grim death. And as he stood enmeshed in its
sinister thraldom, he thought he saw her rise and point an
accusing finger at him 518
LEADING CHARACTERS
AGNES, _Whose Eyes Were Baffling_
JEAN BAPTISTE, _The Homesteader_
JACK STEWART, _Agnes' Father_
AUGUSTUS M. BARR, _an Infidel_
ISAAC SYFE, _a Jew_
PETER KADEN, _The Victim_
N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY, _a Preacher_
ORLEAN, _his Daughter, Without the Courage of Her Convictions_
ETHEL, _her Sister, Who Was Different_
GLAVIS, _Ethel's Husband_
EUGENE CROOK, _a Banker_
EPOCH THE FIRST
THE HOMESTEADER
CHAPTER I
AGNES
Their cognomen was Stewart, and three years had gone by since their
return from Western Kansas where they had been on what they now chose to
regard as a "Wild Goose Chase." The substance was, that as farmers they
had failed to raise even one crop during the three years they spent
there, so had in the end, therefore, returned broken and defeated to the
rustic old district of Indiana where they had again taken up their
residence on a rented farm.
Welcomed home like the "return of the prodigal," the age old gossip of
"I told you so!" had been exchanged, and the episode was about
forgotten.
But there was one in the family, the one with whom our story is largely
concerned, who, although she had found little in Western Kansas to
encourage her to stay there, had not, on the other hand, found much
cheer back in old Indiana so long as they found no place to live but
"Nubbin Ridge." Although but a girl, it so happened through
circumstances over which she had no control, that whatever she thought
or did, concerned largely the whole family's welfare or destiny.
Her father was a quaint old Scotchman, coming directly from Scotland to
this country, a Highlander from the highest of the Highlands, and
carried the accent still. But concerning her mother, she had never known
her. Indeed, few had known her mother intimately; but it was generally
understood that she had been the second wife of her father, and that she
had died that Agnes might live. She was the only offspring by this
marriage, although there were two boys by the first union. These lived
at home with her and her father, but were, unfortunately, half-witted.
Naturally Agnes was regarded as having been fortunate in being born of
the second wife. But, what seemed rather singular, unlike her half
brothers who were simple, she, on the other hand, appeared to be
possessed with an unusual amount of wit; rare wit, extraordinary wit.
She was now twenty, and because she possessed such sweet ways, she was
often referred to as beautiful, although, in truth she was not. Her face
was somewhat square, and while there was a semblance of red roses in her
cheeks when she smiled, her complexion was unusually white--almost pale.
Her mouth, like her face, was also inclined to be square, while her lips
were the reddest. She had a chin that was noticeable due to the fact
that it was so prominent, and her nose was straight almost to the point
where it took a slight turn upwards. It was her hair, however, that was
her greatest attraction. Unusually long, it was thick and heavy, of a
flaxen tint, and was her pride. Her eyes, however, were a
mystery--baffling. Sometimes when they were observed by others they were
called blue, but upon second notice they might be taken for brown. Few
really knew their exact color, and to most they were a puzzle. There was
a flash about them at times that moved people, a peculiarity withal that
even her father had never been able to understand. At such times he was
singularly frightened, frightened with what he saw, and what he didn't
see but felt. Always she then reminded him of her mother whom he had
known only briefly before taking her as his wife. He had loved her,
this wife, and had also feared her as he now feared this daughter when
her eyes flashed.
Her mother had kept a secret from him--and the world! In trust she left
some papers. What they contained he did not know, and would not until
the day before she, Agnes, was to marry; and should she not marry by the
time she reached thirty, the papers were to be given her then anyhow.
And so Jack Stewart had resigned himself to the situation; had given her
the best education possible, which had not been much. She had gone
through the grade schools, however, and barely succeeded in completing
two years of the high school course. The love that he had been deprived
of giving her mother because of her early death he had given to Agnes;
she was his joy, his pride. She read to him because his eyes were not
the best; she wrote his letters, consulted with him, assisted and
conducted what business he had, and had avoided the society of young
men.
So we have met, and know some little of the girl we are to follow. In
the beginning of our story, we find her anything but contented. Living
in quaint old "Nubbin Ridge," could not, to say the most, be called
illustrious. It was a small district where the soil was very poor--as
poor, perhaps, as Indiana afforded. So poor indeed, that it was capable
of producing nothing but nubbins (corn) from which it derived its name.
When a man went to rent a farm in "Nubbin Ridge" he was considered all
in, down and out.... To continue life there was to grow poorer. It was a
part of the state wherein no one had ever been known to grow rich, and
Stewarts had proven no exception to the rule. But this story is to be
concerned only briefly with "Nubbin Ridge," so we will come back to the
one around whom it will in a measure center.
Her chief accomplishments since their disastrous conquest of Western
Kansas had been the simple detail of keeping a diary. But at other times
she had attempted musical composition and had even sent the same to
publishers, one after another. Of course all she sent had duly come
back, and she had by this time grown to expect the returned manuscripts
as the inevitable. But since sending the same gave her a diversion, she
had kept it up--and had today received a letter! A letter, that was all,
and a short one at that; but even a letter in view of her previous
experiences was highly appreciated. It stated briefly that her
composition had been carefully examined--studied, but had, they very
much regretted to inform her, been found unavailable for their needs.
Although they had returned the same, they wished to say that she had
shown some merit--"symptoms" she thought would have sounded better--and
that they would always be patient and glad to examine anything she might
be so kind as to submit!
She read the letter over many times. Not that she hoped that doing so
would bring her anything, but because in her little life in "Nubbin
Ridge" there was so little to break the usual monotonous routine. When
she had read and studied it until she knew every letter by heart, she
sighed, picked up her diary, and wrote therein:
There is little to record tonight. Today just passed was like
yesterday, and yesterday was like the day before that, except it
rained yesterday, and it didn't the day before. Papa and Bill and
George have just completed picking corn--nubbins, the kind and only
thing that grows in Nubbin Ridge. Verily does the name fit the
production! We will perhaps have enough when it is sold to pay the
rent, send to Sears & Roebuck for a few things, and that's all.
George wants a gun and thinks he's worked hard enough this summer
to earn one. He has found one in the catalogue that can be had for
$4.85 and is all heart that papa will get it for him; along with
four boxes of shells that will, all told, reach $6.00. Little
enough, to say the least, for a summer's work! Bill has his mind
set on a watch, but papa bought him a suit of clothes that cost
$5.89 two months ago when we sold the hogs, so I don't think Bill
will get in on anything this fall or winter. As for me, I would
like to have a dress that I see can be had through a catalogue for
a reasonable sum; but if it will crowd papa I will say nothing
about it. He has the mortgage on the horses to pay, and by the time
we get the few other necessities, it will not leave much, if
anything.
LATER--Papa has been growing very restless of late. I don't wonder,
either. Any one that had any energy, any spark of ambition, would
grow restless or crazy in Nubbin Ridge! The very name smacks of
poverty, ignorance and degeneration! But a real estate man from
South Dakota has been in the neighborhood for a week, and has told
some wonderful tales of opportunities out there. He has made it
plain to papa that Western Kansas has been a failure to thousands
of people for forty years; that South Dakota is different; that the
rainfall is abundant; the climate is the best, and that every
renter in Indiana should there proceed forthwith. I'm surprised
that he should waste his time talking with papa who has no money,
but he seems to be just as anxious for him to go as he is for
others. Perhaps it's because he wishes a crowd. A crowd even though
some are poor would, I imagine, appear more like business.
Bill and George are full for going, and papa has hinted to me as to
whether I would like it. How should I know? It couldn't be worse
than this place even if it was the jumping off place of all
creation! I have about come to the place where I am willing to try
anywhere once. There surely must be some place in this wide world
where people have a chance to rise. Of course, with us--poor Bill
and George, and papa's getting old, I don't suppose we will ever
get hold of much anywhere. But the real estate man says we could
all take homesteads; that in those parts--I cannot quite call the
name, I'll study a while.... The Rosebud Country, is what he called
it--there had been a great land opening, and there would be another
in a few years. That we could go out now and rent on a place, raise
big crops and get in good financial circumstances by the time the
opening comes, go forth then and all take homesteads and grow rich!
It sounds fishy--us growing rich; but since we have nothing we
couldn't lose.
He says that people have grown wealthy in two years; that among the
successful men--those who have made it quickly--is a colored man
out there who came from--he couldn't say just where; but that if a
colored man could make it, and get money together, surely any one
else should. I will close this now because it is late, the light is
low; besides I'm sleepy, and since that is surely one thing a
person can do with success in "Nubbin Ridge," I will retire and
have my share of it.
A MONTH LATER--It has happened! We are going West! The real estate
man has gone back, and papa has been out there. He is carried away
with the country. Says it is the greatest place on earth. I won't
attempt to put down the wonders he has told of. Rich land to be
rented for one-third of the crops--and we pay two-fifths in Nubbin
Ridge where there is no soil, just a sprinkling of dust over the
surface. Has rented a place already, and has made arrangements with
the man that we owe to give him a year's time to pay the two
hundred dollars. So we have enough to get out there and buy seed
next spring! Everybody says we are going on another "Wild Goose
Chase," but they would say that if we were going into the next
county. It would seem better, however, if we would wait until
spring, but Papa is getting ready to go right after Xmas. That
settles it! I will make no more notes in this diary until we have
reached the "promised land." In the meantime I am full of dreams,
dreams, dreams! I had a strange dream last night; a real dream in
which things happened! Always I have those day dreams, but last
night I had a real dream. I dreamed that we went out to this
country and that we rented and lived on a farm near the colored man
the real estate man spoke of. I dreamed that he was an unusual man,
a wonderful personality, and that we--he and I--became very close
friends! That a strange murder occurred near where we went; a
murder that no one could ever understand; but that in after years
it was all made plain--and I was involved! Think of such a dream!
Me being involved in anything; I, of "Nubbin Ridge!" I am sure that
if I told out there the name of the place from where we came they
would think we were crazy! But that was not all the dream--and it
was all so plain! It frightens me when I think of it. I cannot
realize how I could have had such a strange dream. I dreamed after
we had been there a while that I fell in love--but it's the man I
fell in love with which makes the dream so unusual,
and--impossible! Yet there is a saying that nothing is impossible!
I will not record here or describe the one with whom I fell in
love. Strangely I feel that I should wait. I cannot say why, but
something seems to caution me; to tell me not to say more now.
There remains but one thing more. Yesterday I happened to glance
at myself in the mirror. As if by magic I was drawn closer and
studied myself, studied something in my features I had never seen
before--at least not in that way. I observed then my hands. They,
too, appeared unlike they had been before. It seems to have been
the dream that prompted me to look--and the dream that revealed
this about myself that I cannot understand. My eyes did not appear
the same; they were as if--as if, they belonged to some other! My
lips were red as usual; but there was about them something too I
had not seen before: they appeared thicker, and as I studied them
in the mirror more closely, I couldn't resist that singularity in
my eyes. They became large and then small; they were blue, so blue,
and then they were brown. It was when they appeared brown that I
could not understand. I will close now for I wish to think. My
brain is afire, I must think, think, think!
CHAPTER II
THE HOMESTEADER
The day was cold and dark and dreary. A storm raged over the prairie,--a
storm of the kind that seem to come only over the northwest. Over the
wide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as if terribly
angry. It raced across the level stretches, swept down into the draws,
where draws were, tumbled against the hillsides, regained its
equilibrium and tore madly down the other side, as if to destroy all in
its path. A heavy snow had fallen all the morning, but about noon it had
changed to fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and made
going against it very difficult. Notwithstanding, through it--directly
against it at most times, The Homesteader struggled resolutely forward.
He was shielded in a measure by the horses he was driving, whose bulks
prevented the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at all
times. At other times--and especially when following a level stretch--he
got close to the side of the front wagon with its large box loaded with
coal, which towered above his head and shoulders.
Before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail, despite the heavy
snow that had fallen that morning, was outlined. Perhaps it was because
he had followed it--he and his horses--so often before in the two years
since he had been West, that he was able to keep to its narrow way
without difficulty today. And still, following it was not as difficult
as following other trails, for it was an old, old trail. So old indeed
was it, that nobody knew just how old it was, nor how far it reached. It
was said that Custer had gone that way to meet his massacre; that
Sitting Bull knew it best; but to The Homesteader, he hoped to be able
to follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the way. When
night came--but upon that he had not reckoned! To be caught upon it by
darkness was certain death, and he didn't want to die.
He was young, The Homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous,
strong, healthy and courageous. His height was over six feet and while
he was slender he was not too much so. His shoulders were slightly round
but not stooped. His great height gave him an advantage now. He followed
his horses with long, rangy strides, turning his head frequently as if
to give the blood a chance to circulate about and under the skin of his
wide forehead. The fury of the storm appeared to grow worse, judging
from the way the horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it was
growing colder. Almost continually some of the horses were striking the
ice from their nosepoints; while very often The Homesteader had to rest
the lines he held while he forced the blood to his finger tips with long
swings of his arms back and forth across his breast.
His claim lay many miles yet before him, and his continual gaze toward
the west was to ascertain how long the light of day was likely to hold
out. Behind, far to the rear, lay the little town of Bonesteel which he
had left that morning, and now regretted having done so. But the storm
had not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he had
conjectured it would be better to reach home before it became too deep
or badly drifted. As it was now he was encountering all this and some
more.
[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE WAS YOUNG, THE HOMESTEADER--JUST PASSED TWENTY-TWO--AND VIGOROUS,
STRONG, HEALTHY AND COURAGEOUS.]
"Damn!" he cried as they passed down a slope to where the land
divided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest. His course lay
directly northwest, straight against the wind which he could only avoid
by hanging the lines over the lever of the brake and fall in behind the
trail wagon. But this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from the
horses. He had walked all the way, for to walk was apparently the only
way to keep from freezing. He soon reached the other side of the draw,
and when he had come to the summit beyond, he groaned. Ahead of him just
above the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from beneath the clouds. On
either side of it, great, gasping sundogs struggled. They seemed to vie
with the red sinking orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing in
that direction they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank lower
and lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with a mighty force for only
a few minutes later the sun had fallen into the great abyss below and
the night was on!
"We can make it yet, boys," he cried to his horses as if to cheer them.
And as if they understood, they crashed forward with such vigor that he
was thrown almost into a trot to keep up.
As to how long it went on thus, or as to how far they had gone, he was
not able to reckon; but out of the now pitch darkness he became
conscious of a peculiar longing. He had a vision of his sod house that
stood on the claim, and he saw the small barn with its shed and the
stalls for four. He saw the little house again with its one room, the
little monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and imagined himself
putting a pan of baking powder bread therein. He saw his bed, a large,
wide, dirty--'tis true--but a warm bed, nevertheless. He fancied himself
creeping under the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did. He
could not understand his prolific thoughts that followed. He thought of
his boyhood back in old Illinois; he took stock of the surroundings he
had left there; he lived briefly through the discontentment that had
ultimately inspired him to come West. And then he had again those
dreams. Regardless of where his train of wandering thoughts began or of
where they followed, always they were sure to end upon this given point,
the girl. The girl of his dreams--for he had no real girl. There had
never been a real girl for Jean Baptiste, for this was his name. In the
years that had preceded his coming hither, it had been one relentless
effort to get the few thousands together with which to start when he
finally came West. At that he had been called lucky. He had no heritage,
had Jean Baptiste. His father had given him only the French name that
was his, for his father had been poor--but this instant belongs
elsewhere. His heritage, then, had been his indefatigable will; his firm
determination to make his way; his great desire to make good. But we
follow Jean Baptiste and the girl.
Only a myth was she. She had come in a day dream when he came West, but
strangely she had stayed. And, singularly as it may seem, he was
confident she would come in person some day. He talked with her when he
was lonely, and that was almost every day. He told her why he had come
West, because he felt it was the place for young manhood. Here with the
unbroken prairie all about him; with its virgin soil and undeveloped
resources; and the fact that all the east, that part of the east that
was Iowa and Illinois had once been as this now was, had once been as
wild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more--indeed, not
so much. Here could a young man work out his own destiny. As Iowa and
Illinois had been developed, so could this--so _would_ this also be
developed. And as railways had formed a network of those states, so in
time would they reach this territory as well. In fact it was inevitable
what was to come, the prime essential, therefore, for his youth, was to
begin with the beginning--and so he had done.
So he had come, had Jean Baptiste, and was living alone with a great
hope; with a great hope for the future of this little empire out there
in the hollow of God's hand; with a great love, too, for her, his dream
girl. So in his prolific visions he talked on with her. He told her that
it was a long way to the railroad now--thirty-two miles. He had that far
to haul the coal he and others burned. There were yet no fences, and
while there were section lines, they were rarely followed. It was nearer
by trail. But he was patient, he was perseverant. Time would bring all
else--and her. He had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she might
not be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but she was good.
Always he understood everything that was hers, and he was confident she
would understand him. Her name was sweet and easily pronounced. How he
loved to call it!
He staggered at times now and didn't know why. He had wanted to be home
and in his bed where he could sleep; but home as he now regarded it was
too far. He couldn't make it, and didn't need to. Why should they
blunder and pull so hard to get home when all about them was a place
where they could rest. The prairie was all about; and he had slept on
the ground before with only the soft grass beneath him. Why, then, must
he continue on and on! The air was pleasant--warm and luxuriant, and he,
Jean Baptiste, was very tired--oh, how tired he really was!
It was settled! He had gone far enough. He would make his bed right
where he was. He called to the horses. But somehow they didn't seem to
hear. He called again then, he thought, louder, and still they failed to
hear. He wondered at their stubbornness. They were good horses and had
never disobeyed before. He called now again at the top of his voice, but
they heeded him not; in the meantime forging onward, onward and onward!
It occurred to him to drop the reins, but such had never been a custom.
Within his tired, freezing and brain-fagged mind, there was a resolution
that made him cling to them, but struggling to pull them down to a stop
he continued.
And as he followed them now onward toward the sod house that stood on
the claim, all realism seemed to desert him; he became a chilled
mechanician; he seemed to have passed into the infinite where all was
vague; where turmoil and peculiar strife only abided.... For Jean
Baptiste did not understand that he was on the verge of freezing.
* * * * *
Stewarts were pleased with the country. They had arrived in early
January. The weather had not been bad, although the wind blew much
stronger here than it did in Indiana. However, they had not forgotten
how it blew in Western Kansas and were therefore accustomed to it. The
house upon the place they had rented was small, just four rooms, but it
was well built and was warm. A village was not far. The people in it
called it a town, but you see they were enthusiastic. To be more amply
provided they could get what they needed at Gregory which was seven
miles. Seven miles was not far to one who could ride horseback, and this
Agnes had learned in Western Kansas.
"You had best not go to town today, my girl," cautioned Jack Stewart,
her father, as she made ready to ride to Gregory after ordering Bill to
saddle Dolly, the gray mare that was their best.
"Tut, tut, papa," she chided. "This is a day to take the benefit of this
wonderful air. The low altitude of Nubbin Ridge made me sallow; there
was no blood in my cheeks. Here--ah, a nice horseback ride to Gregory
will be the best yet for me!"
"I don't like the wind--and so much snow with it," he muttered, looking
out with a frown upon his face.
"But the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost ready. "It's
letting up."
"It's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing colder."
"Better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her lithe young
body as agile as an athlete's. "Now, dada," she let out winsomely, "I
shall dash up to Gregory, get all we need, and be back before the sun
goes down!" And with that she kissed away further protest, swung open
wide the door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. A moment
later she was gone, but not before her father cried:
"If you should be delayed, stay the night in town. Above all things,
don't let the darkness catch you upon the prairie!"
CHAPTER III
AT THE SOD HOUSE
She enjoyed the horseback ride to Gregory. Although she trembled at
times from the sting of the intense cold, the exercise the riding gave
her body kept the blood circulating freely, and she made the trip to the
little town without event.
Once there, after thawing the cold out of her face and eyes, she
proceeded to do her trading, filling the saddlebags to their fullest.
"Which way do you live from town?" inquired the elderly man who waited
upon her at the general store where she was doing her trading.
"Seven miles southeast," she replied.
"Indeed!" he cried as if surprised. "But you didn't come from there
today--this afternoon? That would be directly against this storm!"
She nodded.
"Well, now, who would have thought you could have made it! 'Tis an awful
day without," he cried as he regarded her in wonder.
"It _wasn't_ warm, I admit," she agreed; "but I didn't seem to mind it
so much!"
"You will not go back today--rather tonight?"
"Oh, yes."
"But it would be very risky. Look! It's grown dark already!" She looked
out and observed that it had really grown almost pitch dark during the
few minutes she had lingered inside. She was for a moment at a loss for
a reply, then, conscious that the wind would be to her back, she laughed
lightly as she said:
"Oh, I shan't mind. It will take me less than forty minutes, and then
it'll all be over," and she laughed low and easily again. The man
frowned as he pursued:
"I don't like to see you start, a stranger in such a night as this.
Since settlement following a trail is rather treacherous. One may leave
town on one, but be on some other before they have gone two miles. And
while the wind will be to your back, the uncertainty of direction,
should you happen to look back or even around, is confusing. One loses
sense of the way they are going. I'd suggest that you stick over until
morning. It would be safer," he concluded, shaking his head dubiously.
"Oh, I am not afraid," she cried cheerfully. She was ready then, and
with her usual dash, she crossed the short board walk, vaulted into the
saddle, and a few minutes later the dull clatter of her horse's hoofs
died in the distance.
With the wind to her back she rode easily. She enjoyed the exercise the
riding gave her, and was thrilled instead of being frightened over what
was before her. She followed quite easily the trail that had taken her
into the village. In due time she passed a house that she had observed
when going in that stood to one side of the trail, and then suddenly the
mare came to an abrupt halt. She peered into the darkness before her. A
barbwire fence was across the trail. She could not seem to recall it
being there on her way in. Yet she argued with herself that she might
have come around and not noticed it. For a moment she was in doubt as to
which way to go to get around it. As she viewed it, it did not extend
perhaps more than a quarter mile or a half at the most, after which she
could come around to the other side and strike the trail again. She gave
the ever faithful mare rein and they sailed down the fence line to where
she estimated it must shortly end.
She did not know that this was the old U-Cross fence, and that because
it stood on Indian land, it had not been taken up when the great ranch
had been moved into the next county when giving up to the settler. In
truth only a few steps to her right she had left the trail she had
followed into town. The old trail had been cut off when The Homesteader
in whose house she had seen the light, had laid out his claim, and it
was this which caused the confusion. She did not know that one could go
to town, or to the railroad today and returning on the morrow, find the
route changed. Homesteaders were without scruples very often in such
matters. The law of the state was that before a followed trail was cut
off, it should be advertised for five weeks in advance to that effect;
but not one in twenty of the settlers knew that such a law existed.
So Agnes Stewart had ridden fully two miles before she became
apprehensive of the fact that she had lost her way. Now the most
practical plan for her would been to have turned directly about and gone
back to where she had started down the fence. But, charged with
impatient youth, she sought what she felt to be the quickest way about.
Now upon looking closely she could see that wires hung down in places
and that a post here and there had sagged. She urged the mare over a
place and then, once over, went in the direction she felt was home. The
stiff, zero night air had somewhat dulled her, and she made the mistake
of looking back, thereby confusing her direction to the point where
after a few minutes she could not have sworn in what direction she was
going, except that the wind was still at her back.
She peered into the darkness before her. She thought there would be
lights of homesteaders about, and while there was, the storm made it
impossible for her to see them. After a time she became alarmed, and
recalled her father's warning, also the store-keeper's. But her natural
determination was to go on, that she would get her bearings, presently.
So, with a jerking of her body as if to stimulate circulation of the
blood, she bent in the saddle and rode another mile or more. She had
crossed draws, ascended hills, had stumbled over trails that always
appeared to lead in the wrong direction, and at last gave up for lost at
a summit where the wind and fine snow chilled her to the marrow. She was
thoroughly frightened now. She thought to return to Gregory, but when
she turned her eyes against the wind, she could catch no sight of
anything. She was sure then that she could not make it back there had
she wished to. Not knowing what to do she allowed the mare to trot ahead
without any effort to direct her. She had not gone far before she
realized that they were following a level stretch. And because she
seemed to keep warm when the horse moved, she allowed the mare to
continue. A half mile she estimated had been covered when out of the
darkness some dark shape took outline. She peered ahead; the mare was
ambling gently toward it, and she saw after a time that it was a quaint,
oblong structure, a sod house apparently, many of which she had observed
since coming West into the new country. She was relieved. At least she
was not to freeze to death upon the prairie, a fact that she had begun
to regard as a possibility a few minutes before. The mare fell into a
walk and presently came up to a low, square house, built of sod, with
its odd hip roof reposing darkly in the outline. She called, "Hello,"
and was patient. The wind bit into her, and she was conscious of the
bitter cold, and that she was beginning to feel its severe effects.
There was no response, and she called again, dismounting in the
meantime. When she saw no one she went around to where she observed a
low door at which she knocked vigorously. From all appearances the place
was occupied, but no one was at home. She tried the knob. It gave, and
she pushed the door open cautiously. All was darkness within. Then,
dropping the bridle reins she ventured inside. She could not understand
why her feet made no sound upon the floor, but in truth there was no
floor except the earth. She felt in her coat pocket and presently
produced a match. When the flaring light illuminated the surroundings,
she gazed about. It was, she quickly observed, a one room house. There
was at her side a monkey stove with an oven on the pipe; while at her
left stood a table with dishes piled thereupon. There was also a lantern
on the table and this she adjusted and lighted before the blaze died.
She swung this about, and saw there was a bed with dirty bed clothing,
also a trunk, some boxes and what nots.
"A bachelor, I'd wager," she muttered, and then blushed when she
considered her position. She looked about further, and upon seeing fuel,
proceeded to build a fire. This done, she passed outside, found a path
that extended northwest, and, leading the horse, soon came to a small
barn. Here she saw two stalls with a manger filled with hay. She had to
push the mare back to keep her from entering and making herself at home.
She passed around the barn and entered the door of a small shed, for
cattle obviously, but empty. Hay was in the manger, and, taking the bits
from the mare's mouth, she tied the reins to the manger, unsaddled, and,
leaving the shed after fastening the door, she carried the saddle with
her to the house.
The little stove was roaring from the fire she had started, and she was
surprised to find the room becoming warm. She placed the saddle in a
convenient position and lifted her cap, whereupon her heavy hair fell
over her shoulders. She caught it up and wound it into a braid quickly,
guiltily.... She unbuttoned her coat then, and took a seat.
"There is no one here," she muttered to herself. "So since I don't know
the way home, and there's no one here to tell me, guess I'll have to
give it up until morning." She was thoughtful then. This _was_ something
of an adventure. Lost upon the prairie: a bachelor's homestead: there
alone. Then suddenly she started. From the storm swept outside she
thought she caught a sound, and thereupon became quickly alert, but the
next moment her tension relaxed. It was only the wind at the corner of
the house. The room had become warm, she was uncomfortable with the
heavy coat about her. She was conscious, moreover, that her eyes were
heavy, sleep was knocking at her door. She shook off the depression and
fell again to thinking. She wondered who could live there and she
continued in her random thinking until shortly, unconsciously, she fell
into a doze.
She could not recall whether she had dozed an hour or a minute, but she
was awakened suddenly and jumped to her feet; for, from the storm she
had caught the sound of horses and wagons passing the house at only a
short distance. She stood terrified. Her eyes were wide, her lips were
apart as she listened to the grinding of the wagon wheels--and they went
directly toward the barn. Then all was silent, and she placed her hand
to her heart, to still the frightened beating there. She heard the
horses shake in their harness, and came to herself. The man of the place
had returned; she had taken charge of his house, he a bachelor and she a
maid. She felt embarrassed. She got into her coat and buttoned it about
her hurriedly; and then drawing the cap over her head, she waited,
expectantly, although she was sure that time sufficient had expired,
whoever drove the teams had not come toward the house. She could hear
the horses, but she could not ascertain that they were being unhitched.
She was undecided for a moment, then, catching up the lantern, she
quickly went outside. Two wagons loaded heavily with coal greeted her.
She passed to the front and found four horses, white with the frost from
perspiration, standing hitched to the loads. She passed to their heads.
No one was about, and she was puzzled. She passed around to the other
side, and as she did so, stumbled over something. With the lantern
raised, she peered down and then suddenly screamed when she discovered
it was a man. Then, on second thought, fearing he had fallen from the
wagon and become injured, she put her arm through the bail of the
lantern, reached down, caught him by the shoulders and shook him. He was
not injured, she was relieved to see; but _what was_ the matter? In the
next moment she gave a quick start. She realized in a twinkling then,
that the man was freezing--perhaps already frozen!
[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE RAISED ON AN ELBOW AND LOOKED INTO HER FACE WHILE SHE STAGGERED IN
GREAT SURPRISE.]
With quick intuition she reached and caught him beneath the arms, and
turning, dragged him to the house. She opened the door, and lifting his
body, carried him in her arms across the room and laid him upon the bed.
Then, realizing that the night was severely cold, she rushed out,
closing the door behind her, and a half hour later had the horses
unhitched, unharnessed and tied in their stalls. This done she returned
hurriedly to the house to find the man still unconscious, but breathing
heavily. She did not know at once what to do, but going to his feet,
took off his shoes. This was rather difficult, and she feared that from
the way they felt, his feet were frozen. She rubbed them vigorously,
and was relieved after a time to feel the blood circulating and the same
giving forth warmth. She sighed with relief and then pulling off the
heavy gloves, she exercised the same proceeding with the hands, and was
cheered to feel them give forth warmth after a time. She unbuttoned the
coat at his throat, and rolling him over, managed to get it off of him.
Next she unbuttoned the collar, drew off the cap, and for the first time
saw his face. It was swollen and very dark, she thought. She brought the
lantern closer and looked again. She gave a start then and opened her
mouth in surprise. Then she fell to thinking. She went back to the chair
beside the fire and reflected.
"It is all the same, of course," she said to herself. "But I was just
surprised. It all seems rather singular," she mused, and tried to
compose herself. The surprise she had just experienced, had,
notwithstanding her effort at self possession, disconcerted her. She
turned suddenly, for she had caught the sound of a noise from the bed.
She got up quickly and went to him. He had turned from his side to his
back. She stood over him with the lantern raised. To see him better she
leaned over, holding the lantern so that her face was full in the light.
She had unbuttoned her coat at the throat, and seeking more comfort, had
also removed the cap she wore. She had, however, forgotten her hair
which had been held about her head by the cap and it now fell in braids
over her slender shoulders. On the instant the man's eyes opened. He
raised on an elbow, looked into her face, smiled wanly, and murmured:
"It is you, Agnes. You have come and oh, I am glad, for I have waited
for you so long." In the next breath he had fallen back upon the bed and
was sleeping again, while she staggered in great surprise. _Who was this
man_ that he should call her name and say that _he_ had waited?
But with Jean Baptiste, he snored in peace. His dream had come true; the
one of his vision had come as he had hoped she would. But Jean Baptiste
was not aware of the debt he owed her; that through strange providence
in getting lost she had come into his sod house and saved his life. But
what he was yet to know, and which is the great problem of our story,
the girl, his dream girl, Agnes Stewart, happened to be white, while he,
Jean Baptiste, The Homesteader, was a Negro.
CHAPTER IV
SHE COULD NEVER BE ANYTHING TO HIM
Jean Baptiste slept soundly all the night through, snoring loudly at
times, turning frequently, but never awakening. And while he slept,
unconscious of how near he had come to freezing to death upon the
prairie, but for the strange coincidence of Agnes Stewart's having
gotten lost and finding him, she sat near, listening to the dull roar of
the storm outside at times; at other times casting furtive, anxious and
apprehensive glances toward the bed, half in fear. More because the
position she realized herself to be in was awkward, not to say
embarrassing.
Her eyes became heavy as the night wore on, and she arose and walked
about over the dirt floor in an attempt to shake off the inertia. And in
the meantime, the man she had saved slept on, apparently disturbed by
nothing. Presently she approached him shyly, and, taking the coat he had
worn and which lay near, she spread it carefully over him, then tiptoed
away and regarded him curiously. Her life had never afforded character
study in a broad sense; but for some reason, which she could not account
for, she strangely trusted the sleeping man. And because she did, she
was not in fear lest he awaken and take advantage of the compromising
circumstances. But in her life she had met and known no colored people,
and knew directly little about the Negro race beyond what she had read.
Therefore to find herself lost on the wide plains, in a house alone
with one, a bachelor Homesteader, with a terrific storm without, gave
her a peculiar sensation.
When the hand of the little clock upon the table pointed to two o'clock
a.m., she put coal on the fire, became seated in a crude rocking chair
that proved notwithstanding, to be comfortable, and before she was aware
of it, had fallen asleep. Worn out by the night's vigil, and the unusual
circumstances in which she found herself, she slept soundly and all
sense of flying time was lost upon her. The storm subsided with the
approach of morn, and the sun was peeping out of a clear sky in the east
when she awakened with a start. She jumped to her feet. Quickly her eyes
sought the bed. It was empty. The man had arisen. She looked out through
the little window. The blizzard had left the country gray and streaked.
Buttoning her coat collar about her throat, she adjusted her cap by
pulling it well down over her head, and ventured outside.
Never had she looked upon such a scene as met her eyes! Everywhere, as
far as she could see, was a mantle of snow and ice. Here the snow had
been swept into huge drifts or long ridges; while there it sparkled in
the sun, one endless, unbroken sheet of white frost and ice. Here and
there over the wide expanse a lonesome claim shack reposed as if lost;
while to the northwest, she could see the little town to which she had
gone the afternoon before, rising heroically out of the snow. Upon
hearing a sound, she turned to find The Homesteader leading her horse,
saddled and bridled from the barn. She turned her eyes away to hide the
confusion with which she was suddenly overcome, and at the same time to
try to find words with which to greet him.
"Good morning," she heard from his lips, and turned her face to see him
touch the cap he wore.
"Good morning, sir," she returned, smiling with ease, notwithstanding
her confusion of a moment before.
"I judge that you must have become lost, the why you happened along,"
said he pleasantly, courteously.
"I did," she acknowledged, marveled at finding herself so much at ease
in his presence, and him conscious. In the same instance she took quick
note of his speech and manner, and was strangely pleased.
"I see," she heard him mutter. She had cast her eyes away as if to
think, but now turned again toward him to find him regarding her
intently. She saw him give a quick start, and catch his breath as if in
surprise, whereupon she turned her eyes away. But she did not understand
the cause of his start; she did not understand that while he had
recognized her as his dream girl, that only then had he realized that
she was white, while he had naturally supposed his dream girl would be
of his own blood, Ethiopian.
He lowered his eyes as this fact played in his mind, and as he
hesitated, she again turned her eyes upon him and regarded him
wonderingly. And in that moment the instance of the night before when he
had awakened and looked up into her eyes for the first time when she
stood over him, and had uttered the words she would never as long as she
lived, forget, came back. "_It is you, Agnes. You have come and, oh, I
am glad, for I have waited for you so long._" "How did he know my name
and come to say what he did?" was the question she now again, as she had
been doing all the night through, asked herself. She prayed that she
might find a way to ask him--how deeply her curiosity to know was
aroused. And then, while she was so deeply engrossed, abruptly he raised
his head, and his eyes fell searchingly again upon her. He saw and
wondered at the curious intentness he saw there, and as he did so, he
caught that something in her eyes; he saw what she had seen before
leaving Indiana; and as she had been when she had seen it, he too, was
strangely moved and could not understand. Apparently he forgot all else
as the changing color of her eyes held him, and while so, unconsciously
he advanced a step nearer her. She did not move away, but stood as if in
a thraldom, with a feeling stealing over her that somewhere she had seen
and known him once.... But where--_where, where!_ She had never known an
_Ethiopian_, she full well recalled; but she was positive that she had
seen this man somewhere before. Then _where--where, where!_
As for the man, Jean Baptiste, he seemed to relax after a time, and
looked away. He had seen her at last; she had been his dream girl; had
come in a dream and as she stood before him she was all his wondrous
vision had portrayed. Her face was flushed by the cold air, and red
roses in full bloom were in her cheeks; while her beautiful hair, spread
over her shoulders, and fanned by a light breeze, made her in his eyes a
picture of enchantment. When he observed her again and saw that her eyes
were blue and then again were brown, he was still mystified; but what
was come over Jean Baptiste now was the fact, the Great fact: _The fact
that between him and his dream girl was a chasm so deep socially that
bridging was impossible._ Because she was white while he was black,
according to _the custom of the country and its law_, she could never be
anything to him....
Her back was to the rising sun, and neither had observed that it was
mounting higher in the eastern skies. She suppressed the question that
was on her lips to ask him, the eternal question, and in that instant he
came out of his trance. He turned to her, and said:
"It was sure fortunate for me that you lost your way," and so saying
his eyes went toward the place she had found him, and she understood.
She could not repress a happy smile that overspread her face. He saw it
and was pleased.
"It was rather providential; but I would forget it. To think that you
might have frozen to death out there makes me shudder when I recall it."
"I cannot seem to understand what came over me--that I was in the act of
freezing while I walked."
"It was a terrible night," she commented. "I, too, might have frozen,
but for the good fortune of my horse finding your house."
"Isn't it strange," he muttered abstractedly.
"I hadn't the least idea where I was," said she, musingly.
"Such a coincidence."
"Indeed it was----, but please, shall we forget it," and she shuddered
slightly.
"Yes," he replied readily. "Where do you live?"
She pointed to where the smoke curled from the chimney of their home, a
mile and a half away.
"The Watson place? I see. You are perhaps, then, newcomers here?"
"We are," and she smiled easily. He did also. He handed her the bridle
reins then, and said:
"I trust you will pardon my forgetfulness. Indeed I was so absorbed in
the fact that I had been saved, that I forgot to--to be courteous."
"Oh, no, sir!" she cried quickly. "You did not. You--" and then she
broke off in her speech. It occurred to her that she was saying too
much. But strangely she wanted to go on, strangely she wanted to know
more of him: from where he had come; of his life, for already she could
see that he was a gentleman; an unusual person--but he was speaking
again.
"You have become chilled standing there--it is severely cold. Step back
into the house and warm yourself before you start. I will hold your
horse while you do so." And he reached for the bridle reins.
She looked up into his face, and again trusted him; again she
experienced a peculiar gratitude, and turning she obeyed him. As she
stood inside over the little monkey stove a moment later, she could see
him, and appreciated how thoughtful he was.
She returned after a few minutes, stood beside the animal he had brought
and was ready to go. Suddenly she vaulted into the saddle. She regarded
him again intently, while he returned the same a bit abstractedly. She
started to urge the mare forward, and then she drew her to a stop before
she had gotten fully started. Impulsively she leaned forward and
stretched her hand toward him. Mechanically he took it. She
unconsciously gripped his, as she said:
"I'm glad it happened.... That I became lost and--and--you were saved."
His dark face colored with gratitude, and he had an effort to keep from
choking when he tried to reply. In the meantime, she bestowed upon him a
happy smile, and the next moment her horse had found the trail and was
dashing along it toward the place she lived.
And as she went homeward over the hill, the man in whose life she was
later to play such a strange and intimate part, stood looking after her
long and silently.
CHAPTER V
WHEN THE INDIANS SHOT THE TOWN UP
The claim of Jean Baptiste, containing 160 acres of land, adjoined the
little town of Dallas on the north, and it was one of the surprises that
Agnes Stewart had not wandered into it when she found the sod house and
had later found Jean Baptiste in the snow.
The town had been started the winter before. A creek of considerable
depth, and plenty of water ran to the south of it a half mile, and up
this valley the promoters of the town contended that the railroad would
build. It came up the same valley many miles below where at a way
station it suddenly lifted out of it and sought the higher land to
Bonesteel. Now the promoters, because the Railroad Company owned
considerable land where the tracks left the valley to ascend to the
highland, contended that it was the purpose of the railroad to split the
trade country by coming up the valley, and that was why the town had
been located where it was, on a piece of land that had once belonged to
an Indian.
There were three other towns, platted by the government along a route
that did not strike Dallas, and if the railroad should continue the
route it was following where its tracks stopped west of Bonesteel, it
was a foregone conclusion that it must hit the three government
townsites.
This had ever been, and was, the great contention in the early days of
the country of our story. But to get back to the characters in question,
we must come back to the little town near the creek valley.
The winter preceding, when the town had been started, men had chosen to
cast their lot with it, and by the time spring arrived, there was a half
dozen or more business places represented. From Des Moines a man had
come and started a lumber yard; while from elsewhere a man had
cooperated with the promoters in establishing a bank. Two men, whose
reputations were rather notorious, but who, nevertheless, were well
fitted for what they chose, started a saloon. From a town that had no
railroad in the state on the south, a man came with a great stock of
merchandise. A weazened creature had been made postmaster; while a
doctor, beliquored until he was uncertain, had come hither with a hope
of redemption and had hung out his shingle. He was succeeding in the
game of reform (?) as the best customer the saloon had. A tired man was
conducting a business in a building that had been hauled many miles and
was being used as a hotel. Many other lines of business were expected,
but at this time the interest was largely in who the settlers were that
had come, and those who were to come.
A beautiful quarter section of land joined the town on the east, and the
man who had drawn it had already established his residence thereupon, so
that he was known. On the south the land was the allotment of an Indian;
while the same was true on the west. Naturally, when it was reported
that a Negro held the place on the north, considerable curiosity
prevailed to meet this lone Ethiopian.
But Jean Baptiste was a mixer, a jolly good fellow of the best type and
by this time such was well known. As to where he had come from, we know;
but his name had occasioned much comment because it was odd. To make it
more illustrious, the settlers had added "Saint," so he was now commonly
know as St. Jean Baptiste. The doctor, whose name was Slater, had
improved even upon this. He called him "St. John the Baptist." But
nobody took Doc very seriously. So full was he of red liquor most of the
time, that he was regarded as a joke except in his profession. Here he
was considered one of the best,--his redeeming feature.
The coal The Homesteader had hauled from Bonesteel was not all for
himself, but for the lumber yard which sold it at fifteen dollars the
ton, and the quality was soft, and not of the best grade at that.
He hauled it into town the morning following the episode of our story,
and after unloading it and taking his check for the hauling, returned
home, took care of his stock, and upon returning to town, forgot to
relate anything concerning his experiences.... _Perhaps_ he forgot....
Jean Baptiste could be depended upon to forget some things....
Especially the things that were best forgotten.
He walked across the quarter mile that lay between his claim and the
town, and up to the saloon. Inside he encountered the usual crowd, Doc
among them.
"Hello, there, St. John the Baptist," cried that one in beliquored
delight. "Did you crawl through all that storm?"
"I'm here," laughed Baptiste. "How's Doc?"
"Finer'n a fiddle, both ends in the middle," and called for another
drink. Just one. It is said that saloons would not be so bad if it was
not for the treating nuisance. Well, Doc could be regarded here then, as
practical, for he never bought others a drink.
"See you got your nose freezed, Baptiste," Doc laughed. Baptiste went
toward the bar, took a look at himself, and laughed amusedly upon seeing
the telltale darkness at the point of his nose, his cheeks and his
forehead.
"T' hell, I didn't know that," he muttered. The crowd laughed.
"Play you a game of Casino?" suggested Doc.
"You're on!" cried Baptiste.
After they had played awhile a Swede who lived across the creek entered,
took a seat and drawing his chair near, watched the game. Presently he
spoke. "The Indians are coming in today, so I guess there will be a
shooting up the town."
The players paused and regarded each other apprehensively. Others
overheard the remark, and now exchanged significant glances. This had
been the one diversion of the long winter. Indians who lived on the
creek, coming into town, getting drunk, and then as a sally ride up and
down the main street and shoot up the town. The last time this had taken
place, the bartender's wife had been frightened into hysterics. And
thereupon the bartender had sworn that the next time this was attempted,
they would have to reckon with him.
The few people about became serious. They knew the bartender was
dangerous, and they feared the Indians, breeds, mostly, who made this
act their pastime. They were annoyed with such doings; but were inclined
to lay the blame at the saloon door, for, although the law decreed that
Indians should not be sold liquor they were always allowed to purchase
all that they could possibly carry away with them inside and out. So
upon this announcement, those about prepared themselves for excitement.
The news quickly spread and to augment the excitement, a few minutes
later the breeds in full regalia dashed into town. They tied their
horses at the front, and proceeded at once to the bar.
"Whiskey," they cried, shifting their spurred boots on the barroom
floor.
"Sorry, boys, but I can't serve you," advised the bartender carelessly.
"What!" they cried.
"Can't serve you. It's agin' the law, yu' know."
"T' hell with the law!" exclaimed one.
"I didn't make it," muttered the bartender.
"You've been playing hell enforcing it," retorted another.
"Now, don't get rough, my worthy," cautioned the bartender.
"Give us what we called for, and none of this damn slush then," cried
one, toying with the gun at his holster. The bartender observed this and
got closer to the bar for a purpose. Those about, being of the peaceful
kind, began shifting toward the door.
"We've been breakin' the law to serve you," said the bartender "and
you've been breaking the law after we done it. Now the last time you
were here you pulled off a 'stunt' that caused trouble. So I'll not
serve you whiskey, and advise you that if you try shooting up the town
again, there'll be trouble."
"Oh, is that so?" cried the bunch. "Well," sniffed one, who was more
forward than the rest, "we'll just show you a trick or two. And,
remember, when we've shot your little chicken coops full of holes, we
are going to return and be served." With a hilarious laugh, they went
outside, got into the saddles and had their fun. The population took
refuge in the cellars in awed silence.
It was over in a few minutes and the breeds, true to their statement,
returned to the saloon, and stood before the bar.
"Whiskey," they cried, and couldn't repress a grin. Ordinarily they were
cowards, and their boldness had surprised even themselves.
"Whiskey?" said the bartender, nodding toward the speaker.
"That's my order!" the other cried uproarously. The bartender arranged
several bottles in a row. This they did not understand at first. They
did, however, a moment later.
"Very well," he cried of a sudden as his eyes narrowed, whereupon, with
deliberation he caught the bottles one by one by the neck and as fast as
he could let go, threw the same into the faces before him with all the
force he could concentrate quickly. So quickly was it all done that
those before him had not time to duck below the bar before many had been
the recipients of the deluge. Within the minute there was a wild
scramble for the door--all but three. For while the others disappeared
over the hill toward the creek, Dr. Slater took thirty stitches or
thereabouts in the faces of the recalcitrants.
CHAPTER VI
THE INFIDEL, A JEW AND A GERMAN
A mile north from where stood the house of St. Jean Baptiste, there
lived a quaint old man. He was a widower; at least this was the general
opinion, especially when he so claimed to be. In a new country there may
be found among those who settle much that is unusual, not to say quaint
and oftentimes mysterious. And in the case of this man, by name
illustrious, there was all this and some more.
Augustus M. Barr, he registered, and from England he hailed. How long
since does not concern this story at this stage. Besides, he never told
any one when, or why--well, he had been in America long enough to secure
the claim he held and that was sufficient. But that Barr had been a man
of some note back from where he came, there could be little doubt. Among
the things to prove it, he was very much of a linguist, being well
versed in English, French, Polish, German; the Scandinavian he
thoroughly understood--and Latin, that was easy!
He had been a preacher and had pastored many years in a Baker street
church, London. Then, it seems, he concluded after all that there was no
God; there was no Satan nor Hell either--so he gave up the ministry and
became an infidel. And so we have him. But there was something A.M. Barr
had never told--but that was the mystery.
And while he will be concerned with our story, let us not forget that
two miles and more west of the little town of Dallas, there lived
another, a Jew. He was not a merchant, nor was he a trader; then, Jews
who are not the one or the other are not the usual Jew, apparently.
Well, Syfe wasn't, for that was his name, Isaac Syfe, and from far away
Assyria he had come. He was dark of visage with dark hair, and piercing
but lurking eyes with brows that ran together; while his nose was long
and seemed to hang down at the point, reminding one of the ancient
Judas. His mouth was small and close; and there was always a cigarette
between the dark lips. He was of medium size, somewhere in the thirties,
perhaps, lived alone, on a homestead that was his own, and so we have
Isaac Syfe. But there is another still.
He lived about as far southwest of Dallas as Syfe lived to the west and,
unlike Syfe, he was light, a blond, thick, short and stout. His neck was
muscular and slightly bull like; while his features were distinctly
Germanic: his face was rounded and healthy with cheeks soft and red, and
they called him Kaden, Peter Kaden. He also held a claim, having
purchased a relinquishment in the opening, lived alone as did Syfe and
numerous other bachelors, and did his own cooking, washing and ironing.
Augustus M. Barr appeared very much impressed with Jean Baptiste. He was
a judge of men, withal, and much impressed with Baptiste as a
personality; but the fact that Baptiste had broken one hundred and
thirty acres on his homestead and now had it ready for crop, the first
year of settlement; and had wisely invested in another quarter upon
which a girl had made proof, delighted Barr. He admired the younger
man's viewpoint and optimism. So when Barr was in town, and the
conversation happened around that way, he was ever pleased to speak his
praise of Baptiste.
It was the day of the Indian episode when Barr, driving a team hitched
to a spring wagon, came to town, hoping that the lumber yard had
received the much needed coal.
"And how about the coal," cried Barr to the lumberman before he drew his
team to a stop.
"Coal a plenty," replied the lumberman cheerfully.
"Good, good, good!" exclaimed Barr, his distinguished old face lighting
up with great delight.
"Yep," let out the lumberman, coming toward the buggy. "I've weighed
you, and round to the bin is the coal. St. Jean Baptiste arrived last
night--that is, I think he got home last night, although he brought the
coal this morning, two loads, four tons."
"Eighty hundred pounds of coal, you don't say! And it was Jean Baptiste
who brought it! Now, say, wasn't that great! Not another man on this
whole Reservation save he could have made it," he ended admiringly.
"Jean Baptiste is the man who can bring it if anybody," rejoined the
other.
At this moment a large, stout man came driving up in a one horse rig.
"Any coal?" he called lazily from his seat.
"Plenty," cried Barr.
"Thank God," exclaimed the other, whose name was Stark, and who held the
claim that cornered with the town on the northeast, and therefore joined
with the Baptiste claim on the east.
"Thank Jean Baptiste," advised Barr. "He's the man that brought it."
"So?" said Stark thoughtfully. "When?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"That's what the lumberman said."
"Well, I'll be blowed!"
"You'll be warmed, I guess."
"Well, I should say!"
"That Baptiste is _some_ fellow."
"Well, yes. Although I sometimes think he is a fool."
"Oh, not so rash!"
"Any man's a fool that would have left Bonesteel with loads yesterday."
"Then I suppose we should be thankful to the fool. A fool's errand will
in this case mean many lazy men's comfort."
"And last summer you recall how it rained?"
"I sure do."
"Well, you know that fellow would go out and work in the rain."
"And has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop while I have but
thirty."
"I have but ten, but--"
"You will be in the hole--at least behind at the end of this summer."
"But I'm advertised to prove up."
"And leave the country when you have done so."
"Well, of course. I have a house and lot and three acres back in Iowa."
"And Jean Baptiste has 320 acres. In a few years he will have a rich,
wonderful farm that will be a factor in the local history and
development of this country; it will also mean something for posterity."
"Well, I don't care."
"You drew your land and got it free excepting four dollars an acre to
the government. Baptiste bought his and paid for the relinquishment. You
were lucky, but it will be up to Jean Baptiste and his kind to make the
country. Had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all be in
Jerusalem, or the jungle. Let's load the coal."
"Good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the two were at the
bin. "Lot's o' truth in it, too. Old Stark needed it. He's too lazy to
hitch up a team, so rides to town in that little buggy with one horse
hitched to it."
"What are you talking about?" inquired another, coming up at this
moment.
"Jean Baptiste."
"So?"
"Barr and Stark have just had a set-to about him."
"M-m?"
"Stark says a man that would come from Bonesteel a day like yesterday
was a fool."
"Why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep from freezing,
then?"
"Well, Stark is too lazy to care. He's advertised to prove up, you know,
and he always has something to say about working."
"Used to come to town after the mail during the rainy spell last summer,
and upon seeing Baptiste at work in the field, cry 'Just look at that
fool nigger, a workin' in the rain.'" Both laughed. A few minutes later
the town was thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last
chapter.
* * * * *
Now it happened that day that Augustus M. Barr went to the postoffice
and received a heavy envelope. He glanced through the contents with a
serious face, and put the papers in his pocket. On the way to his claim,
he took them out and went through them again, and returned them to his
pocket. A few minutes later he reached into the pocket, drew out what he
thought to be the papers, and silently tore them to threads, and flung
the bundle of paper to the winds.
When Jean Baptiste left the town for his little sod house on the hill,
he saw A.M. Barr just ahead of him. He followed the same route that Barr
had taken, and when he reached the draw on the town site that lay
between his place and the town, he espied some papers. He picked them
up, continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of paper
that Barr had cast away. He idly opened the package he held. He wondered
at the contents and as he read them through he became curious. The
papers had to do with something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe,
and Peter Kaden.
"Now that is singular," he said to himself. He continued to read through
the papers, and as he did so, another fact became clear to him. Kaden
was a sad character. And because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any
friendship, lived alone and never visited, the people had begun to
regard him as crazy. But now Jean Baptiste understood something that
neither he, nor any of the people in the country had dreamed of. He read
on. He recalled that the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined
but strange at times, had stayed at the Barr claim. Barr had introduced
her as his niece. The people wondered at her seclusion. She had a fine
claim. Barr had come to him once and spoken about selling it, stating
that the girl had fallen heir to an estate in England and was compelled
to return therewith.... Later he had succeeded in selling the place. She
had disappeared; but he had never forgotten the expressions he had
observed upon the face of Christine.... He had thought it singular at
the time but had thought little of it since. He read further into the
papers, and learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning
her he could gather nothing definite. He could not understand about
Christine either, except that she had fallen heir to nothing in England;
was not there, but not more than three hundred miles from where he stood
at that moment. But there was before him what he _did_ understand, and
which was that there was something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe,
and Peter Kaden, _and something was going to happen_.
CHAPTER VII
THE DAY BEFORE
Never since the night at the sod house had Agnes Stewart been the same
person. She could not seem to dismiss Jean Baptiste, and the instance of
her providence in getting lost and thereby saving him, from her mind.
His strange words and singular recognition of her was baffling. Being so
very curious therefore, she had since learned that he was well known in
the community and held in popular favor.
She knew little and understood less with regard to predestination; but
she had, since meeting him, recalled that he was the one she had seen in
her dream--and loved! She tried to laugh away such a freak; but do what
she might, she grew more curious to see him again as the days passed; to
talk with him, and learn at last what she was anxious to know--curious
to know. _How did he come to utter her name and say that he had waited?_
And, coincident with this, she recalled anew what she had learned--which
positively was little--regarding her mother. She had been told that she
inherited that one's peculiarity; that her mother had possessed rare
eyes, which in a measure explained her own. But she had not been told or
knew why her mother had arranged the legacy as she had. Not until the
day before she was to marry must she know. And then should she not have
won a husband to herself by the time she had reached thirty, she was to
have the same then, anyhow. Singular, but in a sense practical.
Well, it was so, and she could only sigh and be patient. Most girls she
had known back in "Nubbin Ridge" were usually married by the time they
had reached her present age. But she was not quite like other girls, and
did not even have a beau.
She wondered if the man she had saved had a sweetheart. And when she
thought of this, she had a feeling that she would know in time. And as
the days passed she began at last to believe that in some manner he
would play a part in her own life. But Agnes Stewart was too innocent to
know--at least appeared not to be aware of--_the custom of the country
and its law_, and therefore could not appreciate the invisible and
socially invincible barrier between them. 'Twas only the man Jean
Baptiste she saw and reckoned according to what she understood.
Therefore, because she could get nowhere in her wonderings, as a
diversion she turned to the little diary and recorded therein:
JANUARY 20TH, 19-- I have not had the patience since arriving here
to record any of the events that have transpired since we left
Indiana. We have been here now nearly three weeks. Have not as yet
had time to draw any conclusion with regard to the country, but
this much I can cheerfully say--and which did not prevail back
where we came from--there is spirit in the country, the spirit of
the Pioneer.
The weather has been cold, cold every day since we arrived. Because
we ran out of urgent provisions soon after coming here I ventured
to go to Gregory, which is seven miles distant, for some more. I
have been too much upset over what took place on that memorable
trip to say much about it. Because I have never kept anything from
him, I told papa how I started from the town, became lost, and
stayed all night at a house and saved a man thereby. He has been so
frightened over what happened that he will not let me go anywhere
alone again--not even in the daytime. "Just think, my girl," he has
said time and again, "supposing you had not stumbled into that
house, you would surely have frozen to death on the plains!" I
somehow feel that Dolly would have brought me home; but that is a
matter for conjecture. But what I say to papa in return is: "Had I
not gotten lost, that man that is known so well about the country
must surely have suffered death!" This seems to pacify him, and he
is pleased after all to know that my getting lost was so provident
and opportune.
He has met the man, Jean Baptiste, (such an odd name,) and likes
him very much--in fact, he is very much carried away with him. I
have not seen him since the morning I left him at his sod house;
but I cannot get out of my mind the events that passed while I was
there. Always I can see him look up into my eyes with that strange
recognition, and then as he turned, call "_Agnes, it is you. I'm
glad you have come for I've waited for you so long._" What that
means I would give most half my life to know. I know that I shall
never rest in peace until I have become well enough acquainted with
him to ask him why and how he knew me. Then followed the morning
when he talked to himself and did not know I heard. It is all so
vivid in my mind.
Of late I have had an uncontrollable desire. I have wanted to know
more of my mother. It seems that if I could have known her, I would
understand myself better. I am positive now, that she must have
been a rare person. That she was French and very high tempered,
papa has told me; and also that she had lived in the West Indies
before he met her, but that she was born in France. As to the
legacy, he lays that to her peculiarity. She was always peculiar
in a way, says he; and that at all times she was mysterious. She
had been over almost all the world, and was wise in many things. He
thinks I have inherited much of her wit, and that eventually it
will express itself in some manner, which is all so strange. I
hope, however, it will. To rise in some manner out of the simple,
uneventful life I've lived would certainly be appreciated; but
whatever it is I cannot conclude.
Should I ever rise in any way, I feel now it would be due in some
manner to my meeting that strange colored man. I have wondered so
often since meeting him, how it feels to be a Negro. Papa and I
have discussed it often since. I understand there is a sort of
prejudice against the race in this country; that in the South they
are held down and badly treated; that in the North, even, they are
not fairly treated. Papa and I were both agreed about it. We cannot
understand why one should be disliked because his skin is dark; or
because his ancestors were slaves. But withal I cannot understand
how one could deal unfairly with them because of this. It is said
that some of the race are very ignorant and vicious; that they very
often commit the unspeakable crime. I suppose that is possible. If
so, then they should be educated. Take this Jean Baptiste, for
instance, an educated man, and what a gentleman! But papa, (he is
very vindictive!) he says that only about half the colored people
in this country are full blood; that in the days of slavery and
since, even, the white man who is very often ready to abuse the
black men, has been the cause of this mixture.... I should think
their consciences would disturb them.
Oh, well, I am glad that I have grown up where prejudice against
races is not a custom. My mother was French; my father Scotch all
through, and because I know him and am so ingrained with his
liberal traditions--even tho' he be poor,--I am at peace with all
mankind.
We haven't all the money we need, and the fact worries me. Papa
says he will hire Bill to some one if any one should need help. It
might be that the colored man will hire him, maybe. They say he is
going to hire a man. Papa intends to speak to him about it. The
only thing that worries us is that we have to explain that weakness
in Bill and George. George is impossible: too slow, talks too much,
and would never earn his salt. But if one is patient with Bill
until he catches on, he is an excellent worker, and faithful. I
wish the colored man would give him the job. He owns the quarter
that corners with us, which he expects to complete breaking out and
putting into flax next summer, so we are told. If Bill could get
that job it would be handy. Handy for Bill, for Mr. Baptiste, and
for us.
We have not met many people as yet. Because it is so cold to get
out, I haven't met any so to speak; but papa appears to be getting
acquainted right along. We are going to town--to Gregory again
Saturday. I am looking forward to it with pleasant anticipation. I
sincerely trust it will be a beautiful day. In the meantime the
clock has struck one, papa is turning over in bed and I can hear
him. I'll hear his voice presently, so I will close this with hopes
that Saturday will be a beautiful day and that I'll meet and become
acquainted with some nice people.
CHAPTER VIII
AN ENTERPRISING YOUNG MAN
When Jean Baptiste had found the papers belonging to Barr, and had come
to understand that it had been Barr's intention to destroy the same,
natural curiosity had prompted him to read into and examine what was in
his possession.
But after having read them, and realizing fully to return the same then,
would be to have Barr know, at least feel, that he was in possession of
such a grave secret, would make their, up to this time agreeable,
relationship rather awkward, he was at a loss as to what to do. So in
the end he laid the papers away, and waited. If Barr should make
inquiries for them, he would try to find some convenient way to return
the same. But on after thought, he knew that Barr would hardly start an
inquiry about the matter--even if he did come to realize he had lost
instead of destroyed the papers.
A few days later he saw Peter Kaden in the village, and this time
observed him more closely than had been his wont theretofore. Always
sad, he so remained, and down in Baptiste's heart he was sorry for the
wretch. It was after he had returned home and lingered at the fire that
he heard a light knock at the door. He called "Come in." The door was
opened and Augustus M. Barr stood in the doorway.
Baptiste was for a time slightly nervous. He was glad then that it was
dark within the room, otherwise Barr must have seen him give a quick
start.
"Ah-ha," began Barr, cheerfully, coming forward and taking the chair
Baptiste placed at his disposal. "Quite comfortable in the little sod
house on the claim."
"Quite comfortable," returned Baptiste evenly, his mind upon the papers
so near. He didn't trust himself to comment. He waited for whatever was
to happen.
"Suppose you are thinking about the big crop you will seed in the
springtime," ventured Barr.
"Yes," admitted Baptiste, for in truth, the same had been on his mind
before Barr put in his appearance. "Suppose you will put out quite a
crop yourself in the spring," he ventured in return.
"Well, I don't know," said Barr thoughtfully. "I fear I'm getting a
little old to farm--and this baching!" Baptiste thought about Christine
who was not so far away instead of in England.... He marveled at the
man's calm nerve. It did not seem possible that a man of this one's
broad education could be so low as to resort to fallacies.
"No," he heard Barr again. "I don't think that I shall farm next summer.
In fact I have about decided to make proof on my claim, and that is what
I have called on you in regard to. I suppose I can count you as witness
to the fact?" Baptiste was relieved. Barr still thought he had destroyed
the papers. He was smiling when he replied:
"Indeed, I shall be glad to attest to the fact you refer to."
"Thanks," Said Barr, and rose to go.
"No hurry."
"I must go into town on a matter of business," said Barr from the
doorway. "Well," he paused briefly and then said, "I am applying for a
date, and when that is settled I shall let you know."
"Very well. Good day."
"Good day, my friend," and he went over the hill.
Baptiste was thoughtful when he was gone. He looked after him and
thought about the papers. He marveled again at the man's calmness....
Then suddenly he arose as a thought struck him, and going to his trunk,
lifted from the top the last issue of the Dallas _Enterprise_. He
glanced quickly through the columns and then his eyes rested on a legal
notice. He smiled.
"Old Peter is going to make proof.... So is Barr. The eternal triangle
begins to take shape...." He got up and went to the door. Over the hill
he saw Barr just entering the town.... "This is beginning to get
interesting.... But I don't like the Kaden end of it.... I wish I could
do something.... Something to help Kaden...."
* * * * *
Saturday was a beautiful day. To Gregory from miles around went almost
everybody. So along with the rest went Jean Baptiste. He fostered
certain hopes,--had ulterior purposes in view. Firstly, it was a nice
day, the town he knew would be filled; and secondly, he was subtly
interested in Kaden. He had seen by the paper that he was advertised to
make proof that day on his homestead.... Another thing, whenever he
thought of Kaden, he could not keep Barr, and Syfe, and lastly,
Christine, out of his mind....
He found the little town filled almost to overflowing when he arrived.
Teams were tied seemingly to every available post. The narrow board
walks were crowded, the saloons were full, red liquor was doing its bit;
while the general stores were alive with girls, women and children. A
jovial day was ahead and old friendships were revived and new ones made.
There is about a new country an air of hopefulness that is contagious.
Here in this land had come the best from everywhere: the best because
they were for the most part hopeful and courageous; that great army of
discontented persons that have been the forerunners of the new world.
Mingled in the crowd, Jean Baptiste regarded the unusual conglomeration
of kinds. There were Germans, from Germany, and there were Swedes from
Sweden, Danes from Denmark, Norwegians from Norway. There were Poles,
and Finns and Lithuanians and Russians; there were French and a few
English; but of his race he was the only one.
As a whole the greater portion were from the northern parts of the
United States, and he was glad that they were. With them there was no
"Negro problem," and he was glad there was not. The world was too busy
to bother with such: he was glad to know he could work unhampered. He
was looked at curiously by many. To the young, a man of his skin was
something rare, something new. He smiled over it with equal amusement,
and then in a store he walked right into Agnes, the first time he had
seen her since the morning at the sod house. He was greatly surprised,
and rather flustrated,--and was glad again his skin was dark. She could
not see the blood that went to his face; while with her, it showed most
furiously.
As the meeting was unexpected, all she had thought and felt in the weeks
since, came suddenly to the surface in her expression. In spite of her
effort at self control, her blushing face evidenced her confusion upon
seeing him again. But with an effort, she managed to bow courteously,
while he was just as dignified. They would have passed and gone their
ways had it not been that in that instant another, a lady, a neighbor
and friend of Baptiste's, came upon them. She had become acquainted with
Agnes that day, and was very fond of Baptiste. Although her name was
Reynolds, she was a red blooded German, sociable, kind and obliging. She
had not observed that they had exchanged greetings--did not know,
obviously, that the two were acquainted; wherefore, her neighborly
instincts became assertive.
Coming forward volubly, anxiously, she caught Baptiste by the hand and
shook it vigorously. "Mr. Baptiste, Mr. Baptiste!" she cried,
punctuating the hand shaking with her voice full of joy, her red,
healthy face beaming with smiles. "How very glad I am to see you! You
have not been to see us for an age, and I have asked Tom where you were.
We feared you had gone off and done something serious," whereupon she
winked mischievously. Baptiste understood and smiled.
"You are certainly looking well for an old bachelor," she commented,
after releasing his hand and looking into his face seriously, albeit
amusedly, mischievously. "We were at Dallas and got some of the coal you
were brave enough to bring from Bonesteel that awful cold day. My, Jean,
you certainly are possessed with great nerve! While that coal to
everybody was a godsend, yet think of the risk you took! Why, supposing
you had gotten lost in that terrific storm; lost as people have been in
the West before! You must be careful," she admonished, kindly. "You are
really too fine a young man to go out here and get frozen to death,
indeed!" Baptiste started perceptibly. She regarded him questioningly.
Unconsciously his eyes wandered toward Agnes who stood near, absorbed in
all Mrs. Reynolds had been saying. His eyes met hers briefly, and the
events of the night at the sod house passed through the minds of both.
The next moment they looked away, and Mrs. Reynolds, not understanding,
glanced toward Agnes. She was by disposition versatile. But she caught
her breath now with sudden equanimity, as she turned to Agnes and cried:
"Oh, Miss Stewart, you!" she smiled with her usual delight and going
toward Agnes caught her arm affectionately, and then, with face still
beaming, she turned to where Baptiste stood.
"I want you, Miss Stewart," she said with much ostentation, "to meet one
of our neighbors and friends; one of the most enterprising young men of
the country, Mr. Jean Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste, Miss Agnes Stewart." She
did it gracefully, and for a time was overcome by her own vanity. In the
meantime the lips of both those before her parted to say that they had
met, and then slowly, understandingly, they saw that this would mean to
explain.... Their faces lighted with the logic of meeting formally, and
greetings were exchanged to fit the occasion.
For the first time he was permitted to see her, to regard her as the
real Agnes. There was no embarrassment in her face but composure as she
extended her small ungloved hand this time and permitted it to rest
lightly in his palm. She smiled easily as she accepted his ardent gaze
and showed a row of even white teeth momentarily before turning
coquetishly away.
He regarded her intimately in one sweep of his eyes. She accepted this
also with apparent composure. She was now fully normal in her
composition. That about her which others had understood, and were
inspired to call beautiful now seemed to strangely affect him.
Was it because he was hungry for woman's love; because since he had
looked upon this land of promise and out of the visions she had come to
him in those long silent days; because of his lonely young life there in
the sod house she had communed with him; was it that he had imagined
her sweet radiance that now caused him to feel that she was beautiful?
She had looked away only briefly, as if to give him time to think, to
consider her, and then she turned her eyes upon him again. She regarded
him frankly then, albeit admiringly. She wanted to hear him say
something. She was not herself aware of how anxious she was to hear him
speak; for him to say anything, would please her. And as she stood
before him in her sweet innocence, all the goodness she possessed, the
heart and desire always to be kind, to do for others as she had always,
was revealed to him. His dream girl she was, and in reality she had not
disappointed him.
If visionary he had loved her, he now saw her and what was hers. Her
wondrous hair, rolled into a frivolous knot at the back of her head made
her face appear the least slender when it was really square; the
chestnut glint of it seemed to contrast coquettishly with her white
skin; and the life, the healthy, cheerful life that now gave vigor to
her blood brought faint red roses to her cheeks; roses that seemed to
come and go. Her red lips seemed to tempt him, he was captivated. He
forgot in this intimate survey that she was of one race while he, Jean
Baptiste, was of another.... And that between their two races, the
invisible barrier, the barrier which, while invisible was so absolute,
so strong, so impossible of melting that it was best for the moment that
he forget it.
While all he saw passed in a moment, he regarded her slenderness as she
stood buttoned in the long coat, and wondered how she, so slight and
fragile, had been able to lift his heavy frame upon the bed where he had
found himself. And still before words had passed between them, he saw
her again, and that singularity in the eyes had come back; they were
blue and then they were brown, but withal they were so baffling. He did
not seem to understand her when they were like this, yet when so he felt
strangely a greater right, the right to look into and feast in what he
saw, regardless of _the custom of the country and its law_.... And still
while he was not aware of it, Jean Baptiste came to feel that there was
something between them. Though infinite, in the life that was to come,
he now came strangely to feel sure that he was to know her, to become
more intimately acquainted with her, and with this consciousness he
relaxed. The spell that had come from meeting her again, from being near
her, from holding her hand in his though formally, the exchange of words
passed and he gradually became his usual self; the self that had always
been his in this land where others than those of the race to which he
belonged were the sole inhabitants. He was relieved when he heard Mrs.
Reynolds' voice:
"Miss Stewart and her folks have just moved out from Indiana, Jean, and
are renting on the Watson place over east of you; the place that corners
with the quarter you purchased last fall, you understand."
"Indeed!" Baptiste echoed with feigned ignorance, his eyebrows dilating.
"Yes," she went on with concern, "And you are neighbors."
"I'm glad--honored," Baptiste essayed.
"He is flattering," blushed Agnes, but she was pleased.
"And you'll find Mr. Baptiste the finest kind of neighbor, too," cried
Mrs. Reynolds with equal delight.
"I'm a bad neighbor, Miss Stewart," he disdained. "Our friend here, Mrs.
Reynolds, you see, is full of flattery."
"I don't believe so, Mr. Baptiste," she defended, glad to be given an
opportunity to speak. "We have just become acquainted, but papa has told
me of her, and the family, and I'm sure we will be the best of friends,
won't we?" she ended with her eyes upon Mrs. Reynolds.
"Bless you, yes! Who could keep from liking you?" whereupon she caught
Agnes close and kissed her impulsively.
"Oh, say, now," cried Baptiste, and then stopped.
"You're not a woman," laughed Mrs. Reynolds, "but you understand," she
added reprovingly. Suddenly her face lit up with a new thought, and the
usual smiling gave way to seriousness, as she cried:
"By the way, Jean. We hear that you are going to hire a man this spring,
and that reminds me that Miss Stewart's father has two boys--her
brothers--whom he has not work enough nor horses enough to use, so he
wishes to hire one out." She paused to observe Agnes, who had also
become serious and was looking up at her.
At this point she turned to Baptiste, and with a slight hesitation, she
said:
"Do you really wish to hire a man--Mr.--a--Mr. Baptiste?" Saying it had
heightened her color, and the anxiety in her tone caused her to appear
more serious. She had turned her eyes up to his and he was for the
instant captivated again with the thought that she was beautiful. His
answer, however, was calm.
"I must have a man," he acknowledged. "I have more work than I can do
alone."
"Why, papa wishes to hire Bill--" It was natural to say Bill because it
was Bill they always hired, although George was the older; but since we
know why George was never offered, we return to her. "I should say
William," she corrected awkwardly, and with an effort she cast it out
of her mind and went on: "So if--if you think you could--a--use him, or
would care to give him the job," she was annoyed with the fact that Bill
was halfwitted, and it confused her, which explains the slight catches
in her voice. But bravely she continued, "That is, if you have not
already given some one else the job, you could speak to papa, and he
would be pleased, I'm sure." She ended with evident relief; but the
thought that had confused her, being still in her mind, her face was
dark with a confusion that he did not understand.
Hoping to relieve the annoyance he could see, although not understanding
the cause of it, he spoke up quickly.
"I have not hired a man, and have no other in sight; so your suggestion,
Miss, regarding your brother meets with my favor. I will endeavor
therefore, to see your father today if possible, if not, later, and
discuss the matter pro and con."
He had made it so easy for her, and she was overly gracious as she
attempted to have him understand in some manner that her brother was
afflicted. So her effort this time was a bit braver, notwithstanding as
anxious, however, as before.
"Oh, papa will be glad to have my brother work for you, and I wish you
would--would please not hire any other until you have talked with him."
She paused again as if to gather courage for the final drive.
"You will find my brother faithful, and honest, and a good worker;
but--but--" it seemed that she could not avoid the break in her voice
when she came to this all embarrassing point, "but sometimes--he--he
makes mistakes. He is a little awkward, a little bunglesome in starting,
but if you would--could exercise just a little patience for a few
days--a day, I am sure he would please you." It was out at last. She
was sure he would understand. It had cost her such an effort to try to
make it plain without just coming out and saying he was halfwitted. She
was not aware that in concluding she had done so appealingly. He had
observed it and his man's heart went out to her in her distress. He
remembered then too, although he had on their first meeting forgotten
that he had been told all about her brothers, and had also heard of her.
"You need have no fear there, Miss Stewart," he wilfully lied. "I am the
most patient man in the world." He wondered then at himself, that he
could lie so easily. His one great failing was his impatience, and he
knew it. Because he did and felt that he tried to crush it, was his
redeeming feature in this respect. But the words had lightened her
burden, and there was heightening of her color, as she spoke now with
unfeigned delight:
"Oh, that is indeed kind of you. I am so glad to hear you say so. Bill
is a good hand--everybody likes him after he has worked a while. It is
because he is a little awkward and forgetful in the beginning that
worries my father and me. So I'm glad you know now and will not be
impatient."
In truth while she did not know it, Jean was pleased with the prospect.
He had not lived two years in the country, the new country, without
having experienced the difficulty that comes with the usual hired man.
The class of men, with the exception of a homesteader, who came to the
country for work usually fell into the pastime of gambling and drinking
which seemed to be contagious, and many were the griefs they gave those
by whom they were employed. And Jean Baptiste, now that she had made it
plain regarding her brother, had something to say himself.
"There is one little thing I should like to mention, Miss Stewart," he
said with apparent seriousness. She caught her breath with renewed
anxiety as she returned his look. In the next instant she was relieved,
however, as he said: "You understand that I am baching, a bachelor, and
the fare of bachelors is, I trust you will appreciate, not always the
best." He paused as he thought of how she must feel after having seen
the way he kept his house, and hoped that she could overlook the
condition in which she knew he kept it. But if he was embarrassed at the
thought of it, it was not so with her. For her sympathy went out to him.
She was conscious of how inconvenient it must be to bach, to live alone
as he was doing, and to work so hard.
"It is not always to hired men's liking to forego the meals that only
women can prepare, and for that reason it is sometimes difficult for us
to keep men."
"Oh, you will not have to worry as to that, Mr. Baptiste," she assured
him pleasantly. She caught her breath with something joyous apparently
as she turned to him. "You see, we live almost directly between your two
places, and my brother can stay home and save you that trouble and
bother." She was glad that she could be of assistance to him in some
way, though it be indirectly. With sudden impulse, she turned to Mrs.
Reynolds who had not interrupted:
"It will be nice, now, won't it?"
"Just dandy," the other agreed readily. "I am so glad we all three met
here," she went on. "In meeting we have fortunately been of some service
to each other. You will find Mr. Baptiste a fine fellow to work for. We
let our boys go over and help him out when he's pushed, and we know he
appreciates it to the fullest." She halted, turned now mischievously to
Baptiste and cried:
"We are always after Jean that he should marry. Why, just think what a
good husband he would make some nice girl." She had found her topic, had
Mrs. Reynolds. Of all topics, she preferred to jolly the single with
getting married to anything else, so she went on with delight.
"He goes off down to Chicago every winter and we wait to see the girl
when he returns, but always he disappoints us." She affected a frown a
moment before resuming: "It is certainly too bad that some good girl
must do without a home and the happiness that is due her, while he lives
there alone, having no comfort but what he gets when he goes visiting."
She affected to appear serious and to have him feel it, while he could
do nothing but grin awkwardly.
"Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, you're hard on a fellow. My! Give him a chance. It
takes two to make a bargain. I can't marry myself." He caught the eyes
of Agnes who was enjoying his tender expression. Indeed the subject
appealed to him, and he had found it to his liking. She blushed. She
enjoyed the humor.
"I suspect Mrs. Reynolds speaks the truth," she said with affected
seriousness, but found it impossible to down the color in her flaming
cheeks nevertheless.
"Oh, but you two can jolly a fellow." He became serious now as he went
on: "But it isn't fair. There is no girl back in Chicago; there is no
girl anywhere for me." He was successful in his affectation of self
pity, and her feelings went out to him in her words that followed:
"Now that is indeed, too bad, for him, Mrs. Reynolds, isn't it? Perhaps
he is telling the truth. The girls in Chicago do not always understand
the life out here, and cannot make one feel very much encouraged." She
wondered at her own words. But she went on nevertheless. "Even back in
Indiana they do not understand the West. They are--seem to be, so
narrow, they feel that they are living in the only place of
civilization on earth." Her logical statement took away the joke. They
became serious. The store was filling and the crowd was pushing. So they
parted.
A few minutes later as Baptiste passed down the street, he saw Peter
Kaden coming from the commissioners' office. Across the way he observed
Barr and Syfe stop and exchange a few words. The next moment they went
their two ways while he stood looking after them.
CHAPTER IX
"CHRISTINE, CHRISTINE!"
One week from the day Peter Kaden made proof at Gregory on the homestead
he held, the court record showed that he had transferred the same to
some unknown person. In the course of events it was not noticed by the
masses. It was because Jean Baptiste was expecting something of the kind
that he happened to observe the record of the transfer in the following
week's issue of the paper. He couldn't get the incident out of his mind,
and he found his eyes wandering time and again in the direction of the
house of Augustus M. Barr in the days that followed.
From what he had gleaned from the papers, he was sure that something
sinister was to occur in that new land soon. He tried in vain to
formulate some plan of action--rather, some plan of prevention. But the
plot, the intrigue, or whatever it may be called, was deep. It had taken
root before either had ever seen the country they now called home. And
because of its intricate nature, he could formulate no plan toward
combatting the thing he felt positively in his veins was to take place.
Over the hill two miles and more the claim shack of Peter Kaden could
not be seen. But he could always feel where it was and the events that
went on therein. This healthy, but sad, forlorn German had aroused his
sympathy, and always when he thought of him, strangely he thought of
Christine.
The days passed slowly and things went on as usual. He saw Barr
occasionally and as often saw the dark Syfe. He read as was his wont,
and then one evening when his few chores were done, he had a desire to
walk. He drew on his overcoat, and, taking a bucket, he walked slowly
down the slope that led up to his house, to the well a quarter mile
distant. He could never after account for the strange feeling that came
and went as he ambled toward the well. He reached it in due time, filled
his bucket, and was in the act of returning when out of the night he
caught the unmistakable sound of horses' hoofs. Some one on horseback
was coming. He set the bucket down and bent his ears more keenly to hear
the sound.
Yes, they were hoof beats, an unusual clatter. He gave a start. Only one
horse in the neighborhood made such a noise with the hoofs when moving,
for he had heard the same before, and that horse belonged to A.M. Barr,
and was a pacer. Christine had use to ride him. And when he recalled it,
he became curious. Christine was not there, he knew, unless she had come
that day, which was not likely.... Then _who rode the horse_? He had
never seen Barr on horseback.... They were coming from about where
Barr's house stood, coming in his direction along the road. He estimated
at that moment they must be about a quarter of a mile away. He listened
intently. Onward they came, drawing closer all the while. He got an
inspiration. Why should he be seen? He moved back from the road some
distance. There was no moon and the night was dark, but the stars filled
the night air with a dim ray. He lay upon the ground as the horseman
drew nearer. Presently out of the shadow he caught the dim outline of
the rider. He saw that a heavy ulster was worn, and the collar of the
same was around the rider's neck, almost concealing the head; but he
recognized the rider as A.M. Barr.
"Now where can he be going," he muttered to himself, standing erect as
he listened to the hoof beats on the road below. He pondered briefly.
"Why does he never ride in the daytime?" From down the road the sound of
hoof beats continued. And then Baptiste was again inspired.
"Kaden!" he cried, and fell into deep thought.
At his left was a small creek, usually dry. This stream led in an
angling direction down toward the larger stream south of the town. It
led directly toward the claim of Peter Kaden, although the homestead lay
beyond the creek. By following it, one could reach Kaden's house in
about two-thirds the distance if going by trail.
A few minutes later Jean Baptiste was speedily following the route that
led to the creek. He paused at intervals and upon listening could hear
the hoof beats along the trail in the inevitable direction. He reached
the creek in a short time, found his way across it, and once on the
other side, he hurried through a school section to Kaden's cabin that
was joined with this on the south. He crossed the school section
quickly, and in the night air he could smell, and presently came to see,
the smoke curling from the chimney. He approached the house cautiously.
He was glad that poor Kaden didn't keep a dog. When he had drawn close
enough to distinguish the objects before him, he saw Barr's horse tied
out of the wind, on the south side of the little barn. He looked closer
and observed another near. He reckoned that one to be Syfe's. "So the
triangle is forming," he muttered.
He went up to the house noiselessly. He passed around its dark side to
where he saw light emanating from the small window. He peered cautiously
through it. Sitting on the side of the bed, Kaden's face met his gaze.
He regarded it briefly before seeking out the others. Never, he felt, if
he lived a hundred years would he ever forget the expression of agony
that face wore! Upon its usual roundness, perceptible lines had formed;
in the light of the dim lamp he caught the darkness about the eyes, the
skin under almost sagging and swollen. He permitted his gaze to drift
further, and to take in the proportions of the room.
On a stool near sat Syfe, the Jew. He wore his overcoat. Indeed,
Baptiste could not recall having ever seen him without it about him;
also he wore his thick, dark cap. His little mustache stood out over the
small mouth, between the lips of which reposed the usual cigarette. He
was drawing away easily at this, while his ears appeared to be attentive
to what was going on. He was listening to Barr, who stood in the center
of the room, talking in much excitement, making gestures; while he could
see the agonized Kaden protesting. He could not catch all that was being
said, but some of it. Barr, in particular, he observed, while speaking
forcibly, was nevertheless controlled. It was Kaden whose voice reached
his ears more often on the outside.
"I kept you from Australia...." this from Barr. "They had you on
shipboard.... Your carcass would be fit for the vultures now on that
sand swept desert you were headed for...."
"But I was innocent, I was innocent," protested Kaden. "I didn't go to
Russia that trip. I didn't go to Russia, and to Jerusalem, I have never
been!"
"But you hadn't proved it. You were done for. They had you, and all you
could do or say wouldn't have kept you in England. It was I, me, do you
understand.... You do understand that I kept you from going. I, me, who
saved you. No law in this land could keep you here if they knew now
where you were...."
"But you forget Christine, my poor Christine! You have her, is that not
enough? Oh, you are hard. You drive me most insane. Tell me about
Christine. Give her back to me and all is yours."
A wind rose suddenly out of the west. A shed stood near, a shed covered
over with hay and some poles that had been cut green, and the now dry
leaves gave forth a moaning sound. He saw those inside start. With the
noise, Baptiste knew he could hear no more, and might be apprehended.
Stealthily he departed.
And all the way to the sod house that night he kept repeating what he
had heard. "_Christine, Christine! You have her, is she not enough? Give
her back and all is yours!_"
If he could only ascertain what was between Kaden and Christine--but it
was all coming to something soon, and he knew that Augustus M. Barr was
taking the advantage of some one; that Kaden was innocent but couldn't
prove it; that Syfe was in some way darkly connected, and the eternal
triangle held to its sinister purpose.
CHAPTER X
"YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE"
When Agnes Stewart found her father and they were ready to return home,
she inquired:
"Did he see you?"
"See who?"
"You? You don't understand. I mean the colored gentleman, Mr. Baptiste?"
"Why, no, my dear," her father replied wonderingly. "I saw him, but I
had no word with him. I don't understand."
"Why, I met him. Mrs. Reynolds, who knows you--she and I became
acquainted, and we met and had a long talk with Mr. Baptiste, and he is
going to hire a man, so we discussed Bill. He said he would see you."
Her father drew the team to a stop.
"I don't understand. I should see him, and I did, but he was talking
with some fellows who live north of town. I think it was about horses.
He went with them, so I suppose we may as well go on home and see him
later."
"I'm so sorry," she said and showed it in her face. "I had hoped he
would get to see you, and that it would all be settled and Bill would
get the job."
"Don't be so out of hope," said he. "I have no doubt that we will get to
see Mr. Baptiste, and talk it over."
"I am worried, because--you know, papa, when we have paid for the seed
and feed, we will have very little left."
"Such a wonderful, such a thoughtful little girl I have," he said
admiringly, stroking her hand fondly in the meantime. "I can't imagine
how I could get along without my Aggie."
"See him and get Bill hired and I'll not worry any more."
"I'll do so, I'll do so tomorrow."
"You say you saw him going north of town?"
"Yes."
She was silent, while he was thoughtful. Presently he inquired of what
passed when she met him.
She told him.
"I never spoke of having met him before."
"You didn't?"
"Why, no, papa. How could I? It would be hard to explain."
"Well, now, coming to think of it, it would, wouldn't it?"
"It _shouldn't_," she said. She didn't relish the situation.
"Did he?"
"What?"
"Speak of it."
"Oh, no! He didn't...."
"I wonder has he ever."
"I don't think so."
"That is very thoughtful of him."
"It is. He is a real gentleman."
"So everybody says."
"And so pleasant to listen to."
"Indeed."
"Mrs. Reynolds is carried away with him. Says he's one of the most
industrious and energetic young men of the country."
"Isn't that fine! But it seems rather odd, doesn't it? Him out here
alone."
"It is indeed singular. But he is just the kind of man a new country
needs."
"If the country had a few hundred more like him we wouldn't know it in
five years."
"In three years!" she said admiringly.
"How shall we explain in regards to Bill?..."
"I've explained."
"You have!"
"Oh, I didn't come out and say it in words, of course. I didn't need
to."
"Then how? How did you make him understand?"
"It was easy. It was easy because he is so quick witted. He seems to
readily understand anything."
"I'll bet!"
"He spoke of the fact that being a bachelor it was awkward to keep hired
men, and this fact seemed to worry him."
"But why didn't you explain that Bill could stay home?"
"I did."
"Oh!"
"And he was so relieved."
"I'm sure he was. It is very inconvenient."
"It is. And I feel rather sorry for him."
"Needs a wife."
She was silent.
"Wonder why he doesn't marry?"
"I don't know."
"Will make some girl a fine husband."
Silence.
"I guess he has a girl, though, and will likely marry soon."
"I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Well," she said slowly. She blushed unseen and went on: "Mrs. Reynolds
joked him about it, and he denied it."
"But any man would do that. They like to be modest; to appear like they
have no loves. It creates sympathy. Men are sentimental, too. They like
sympathy."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "But I don't think
he has a girl. In my mind he is a poor lonesome fellow. Just like he has
no close friends...."
He was silent now.
"I have thought about it since I met him."
"You have?"
"Why, yes. Certainly."
Her father laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" she asked, somewhat nettled.
"I was thinking."
"Thinking? Thinking of what?"
"Of Jean Baptiste."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, there is a good chance for you."
"Father!"
"Why not!"
"Father! How can you!"
He laughed. She acted as if angry. He looked at her mischievously. She
did not grant him a smile.
"Tut, tut, Aggie! Can't you take a joke?"
"But you should not joke like that."
"Oh, come now. It pleased me to joke like that."
"Why should it please you?"
"Why, I have a sense of humor."
"A sense of humor?"
"Yes."
"But I don't see the joke?"
"Why, Aggie," he turned to her seriously. "Almost I don't think it is a
joke."
"Father!"
"Well, dear? You seem to be so interested in the man."
"Father, oh, father!" and the next instant she was crying. He reached
out and caught her fondly to him. "My girl, my girl, I didn't intend to
upset you. Now be papa's little darling and don't cry any more!"
"You have never been this way before," she sobbed. He caressed her more
now.
"Well, dearest. You see. Well, your mother--"
"My mother!" she sat quickly up.
"We are going to raise a great crop this year. I feel sure of it."
"But my mother!"
"I think I know where I can get some good seed oats."
They rode along in silence the rest of the way, consumed with their own
thoughts. No words passed, but Agnes was thinking. She would never get
out of her mind what her father had started to say. But he had stopped
in time.... Her mind went back to the strange incidents in her life. She
lived over again the day she had looked in the mirror and had seen that
strange look, she connected it singularly with what her father had
started to say. She was silent thereafter, but her soul was on fire.
CHAPTER XI
WHAT JEAN BAPTISTE FOUND IN THE WELL
"Well, my friend," said A.M. Barr, stopping before Baptiste's hut one
day shortly after his visit to Kaden's, "I have my date and will make
proof on the 22nd of March. I have listed you as one of my witnesses.
Guess I may depend on you to be ready that day?"
"I shall remember it, Mr. Barr," answered Baptiste. "Have you rented
your place yet?"
"No, I have not. Rather, not the buildings. My neighbor across the road,
however, will put the thirty acres I have broken into crop, and break a
few more."
"M-m."
"How much do you plan seeding this season?"
"All of both places anyhow."
"Ah, young man, I tell you, you are a worker! Such young men as you will
be the making of this country. And you'll be rich in time."
"Oh, no," cried Baptiste disdainfully.
"If I were young and strong like you, I would be doing the same."
"You expect to go away when you have completed your proof...."
"Well, I don't know," whereupon A.M. Barr cast a furtive glance in his
direction. Baptiste pretended not to see it.
"What'll you do with your horses?" Another furtive glance.
"Well, I might advertise a sale," he said boldly. He cast a dark look in
Baptiste's direction, which the other pretended not to see--but did see
nevertheless. "Why, what could he know," was in Barr's mind. "Nothing,"
he answered his own question. A moment later he was the same Barr; the
officious Englishman when he drove down the road a few minutes later,
and none the wiser therefor.
March the twenty-second came and went, and Augustus offered proof on his
homestead, and passed, Baptiste assisting him as witness.
Sunday was the next day, and when it came, all calm and beautiful,
Baptiste realized that he did not have enough seed wheat to sow all his
land that he wished put in wheat. A squaw man had raised a large crop to
the southwest of him the year before, and this, he understood, was for
sale. He decided to call on the squaw man, ascertain the fact, and if
so, purchase a share of it for his purpose.
Accordingly, Sunday morning after he had breakfasted, and piled the
dishes bachelor fashion (unwashed) he started out.
The route he took carried him directly by Peter Kaden's claim, and when
he had gone that far, and found himself looking at the low, sod house
that stood a few paces back from the road, he was curious. He paused
unconsciously before the house and observed it idly a few moments.
He was struck with the quietness about, and at once became curiously
apprehensive. No smoke emerged from the chimney. There was no evidence
that any one was about. Impelled by his growing curiosity, he approached
the house and knocked at the door. There was no response from within. He
tried it again. Still no response. He tried the knob. It gave. He pushed
the door open cautiously, and peered in. The house was empty but for the
crude furniture. He entered curiously and looked about. The bed was
spread over, there was no fire in the stove, the coldness of the
atmosphere within impressed him with a theory that no fire had been in
the stove that day or the night before. The dishes were clean and piled
on the table with a cloth spread over them. He went outside, closing the
door behind him and swept the surrounding country with his gaze which
revealed no Peter Kaden. He lowered his eyes in thought as his lips
muttered:
"Wonder where he is?"
A path began at his feet. It led down to a draw some two hundred yards
away. He fell into it aimlessly and followed its course for a short way.
Presently, upon looking up, he saw a well at the side of the draw which
obviously was the terminus of the path.
Forthwith he made the well his objective. In that country wells were not
plentiful. The soil was of the richest and blackest loam with a clay
subsoil; but water except where there was sand, was not easily found
only in or near a draw, or a flat. He reached the well, and, drawing
aside the bucket that reposed on the lid, he opened the well and lowered
the bucket to the water some thirty feet below.
The bright sun rays somewhat blinded him and for a moment he could not
see the water clearly. The bucket struck, in due time, however, and he
wondered why there was no splash. He jerked it over, and when it struck
again there was the sound of water, but it appeared difficult to sink
it. He peered down into it again to ascertain what the matter was. A
wave of ripples caught his gaze, while the bucket seemed to be resting
on something. He gave the rope another jerk and twist, and it came down
bottom-side up on the dark object.
"Hell," he muttered, "this well is dry!" He took another look. "No, it
isn't dry. There is something in the well." Bending until his face was
shaded by the shadow of the well, he searched below very closely with
his eyes. He could distinguish that there was something; and that _the
something_ seemed to bobble. He withdrew the bucket, unfilled, and,
allowing a few moments for the ripples to subside, he searched the
darkness below again closely. He became conscious of a cold feeling
stealing up his spine, then he caught and held his breath as slowly what
was below took outline. It was not a dog, a coyote, a pig, or an animal
of any kind. It was _something_ else ... and the _something_ else had
features that were familiar. At last realization was upon him, his
fingers gripped the boards they held as he gradually straightened up.
"My God!" he cried at last, terror stricken.
For below him, with white face turned upward as if laughing, was the
dead body of Peter Kaden.
CHAPTER XII
MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER
Coincident with the finding of Peter Kaden's body in the well, certain
things became public with regard to others. But to complete this part of
it. After finding the body Jean Baptiste hurried into Dallas and gave
the alarm. Excitement ran high for a time, and as it was Sunday, in a
few hours the spot around the well was crowded. From over all the
reservation the people came, and the consensus of opinion was that it
was suicide.... Perhaps Jean Baptiste was the only one who had his
doubts. If it was suicide, then he was positive it was a precipitated
suicide.
Until the coroner arrived there was no disposition made of the remains,
and when he did, the decision of suicide was sustained.
Since the man Baptiste had started to see was brought to the spot by the
excitement, the business in hand was settled thereupon, and that
evening, he went to call on the Stewarts with a view to hiring Bill.
He found Agnes alone, but was invited to enter. From her expression, he
could see that he was expected, and while he waited for her father who
had gone across the road, they fell into amiable conversation.
"Springtime is knocking at our door," he ventured.
"And I am glad to see it, and suppose you are also," she answered.
"Who isn't! It has been a very severe winter."
"I think so, too. Are the winters here as a rule as cold as this one has
been?" How modest he thought she was. She was dressed neatly in a satin
shirtwaist and tailored skirt; while from beneath the skirts her small
feet incased in heavy shoes peeped like mice. Her neck rose out of her
bodice and he thought her throat was so very round and white; while he
noticed her prominent chin more today than he had before. He liked it.
Nature had been his study, and he didn't like a retreating chin. It, to
his mind, was an indication of weak will, with exceptions perhaps here
and there. He reposed more confidence in the person, however, when the
chin was like hers, so naturally he was interested. As she sat before
him with folded hands, he also observed her heavy hair, done into braids
and gathered about her head. It gave her an unostentatious expression;
while her eyes were as he had found them before, baffling.
"Why, no, they are not," he said. "Of course I have not seen many--in
fact this is the second; but I am advised that, as a rule, the winters
are very mild for this latitude."
"I see. I hope they will always be so if we continue to live here," and
she laughed pleasantly.
"How do you like it in our country?" he inquired now, pleased to be in
conversation with her.
"Why, I like it very well," she replied amiably. "What I have seen of
it, I think I would as soon live here as back in Indiana."
"I have been in Indiana myself."
"You have?" She was cheered with the fact. He nodded.
"Yes, all over. What part of Indiana do you come from?"
"Rensselaer," she replied, shifting with comfort, and delighted that by
his having been in Indiana, he was making their conversation easier.
"Oh, I see," she heard him. "That is toward the northern part of the
state."
"Yes," she replied in obvious delight.
"I have never been to that town, but I have been all around it."
"Well, well!" She was at a loss in the moment how to proceed and then
presently she said:
"You have traveled considerably, Mr. Baptiste, I understand."
He felt somewhat flattered to know that she had discussed him with
others apparently.
"Well, yes, I have," he replied slowly.
"That must be fine. I long so much to travel."
"You have not traveled far?"
"No. From Indiana to Western Kansas where we were most starved out, and
then back to Indiana and out here." He laughed, she also joined in and
they felt nearer each other by it.
"And how do you like it, Mr. Baptiste?"
"Out here, you mean?"
"Yes, why, yes, of course," she added hastily.
"Why, I like it fine. I'm thoroughly in love with the country."
"That's nice. And you own such nice land, I don't wonder," she said
thoughtfully.
"Oh, well," he replied, modestly, "I think I should like it anyhow."
"Of course; but when one has property--such nice land as you own, they
have everything to like it for."
"I'm compelled to agree with you."
"I'm sorry we don't own any," she said regretfully. "But of course in a
way we are not entitled to. We didn't get in 'on the ground floor,'
therefore we must be satisfied as renters."
He was silent but attentive.
"Papa never seems to have been very fortunate. It may be due to his
quaint old fashioned manner, but he has never owned any land at all,
poor fellow." She said the last more to herself than to him. He was
interested and continued to listen.
"We went to Western Kansas with a little money and very good stock, and
were dried out two years straight, and the third year when we had a good
crop with a chance to get back at least a little of what we had lost,
along came a big hail storm and pounded everything into the ground."
"Wasn't that too bad!" he cried sympathetically.
"It sure was! It is awfully discouraging to work as hard and to have
sacrificed as much as we had, and then come out as we did. It just took
all the ambition out of him."
"I shouldn't wonder," he commented tenderly.
"And then we went back to Indiana--broke, of course, and having no money
and no stock; because we had to sell what we had left to get out of
Western Kansas. So since 'beggars can't be choosers' we had to take what
we could get. And that was a poor farm in a remote part of Indiana, in a
little place that was so poor that the corn was all nubbins. They called
it 'Nubbin Ridge.'"
He laughed, and she had to also when she thought of it.
"Well, we were able to live and pay a little on some more stock. Because
my brothers didn't take much to run around with like other boys but
stayed home and worked, we finally succeeded in getting just a little
something together again and then a real estate man came along and told
us about this place, so here we are." She bestowed a smile upon him and
sighed. She had told more of themselves than she had intended, but it
had been a pleasant diversion at that; moreover, she was delighted
because he was such an attentive listener.
"So that is how you came here?" he essayed. "I have enjoyed listening to
you. Your lives read like an interesting book."
"Oh, that isn't fair. You are joking with me!" Notwithstanding, she
blushed furiously.
"No, no, indeed," he protested.
She believed him. Strangely she reposed such confidence in the man that
she felt she could sit and talk with him forever.
"But it is certainly too bad that you have been so unfortunate. I am
sure it will not always be so. You are perseverant, I see, and 'riches
come to him who waits.'"
"An old saying, but I hope it will not wait too long. Papa is getting
old, and--my brothers would be unable to manage with any effect
alone...." He understood her and the incident was overlooked.
"Your mother is dead?"
"Yes, my mother is dead, Mr. Baptiste."
"Oh."
"Died when I was a baby."
"Well, well...."
"I never knew her."
"Well, I do say!" He paused briefly, while she was silent but thinking
deeply.... Thinking of what her father had started to say and never
finished.
"And I venture to say that you have just about raised yourself?"
She blushed.
"You must be a wonderful girl."
She blushed again and twisted her hands about. She tried to protest; but
couldn't trust herself to say anything just then. How she liked to hear
him talk!
"You have my best wishes, believe me," he was at a loss for the moment
as to how to proceed.
"Oh, thank you." She didn't dare raise her eyes. He regarded her as she
sat before him, blushing so beautifully, and wished they were of the
same race.... Footsteps were heard at that moment, and both sat up
expectantly. Quickly, then, she rose to her feet and went to the door
and opened it in time to meet her father who was about to enter.
"Oh, it's you, father! I'm glad you've come. Mr. Baptiste is here to see
you."
"Ah-ha, Mr. Baptiste, I am honored," cried Jack Stewart, her father, and
he marched forward with outstretched hand and much ado; Scotch
propriety.
"Glad to know you, Judge," Baptiste returned warmly, grasping the
proffered hand.
"Be seated, be seated and make yourself comfortable; make yourself at
home," he said, pushing forward the chair out of which Baptiste had
risen. Agnes was smiling pleasantly. She could see that the two were
going to become friends, for both were so frank in their demeanor.
"Now, Aggie, you must prepare supper for Mr. Baptiste and myself," he
said, taking hold of her arm.
"Oh, no," disdained Baptiste. "Don't think of it!"
"Now, now, my worthy friend," admonished Stewart, and then stopped.
"Why--you have met my daughter?"
"Yes, we have met," they spoke in the same breath, exchanging glances.
"Then, while you fix us something good to eat, we will discuss our
business."
They found no difficulty in reaching a bargain in regard to Bill, the
bargain being that Bill was to board home and sleep there also; and the
consideration was to be one dollar per day, and by the time this was
completed, Agnes called them to supper.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, even though it be an intrusion," said
Baptiste as he was gently urged into a seat.
"Ah-ha, and I see you have a sense of humor," whereupon Jack Stewart's
eyes glistened humorously behind the old style glasses he wore. Baptiste
colored unseen, while Agnes regarded him smilingly.
"We haven't much, but what is here you are welcome to," she said.
"It's a feast," said he.
"About as good as baching, anyhow," joined Stewart.
"Hush!"
"How do you like it?"
"Didn't I say hush? That should be sufficient!" Agnes took a seat and
surveyed the table carefully to see that all was there. Her father was
pious. He blessed the table, and when this was over, fell to eating with
his knife.
"By the way," cried Baptiste near the end of the meal. "Did you hear the
news?"
"What news," they asked in chorus.
"The man dead in the well."
"Is that so!" they exclaimed, shocked.
He then told them in detail all about the finding of the body, and the
opinion that it was a suicide. They listened with the usual awe and
curiosity. But Jean Baptiste did not voice his suspicions, or tell them
anything he knew. At a later hour he took his leave.
And neither of the three realized then that the self-same tragedy
linked strangely an after event in their lives. But when Jean Baptiste
went over the hill to his sod house that stood on the claim, Jack
Stewart went outside and walked around for almost an hour. He was
thinking. Thinking of something he knew and had never told.
CHAPTER XIII
THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD
It is not likely that the people in the neighborhood of Dallas would
have ever known any more than they did regarding A.M. Barr, had it not
been for two accounts. When proof had been offered by him on his
homestead and a loan sought, to keep from invalidating the title to his
land, he was compelled to admit that he was married; but, fortunately
for him, it was not necessary to state when or how long he had been
married, and this he obligingly did not state. But the surprise came
when upon admittance, he then confessed to the promoters that he had
married Christine.... Of course everybody was positive then that he had
been married to Christine when he came to the country, and that he was
married to her at the time she was holding the claim. Perjury was a
penitentiary offense. He had sold her claim on pretense that she must go
to England. Christine, as Baptiste had come to know by the papers he
found, had not, of course, gone to England; but merely to Lincoln,
Nebraska, where she was safe to keep silent about what she knew in
regard to the subtle transactions of Augustus M. Barr.
The incident went the usual route of gossip, the people wondering how
such a beautiful girl as Christine could be happy as the wife of an old,
broken down infidel like Barr. But they never came into the truth, the
whole truth; they never connected Barr with the dark Assyrian Jew, Isaac
Syfe; nor were they aware that he had ever known the forlorn Peter
Kaden. Only Jean Baptiste knew this, and that, although Barr called a
sale and immediately left the country, there was something still to be
completed. But Jean Baptiste didn't know then that it would all come
back to him in such an unusual manner. However, the public learned a
little more concerning the previous activities of this august
contemporary before long. It came in the form of a sensational newspaper
feature story. And was in brief to wit:
While pastor of the Baker Street church, London, Isaac M. Barr, and not
Augustus, mind you, although there was no question about the two being
one and the same became very much in the confidence of his flock. Of
London's great middle class they were and possessed ambition, which Barr
apparently appealed to. The result was that a great colony set sail for
a land of promise, the land being Western Canada. The full details were
not given; but it seems that Barr was the trustee and handled the money.
On arrival, Barr suddenly disappeared and the good people from England
never saw him again, which perhaps accounts in some measure for his
becoming an infidel.... Who would not under such circumstances?
* * * * *
There is a feature regarding a new country--that is, a country that lays
toward the western portion of the great central valley, that is always
questioned, and is ever a source for knockers. But we should explain one
thing that might be of benefit to those who would go west to settle and
develop with hopes of success. And this is rainfall. In this country of
our story, which lay near the line where central time is changed to
mountain time, near the fifth principal meridian the altitude is about
2000 feet above the level of the sea, and the rainfall may be estimated
accordingly. Rainfall is governed by altitude and is a feature beyond
discussion. This is a very serious matter, and could multitudes of
people going west to take homesteads, or settle, be impressed with the
facts and know then what to expect, much grief could be avoided.
But unfortunately this is not so. Masses can be convinced--were
convinced in the country of our story, and all the west beyond, in other
parts, that rainfall was governed by cultivation. An erroneous idea! As
has been stated, rainfall is governed by elevation: air pressures are
such that when in contact with the heavy air due to the lower elevation,
thunder showers and general rains fall more frequently on the whole and
this can be certified by the record of any weather bureau, comparing the
elevation to the amount of precipitation over a given period, say five
or ten years. It is a fact, however, that in the most arid districts
cloudbursts do occur, but they are always a detriment to the parts over
which they may fall. And it is also true that in a given year or season,
more rain may fall over a certain arid district than some well
cultivated portion in a country where the fall of rain is beyond
question.
Because of these contending features, many portions of the country have
received a boom one season and failed to produce the next. When one year
had proven exceedingly wet, the theory was that the whole climatic
origin of the country had changed; drought had passed forever, and
people and capital flowed in to sometimes go out, broken and shattered
in spirits, hopes and finances later. Such instances hurt and hinder a
country instead of helping it. If, in coming to the country of our story
the masses of people could have understood that at an elevation of from
two thousand to twenty-two hundred feet, the rainfall over a period of
ten years would approximate an average of twenty-five inches annually,
it is reasonable to suppose that they would expect dry years and wet
years; some cold winters and some fair, open winters; some cloudbursts
and some protracted droughts. But when the first years of settlement
were accompanied by heavy rains, the boom that followed is almost beyond
our pen to detail.
From over all the country people came hither; people with means, for it
was the land of opportunity. The man who was in many cases wealthy in
older portions of the country, had come there with next to and very
often with nothing and had grown rich--not by any particular ability or
concentrated effort on the part of himself; not by the making and
saving, investing and profiting, but because in the early days the land
was of such little value and brought so little when offered for sale
that it had been a case of staying thereon; result, riches came in the
advance later in the price according to demand.
Such was not the circumstances altogether in the land where Jean
Baptiste had cast his lot in the hope for ultimate success. While
opportunity was ripe, a few thousands had been expedient. For what could
be had for a small amount here would have cost a far greater amount back
east. But while land was selling and selling readily the country would
and could not maintain its possible quota of development without
railroad facilities. This question, therefore, was of the most urgent
anxiety. When would the railroad be extended out of Bonesteel westward?
At Bonesteel they said never. Others, somewhat more liberal said it
might be extended in twenty years. They argued that since it had taken
that many years after Bonesteel had been started before the company
placed their tracks there, the same would in all probability hold with
regards to the country and the towns west. So be it.
The promoters of the town of Dallas argued that it would not be
extended from Bonesteel at all; that when it was extended, it would come
up the valley from the town some miles below Bonesteel, where the tracks
lifted to the highlands. Meaning, of course that Dallas would be the
only town in the newly opened portion of the country to get the
railroad.
Jean Baptiste and Bill had seeded all the land that was under
cultivation on Baptiste's property, and were well under way of breaking
what was left unbroken, when Baptiste was offered a proposition that
looked good to him. It was 200 acres joining his place near Stewart's,
the property of an Indian, the allotee having recently expired. Under a
ruling of the Department of the Interior, an Indian cannot dispose of an
allotment under twenty-five years from the time he is alloted. This
ruling is dissatisfactory to the Indian; for, notwithstanding all the
roles in which he is characterized in the movies and dramas as the great
primitive hero, brave and courageous, the people of the West who are
surrounded with red men, and know them, know that they wish to sell
anything they might happen to possess as soon as selling is possible.
Therefore, when one happens to expire, leaving his land to his heirs who
can thereupon sell, dispose, give away or do what they may wish with the
land, as long as it accords with the dictates of the Indian agent, the
tract of land in question can be expected to pass into other hands
forthwith.
The two hundred acres offered Jean Baptiste was convenient to his land,
and was offered at twenty dollars per acre. Other lands about had sold
as high as thirty dollars the acre. A thousand dollars down and a
thousand dollars a year until paid was the bargain, and he accepted it,
paying over the thousand, which was the last of the money he had brought
from the East with him.
This was before something happened that turned the whole country into an
orgy of excitement.
A few days after this one of the long rainy periods set in, and the
little town was overrun with homesteaders, agreeing that the land that
was broken was acting to their advantage: bringing all the good rains,
and drought would never be again.
Then one day a man brought the news. The surveyors were in Bonesteel. It
was verified by others, and really turned out to be true. The surveyors
being in Bonesteel was an evident fact that the railroad would follow
the highlands and would not come up the valley, and that settled Dallas
as a town. It was doomed before a stake was set, and here passes out of
our story, in so far as a railway in its present location was concerned.
But whatever route a railroad took, it meant that the value to a
homestead by the extension of the railroad would approximate to exceed
ten dollars per acre. And Jean Baptiste now owned five hundred and
twenty acres.
Since the work now in breaking the extra two hundred acres was before
him, and was more than three miles from his homestead, he sought more
convenience, by determining to approach the Stewarts with a request to
board him.
It was a rainy day, when he called, only to find Jack Stewart out, while
George and Bill were tinkering about the barn. They had not been
informed of his purchase.
"Oh, it is you--Mr. Baptiste," cried Agnes upon opening the door in
response to his knock. "Come right in."
"Where's the governor?" he inquired when seated.
"Search me," she laughed. "Papa's always out, rain or shine."
"Busy man."
"Yes. Busy but never gets anything by it, apparently."
She was full of humor, her eyes twinkled. He was also. It was a day to
be grateful. Rainfall, though it bring delay in the work, such days
always are appreciated in a new country. It made those there feel more
confident.
"Lots of rain."
"Yes. I suppose you are glad," she said interestedly.
"Well, I should be."
"We are, too. It looks as if, should this keep up, we will really raise
a crop."
"Oh, it'll keep up," he said cheerfully, confidently. "It always rains
in this country."
"How optimistic you are," she said, regarding him admiringly.
"Thanks."
She smiled then and bit her lip.
"How's your neighbors across the road? I've never become acquainted with
them."
"Their name is Prescott. I don't know much about them; but papa has met
them."
"How many of them?"
"Three. The man and wife and a son."
"A son?"
"M-m."
"How old is he--a young man?"
"M-m."
He smiled mischievously.
"Oh, it will be great," and she laughed amusedly.
"He farms with his parents?"
"I don't think so. He has rented a few acres on the place north of us.
Don't seem to be much force."
"You should wake him up."
"Humph!"
"My congratulations," irrelevantly.
"Please don't. He's too ugly, too lazy; loves nothing but a stallion he
owns, and is very uninteresting."
"Indeed!" Suddenly he jumped up. "I have forgotten that I came to see
your dad."
"I can't say when papa will be home," she answered, going toward the
door and looking out.
"I wanted to see him regarding a little business about boarding. I
wonder if he could board me?"
"He'll be home about noon, anyhow."
"That won't be so long, now," said he, regarding the clock.
"So you are tired of baching," she said with a little twinkle of the
eyes.
"Oh, baching? Before I started. But that is not what has expedited my
wishing to board. I bought some more land. Couple hundred acres of that
dead Indian land over south."
"You did!"
"Why, yes." He did not understand her exclamation.
"Oh, but you are such a wonderful man, and to be such a young man!" She
was not aware of the intimacy in her reference, and spoke thoughtfully,
as if to herself more than to him.
He was flattered, and didn't know how to reply.
"You are certainly deserving of the high esteem in which you are held
throughout the community," and still she was as if speaking to herself,
and thoughtful.
He could not shut out at once the vanity she had aroused in him. He
wished to appear and to feel modest about it, however. After all, he had
most of the other land to pay for, which, nevertheless, gave him no
worry. His confidence was supreme. He continued silent while she went
on:
"It must be wonderful to be a young man and to be so courageous; to be
so forceful and to be admired."
"Oh, you flatter me."
"No; I do not mean to. I am speaking frankly and what I feel. I admire
the qualities you are possessed with. I read a great deal, and when I
see a young man like you going ahead so in the world, I think he should
be encouraged."
How very frankly, and considerately she had said it all. His vanity was
gone. He saw her as the real Agnes. He saw in her, moreover, that which
he had always longed for in his race. How much he would have given to
have heard those words uttered by a girl of his blood on his trips back
East. But, of course the West was foreign to them. They could not have
understood as she did. But the kindness she had shown had its effect. He
could at least admire her openly for what she was. He spoke now.
"I think you are very kind, Miss Stewart. I can't say when any one has
spoken so sensibly to me as you have, and you will believe me when I say
that such shall never be forgotten." He paused briefly before going on.
"And it will always be my earnest wish that I shall prove worthy of such
kind words." He stopped then, for in truth, he was too overcome with
emotion, and could not trust himself to go on.
She stood with her back to him, and could he have seen her eyes he would
also have observed tears of emotion. They were honest tears. She had
spoken the truth. She admired the man in Jean Baptiste, and she had not
thought of his color in speaking her conviction. But withal she felt
strangely that her life was linked in some manner with this man's.
Her father's appearance at this moment served to break the silent
embarrassment between them, the embarrassment that had come out of what
she had said.
They settled with regards to his boarding with them, and a few minutes
later he took his leave. As he was passing out, their eyes met. Never
had they appeared so deep; never before so soft. But in the same he saw
again that which he had seen before and as yet could not understand.
CHAPTER XIV
THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL
Never before since Jean Baptiste had come West and staked his lot and
future there, doing his part toward the building of that little empire
out there in the hollow of God's hand, had he worked so hard as he did
in the days that followed that summer. When the rains for a time ceased
and the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently to permit a return to
the fields, from early morn until the sun had disappeared in the west
late afternoons, did he labor. Observation with him seemed to be
inherent. Ever since he had played as a boy back in old Illinois he had
been deeply sensitive with regards to his race. To him, notwithstanding
the fact that he realized that less than fifty years had passed since
freedom, they appeared--even considering their adverse circumstances--to
progress rather slowly. He had not as yet come fully to appreciate and
understand why they remained always so poor; always the serf; always in
the position to gain so little--but withal to suffer so much! Oh, the
anguish it had so often given him!
His being in the West had come of an ulterior purpose. It has been
stated that he was a keen observer. While so he had cultivated also the
faculty of determination. By now it had became a sort of habit, a sort
of second nature as it were. But there were certain things he could not
seem to get away from. For instance: It seemed to him that the most
difficult task he had ever encountered was to convince the average
colored man that the Negro race could ever be anything. In after years
he understood more fully why this was--but we deal with the present;
those days when Jean Baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to
"do his bit" in the development of the country of our story. He
struggled with these problems at times until he became fatigued; not
knowing that he could never understand until the time came for him to.
When he dined late one afternoon and found himself alone with Agnes, he
spoke of being tired.
"You work too hard, Jean," she said, kindly.
"Perhaps so," he admitted. "And, still, the way I choose to see that is,
that I'll not know the difference this time next year."
"That is quite possible," she agreed thoughtfully. "But your case is
this, I think. You seem inspired by some high compulsion; some infinite
purpose in the way you work, and in your mind this is so uppermost that
you forget the limit of your physical self." She paused and gazed at the
knife she held. Her mind appeared to deliberate, and he wondered at her
deep logic. What a really mindful person she was, and still but a girl.
"I cannot help thinking of you and your effort here," she resumed, "and
if I was asked, I would advise you to exercise more discretion in regard
to yourself. To labor as you do, without regard to rain, sun, or time,
is not practical. It would be very sad if, in conducting yourself as you
do, something should happen to you before you had quite fulfilled that
to which you are aspiring--not to accomplish altogether, but to
demonstrate."
"You seem to have such a complete understanding of everything, Agnes,"
he said. "You appear to see so much deeper than the people I have met,
to look so much beneath the surface and read what is there. I cannot
always understand you." He paused while she continued in that
thoughtful manner as if she had not heard what he said. "Now in your
remark of a moment ago, you so defined a certain thing I would like to
tell you.... But I shall not now. The instance is always so much in my
mind that indeed, I lose sense of physical endurance; I lose sight of
everything but the one object. It is not that I care so much for the
fruits of my labor; but if I could actually succeed, it would mean so
much to the credit of a multitude of others.--Others who need the
example...." He paused and thought of his race. The individual here did
not count so much, it was the cause. His race needed examples; they
needed instances of successes to overcome the effect of ignorance and an
animal viciousness that was prevalent among them.
In this land, for instance, which had been advertised from one end of
the country to the other; this land where four hundred thousand acres of
virgin soil had been opened to the settler, he was about the only one of
that race who had come hither, or paid the instance any attention. Such
examples of neglected opportunity stood out clearly, and were recorded;
and the record would give his race, claiming to be discriminated
against, no credit.... Such examples of obliviousness to what was around
them would be hard to explain away. So in his ambitious youth, Jean
Baptiste's dream was to own one thousand acres of land. He was now
twenty-three and possessed half that much. He conjectured that he could
reach the amount by the time he was thirty--providing nothing serious
happened to retard him....
He had finished his meal and was ready to go back to that little place
over the hill. The girl who had made proof on the homestead he had
purchased, had lived fourteen months alone in a little sod house her
father had built for her in which he now had his bed. She had come of a
prosperous family in the East. She had come hither and put in the time,
and the requirements, and had sold the land that he had bought at a good
profit to herself. Such instances were common in that country, so common
indeed, that little was thought of it. In his trips back East when
Baptiste told of such opportunities, he was not taken seriously. The
fact that the wealth of the great Central Valley was right at their
door; that from the production there they purchased the food they ate;
that sheep were raised whose wool was later manufactured into the very
clothes they wore, had no meaning to them. And always he felt
discouraged when he returned from a visit among them.
He had never seen Agnes so serious as she was that night. She arose and
followed him to the door, and stood with him a moment before he left.
Her eyes were tired and she appeared worried. He became possessed with
an impulse to shake her hand. She seemed to sense his desire, and as he
stepped out into the night, she extended it. He grasped and held it
briefly. He whispered goodnight to her, and as he went through the yard
and out into the road, she watched him from the open door until he was
out of sight.
* * * * *
Jean Baptiste thought he had secured a bargain in a team he had
purchased a week before, and, from all appearances he had. For, after
working them a week, he found them model horses--apparently. As stated,
he slept in the little sod house on the place near Stewart's, and also
had a barn there in which he kept his horses while working. The morning
following the conversation with Agnes, just related, he went out to
curry and feed this team along with the other horses, and received a
kick that was almost his ending. Right at the temple one spiked him, and
he knew no more for hours.
"I wonder why Jean is so late," said Agnes, going to the window and
gazing up the road. He was a hardy eater and the fact that he was late
for breakfast was unusual. They waited a while longer and then ate
without him. Bill who had been to care for his horses at the place
before breakfast, reported that he had seen Baptiste go into the barn.
So he had arisen, that was sure; but why had he not come for his meal?
The subject was dismissed by all except Agnes, who was strangely uneasy.
"Bill," said she, "see what is the matter with your boss when you go
over, and tell him to come to breakfast."
Bill had no difficulty ascertaining, and returned quickly with the news.
"I knew it!" exclaimed Agnes, excitedly. "I just felt that something was
the matter," whereupon she got into a light coat and followed her father
and brothers to where he lay outside the barn door, bleeding freely from
the temple.
They carried him into their house, and were cheered to see that the
blood had ceased to flow. His head was bandaged while Bill went for Doc.
Slater, who pronounced the wound serious but not fatal. He awakened
later in the day and called for water. It was brought him forthwith by
Agnes.
When he had drunk deeply and lay back weakly upon the pillow, he heard:
"How do you feel, Jean?" He looked around in the semi-darkness of the
room, and upon seeing her, sighed before answering. When he did it was a
groan. She came quickly to where he lay and bent over him.
"Jean," she repeated softly, tenderly. "How do you feel? Does your head
pain you much?"
"Where am I?" he said, turning his face toward her. She put her hand
lightly over his bandaged head.
"You're here, Jean. At Stewart's. You are hurt, do you understand?"
"Hurt?" he repeated abstractedly.
"Yes, hurt, Jean. You were kicked on the temple by one of your horses."
"Is that so?" and he suddenly sat up in the bed.
"Careful, careful," she cried, excitedly, pushing him gently back upon
the pillow. He was silent as if in deep thought, while she waited
eagerly. Presently she said in a low voice:
"Do you feel hurt badly, Jean?"
"I don't know." He raised his hand to his head as if trying to think
more clearly. She caught his hands and held them as if trying to
estimate his pulse, to see if he had any fever.
"How did you come to get kicked, Jean?" she asked, speaking in the same
low tone.
"I don't know. When I opened the barn door I had a vision of one of the
horses moving and I knew no more."
"You must be very careful and not start the bleeding again," she
advised. "You bled considerably."
"And you say I am at your house. At where I board?"
"Yes, Jean."
He turned and stared at her, and for the first time seemed to be
himself. He closed his eyes a moment as if to shut out something he did
not wish to see.
"And you have me here and are caring for me?"
"We brought you here and are caring for you, Jean," she repeated.
"It is singular," said he.
"What is singular?"
"That you have twice happened to be where you can serve me when I am
injured or in danger." She was silent. She didn't know how to answer, or
that there was to be any answer.
"Has a doctor been here?"
"Yes."
"What did he seem to think of it?"
"He said your wound was serious, but not fatal."
"Did he say I could get up soon?"
"He didn't say, Jean; but I don't think it would be wise." He groaned.
"Now you must be patient and not fret yourself into a fever," she said
seriously.
"But I have so much work to do."
"That will have to wait. Your health is first," she said firmly.
"But the work should be done," he insisted.
"But you must consider your health before you can even think about the
work."
He groaned again. She was thoughtful. She was considerate, and she could
see that he would worry about his work and injure himself or risk fever.
"I'll speak to papa, and perhaps George can take your place for a few
days, a week or until you can get out."
"You are so kind, Agnes," he said then. "You are always so thoughtful. I
don't know how I can accept all you do for me."
"Please hush--don't mention it." She arose and presently returned with
her father.
"Ah-ha," he always greeted. "So you've come to. Thought something would
show up in that 'bargain.'"
"Please don't, father," admonished Agnes, frowningly.
"I'll look after everything while you are down, old man," said Stewart.
"I'll start the horses you've been working this afternoon. Aggie has
explained everything. I understand."
"I'm so thankful," he said, then closing his eyes, and a few minutes
later had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER XV
OH, MY JEAN!
When Jack Stewart left Indiana, and left owing the two hundred dollars
which was secured by a chattel mortgage on his horses, he failed to do
something he now had cause to regret. The man to whom he owed this money
agreed to give him one year in which to pay it, but didn't renew the
mortgage. He was a close friend of Jack's, and there had been no worry.
But the man died; his affairs fell into the hands of an administrator,
whose duties were to clean up, to realize on all due and past due
matter. And because the note of Jack Stewart's was due and past due, the
extension being simply a verbal one, the administrator wrote Jack
demanding that he take up his note at once.
We know the circumstances of Jack Stewart; that because Jean Baptiste
had hired his son Bill, and now was boarding with them, he was able to
get along; but Jack Stewart had nothing with which to pay $200 notes....
So while Jean Baptiste was recovering from his illness, Jack Stewart had
cause to be very much worried.
Possessed, however, with a confidence, Jack took the matter up with the
banker in the town where he received his mail. Now a common saying in a
new country is: "I'm going to borrow five dollars and start a bank...."
Inferring that while there is, as a whole, an abundance of banks in a
new country, they do not always have the wherewithal to loan. What they
have is usually retained for the accommodation of their regular patrons,
and they were unable to accommodate Jack, even had they wished to do so.
Now, he could have secured the money had he been a claimholder or a land
owner. But Jack, being neither, found himself in a bad plight. He had
Aggie write a long letter in which he tried to explain matters, and
requested until fall to pay, as had been verbally agreed upon. But the
class of people in the old East who regard the new West as a land of
impossibilities, where drought burns all planted crops to crisp, where
grasshoppers eat what is left, who still regard those who would stake
their fortunes and chances in the West as fools, were not all dead.
The administrator happened to be one of this kind. He had no confidence
in the country Jack wrote about, the crops he had planted; what he
expected to reap, and no patience withal into the bargain. So he wrote
Jack a brief letter, and also one to the bank in the town, sending the
papers with it at the same time, with instructions to foreclose at a
given time. And when Jack knew more of it, he was confronted with paying
the note in thirty days or having his horse taken, and sold at auction.
Jean Baptiste recovered, went back to his work, and noticed that Jack
Stewart and Agnes were much worried; but, of course, didn't understand
the cause of it.
"Have you tried elsewhere, father?" said Agnes when they had gotten the
notice giving them thirty days' grace.
"But I am not known, dear. There is not much money in a new country, and
it is very difficult to get credit where there is nothing to lend."
"There must be some way to avoid this. Oh, that man, why couldn't he be
reasonable!"
"It is always bad when one has to write. If I were back in Indiana I
could go and see this man and reason it out, but when a thousand miles
is between us--it's bad!"
"If we could have only just three months."
"Two months," he exclaimed.
The days that followed were days of grave anxiety, of nervous
anticipation for them. There was but one person they could turn to at
such a time, and that was Jean Baptiste. Agnes thought of him, she
started to speak with her father regarding him, but in the end did not
bring herself to do so.
So the time went on, and the thirty days became twenty; and the twenty
fell to ten; and the ten fell to five, and then Jean Baptiste could bear
their worry no longer without speaking.
"You and your father have been very kind to me, Agnes, and I can see you
are greatly worried about something. If I could help you in any way, I
would be glad to do so."
She was so near to crying when she heard this that she had much
difficulty keeping back the tears. But she managed to say:
"Why, it's nothing serious. Just a little matter, that's all," and she
went into her room. He pondered. It was more than that. Of this he was
sure. He left the house and came around to where Jack sat, and was moved
by his expression. But Jack would say nothing. He could not understand.
He tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, and so came Sunday, the
day of days.
He was walking from his meal to his place to look over his crops, when
from up the road he caught the sound of buggy-wheels. Two men, driving a
single horse hitched to a light buggy were coming his way. When they
caught sight of him, they hurried the animal forward slightly by
touching him up with the whip, and beckoned to him to stop. Presently
they drew up to where he stood and he recognized one as a homesteader,
and having a claim near and the other as a professional dealer in
horses. They exchanged greetings and some remarks about the weather and
crops, and then the trader said:
"By the way, Jean, where does that old Scotchman live out this way? The
old fellow who moved out here recently from Indiana?"
"That's the place there," and Baptiste pointed to the top of the house
that could just be seen from where they stood.
"I see," said the other thoughtfully. "Wonder where that dappled gray
mare he owns is grazing. I'd like to take a look at 'er."
"I think you will see her grazing in the pasture," said Baptiste
curiously.
"How--what kind of animal is it?"
"Why, she's a hum-dinger," returned Baptiste more curiously. His
curiosity aroused the other, who, looking at him said:
"Well, you see the old man is to be sold out--foreclosed, and I thought
I'd take a look at his stuff and if I thought there was anything in it,
I might save the old scout the humiliation by buying it."
"T' hell you say!" exclaimed Baptiste.
"Oh, yes. Hadn't you heard about it?"
"This is my first knowledge of it."
"Yes, the sheriff's coming to get the stuff Tuesday--that is, providing
the old man don't come across with a couple of hundred before that time,
and it is not likely he can, I don't think."
"Well, well!" Baptiste exclaimed, thinking of the worry he had observed
in the faces of Agnes and her father, and at last beginning to
understand.'
"Yes, it's rather bad, that. But this follows the old gent from where he
comes, and he is not known here, so I guess I'll mosey along and take a
look at the stuff--just a glance at it from the road, you understand.
And if things look good, I'll drop by 'n see him later." Whereupon they
went their way cheerfully, while Baptiste resumed his, thoughtfully.
He returned to his house by a roundabout way, and, later, hitching a
team to a light buggy, he drove into the town where Jack traded and
looked up the banker.
"Say, Brookings," he opened, "what kind of deal is the old Scotchman up
against out there? You understand."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the cashier. "The old man out there on the Watson
homestead! Well, it seems like the old fellow stands a good chance of
being sold out." He then explained to Baptiste regarding the note and
the circumstances.
"That don't look just right to me," muttered Baptiste when he had heard
the circumstances.
"Well, now, it _isn't_ right. But what can be done?"
"Can't you loan the old man the money?"
"I could; but I don't like letting credit to strangers and renters. If
he could get a good man on his note I'd fix it out for him, since we've
just received quite a sum for deposit."
"Well, if I should go it," said Baptiste suggestively. The other looked
quickly up.
"Why, you! Gee, I'd take care of him for ten times the amount if you'd
put your 'John Henry' on the note."
"Well, I'll be in town early in the morning," said Baptiste, turning to
drive away.
"All right, Jean. Sure! I'll look for you."
The day was bright and lovely for driving, and Baptiste drove to his
homestead, and from there to the Reynolds' where he had dinner and
visited late. The next morning he went to the town, and when Jack
Stewart, exhausted by the strain of worry under which he was laboring,
came into town, having decided to try and sell the mare and one of the
other horses, thereby leaving him only one with which to complete the
cultivating of his corn and the reaping of his crops, he was called into
the bank.
"Now if you'll just sign this, Mr. Stewart," said Brookings, "you can
have until December first on that stuff."
"You mean the note!" the old man exclaimed, afraid to believe that he
had heard aright.
"Yes, the note that is about to be foreclosed. You've been granted an
extension." Jack Stewart was too overcome to attempt to comment. The
realization that he was to be allowed to go on and not be sold out or be
forced to dispose of his little stock at such a critical time, was too
much for words. He caught up the pen, steadied his nerves, and wrote his
name, not observing that the banker held a blotter over the lower line
of the note. Jean Baptiste had cautioned him to do this. In view of the
circumstances he had not wished Stewart or Agnes to know that he had
gone on the note.
Jack Stewart hurried home in a fever of excitement. He could not get
there fast enough. He thought of Agnes, he did not wish her to have a
minute more grief than what she had endured. He reached home and
stumbled into the house, and to Agnes he said:
"Oh, girl, girl, girl! They have extended the note! The sheriff is not
coming! We are saved, saved, saved!" He was too overcome with emotion
and joy then to proceed. He sank into a chair, while Agnes, carried
away with excitement over the news, caressed him; said words of love and
care until both had been exhausted by their own emotions. When they at
last became calm, she turned to her father who now walked the floor in
great joy.
"How did they come to extend the note, father?"
"Why--why, dear, that had never occurred to me! I became so excited when
they told me that I had been granted an extension, I can only recall
that I signed the note and almost ran out of the bank. The man had to
call me back to give me my old note and mortgage. I don't know why they
granted the extension." He stood holding his chin now and looking down
at the floor as if trying to understand after all how it happened. Then
his eyes opened suddenly wide. "Why, and, do you know, now, since I come
to think of it, they did not take a new mortgage on the stock."
"I don't believe that the administrator had anything to do with it," she
said after a time. "I know that man. He would sell his mother out into
the streets. Now I wonder who has influenced the bank into giving us
this time...."
"Bless me, dear lord. But right now I am too tickled to try to think
who. To be saved is enough all at once. Later, I shall try to figure out
who has been my benefactor." And with this he left the house and went to
walk with his joy in the fields where George was plowing corn,
unconscious of the fact that the team he was driving was to have been
seized on the morrow and sold for debt.
"Now I wonder _who_ saved papa," Agnes said to herself, taking a seat by
the window and gazing abstractedly out into the road. She employed her
wits to estimate what had brought it about, and as she sat there, Jean
Baptiste came driving down the road. He had not been there since
breakfast the morning before. He had taken his morning's meal at the
restaurant in the town. As he drove down the slope that began above the
house wherein she sat, his dark face was lighted with a peaceful smile.
He drove leisurely along, concerned with the bright prospects of his
four hundred acres of crop. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he
passed on by without seeing Agnes at the window; without even looking
toward the house.
Upon seeing him Agnes had for the moment forgotten what she was thinking
about. But when he had passed by, she was suddenly struck with an
inspiration. She jumped quickly to her feet: She raised her hands to her
breast and held them there as if to still a great excitement, as she
cried:
"Jean! Jean, Jean Baptiste! It was you, you, who did it. It was you who
saved my father, saved me; saved us all! Oh, my Jean!"
She was overcome then with a great emotion. She sank slowly upon a
chair. And as she did so sobs broke from her lips and she wept long and
silently.
CHAPTER XVI
BILL PRESCOTT PROPOSES
Summertime over the prairie country; summertime when the rainfall has
been abundant, is a time of happiness to all settlers in a new land. And
such a summer it was in the land of our story. God had been unusually
kind to the settlers; he had blessed them with abundant moisture; with
sunshine, not too warm and not too cold. The railroad was under course
of construction and would be completed far enough west for the settlers
from the most remote part--from the farthest corner of the reservation
to journey with their grain or hogs, chickens or cattle to it and return
to home the same day. And now the fields which had been seeded to winter
wheat had turned to gold. Only a few thousand acres had been sowed over
the county, and of this amount one hundred thirty acres grew on the
homestead of Jean Baptiste. The season for its growth had been ideal,
and the prospects for a bumper yield was the best. Ripe now, and ready
to cut, the air was filled with its aroma.
He had brought a new self-binder from Gregory which now stood in the
yard ready for action, its various colors green, red, blue and white,
resplendent in the sunlight.
So now we see Jean Baptiste the cheerful, Jean Baptiste the hopeful,
with hopes in a measure about realized; Jean Baptiste the Ethiopian in a
country where he alone was black. He whistles at times, he sings, he is
merry, cheery and gay.
But while Jean Baptiste was happy, cheerful and gay, there was in him
what has been, what always will be that which makes us appreciate the
courage that is in some men.
Bill Prescott, from the first day he had seen Agnes, had considered a
match between her and himself a suggestive proposition. Bill Prescott
might be referred to as a "feature." He was not so fortunate as to have
been born handsome, and could not be called attractive. He had not,
moreover, improved the situation by cultivation of wit, of art or pride.
The West had meant no more to him than had the East, the South--or the
West Indies, for that matter. Because Bill had no homestead, no deeded
land, and had not tried to get any. His wealth consisted of a few
horses, among which, an old, worn out, bought-on-credit-stallion, was
his pride.
Of this stallion Bill talked. He told of his pedigree, tracing him back
almost to the Ark. He was fond of tobacco, was Bill Prescott; he chewed,
apparently, all the time. He had lost his front teeth; wore his thin
hair long, and upon his small head a hat, oiled to the point where its
age was a matter for conjecture. He had apparently appreciated that the
wind blew outrageously over those parts at times, and, therefore, had
hung a leather string to his hat which he pulled down over the back of
his head to hold his hat in place. This succeeded in frumpling the long,
thin hair and kept it in a dishevelled condition.
Now Bill had been a frequent caller at the Stewarts' home since they had
come West. He did not always take the trouble to remove his hat when
inside. That he was fond of Agnes was apparent, and smiled always upon
seeing her, and at such times showed where his front teeth had been but
where tobacco more frequently now was, with lazy delight.
He called this day wearing a clean, patched jumper over his cotton
shirt. When once inside, sprawling his legs before him, and while Jack
Stewart worked in the sun outside, repairing harness, he said to Agnes:
"Well, old girl, how'd you like to marry?" Agnes changed color a few
times before she could decide whether to answer or not. In the meantime,
patient and in no hurry, Bill grinned with pleasure at the ease with
which he had started; showed tobacco where his teeth had been, and spat
a pound of juice, with plenty of drippings trailing out the window by
which she sat. It made considerable argument getting through the screen,
but succeeded finally--most of it, the remainder, clung, hesitated,
wavered, and finally giving up, dripped slowly to the ledge below.
"Dog-gone, myself," said Bill, getting up heavily from his chair, and
going to the window and thumping it lightly, whereupon the hesitant
amber, dashed in many directions about. Agnes had observed it all with
calm disgust. Bill, however, not the least perturbed over his apparent
breach of impropriety, became reseated, and resumed:
"Well?"
She turned her eyes slowly toward him, surveyed him coldly, and
continued at her sewing.
Bill muttered something.
She regarded him again with cold disdain.
"Haw, haw!" he laughed loudly. "You don't pretend t' hear me, haw! haw!
Then I guess you're stuck on that nigger you got a hangin' round here."
"Will you go!" she cried, as she quickly jumped to her feet and swung
open the door. She controlled herself with considerable effort.
"Oh, ho! So that's the way you treat a white man--and honor a d--n
nigger!" And with that he dashed out and passed to where the senior
worked away over his harness. Jack Stewart saw and heard Bill
approaching without looking up. He greeted:
"Ah-ha, William. And how are you today?"
Bill was struck with a sudden inspiration. In his way he really liked
Agnes, and it was all settled in his mind to wed her. He realized now
that he had rather bungled matters, and thereupon decided to exercise a
little more discretion. So, choking down the anger that was in him, and
swallowing a bit of tobacco juice at the same time, he said to Stewart:
"Good morning! Ah, by the way, Jack, I'd like to marry Agnes." So
saying, he was pleased with himself again, and spat tobacco juice more
easily in the next squirt. Jack continued working at his harness. For
the moment he did not appear to comprehend, but presently he raised his
eyes with the old style glasses before them, and surveyed Bill slowly.
"You want to do what?" he said, uncomprehendingly.
"To marry Agnes," Bill repeated calmly. He paused, looked away, sucked
his soft mouth clean of amber and spat it tricklingly at Jack's feet,
and looked up and at Jack with a wondrous smile.
Now Jack Stewart was possessed with certain virtues. He did not smoke,
chew, drink, swear nor shave. He was rather put out, but with
considerable effort at self control he managed to say:
"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, why don't you take it up
with the girl?" Bill hesitated at this point, sucked his mouth clear
again of tobacco juice, cleared his throat, spat the juice, and, after a
hasty glance toward the house, decided not to mention that he had spoken
with Agnes. He replied:
"Well, I thought it best to speak to you, and if it's all right with
you, it ought to be all right with the gal."
Jack Stewart drew up, and then tried to relax. He did not think so much
of Bill; but he did think the world of Agnes and wanted her respected by
everybody. Moreover, he did not like to hear her "galled." He turned to
William; he regarded him keenly, and then in a voice and words that were
English, but accent that was very much Scotch, the which we will not
attempt to characterize, he said:
"You're a joke. Just a great, big joke." He paused briefly, and then
continued: "I'd like to be patient with you; but honestly, with you it
wouldn't pay. You are not worth it. And in so far as my girl--any girl
is concerned, I cannot imagine how you could even expect them to be
interested." He paused and looked away, too full up to go ahead. In the
meantime he heard Bill:
"Is that so!"
"Is _it_ so!" cried Stewart with a touch of vehemence. "Gad! See
yourself. See how you go! Don't you observe what's around you close
enough to see that girls want some sedateness; they admire in some
measure cleverness, clothes, and--well, manhood!"
"So I don't guess I have it?" retorted William, sneeringly.
"Oh, you bore me!" Jack returned disgustingly. He bent to his work in an
attempt to forget it. And then he again heard from Bill:
"So that's the way yu' got it figgered out, eh!" He drew his mouth tight
shut. He gave another soft suck that drew his skin close to his gums,
and with his tongue, he cleared his mouth and spat tobacco, juice and
all in a soft lump at Stewart's feet and said in unconcealed anger: "So
that's the way you got me figgered out! And I want to say, now, that I
don't think I want yer gal, anyhow. I'm a white man, I am. And what
white man would want a gal that a nigger is allowed to hang aroun' and
court!"
Jack Stewart was struck below the belt. He was fouled, and for a time
everything went dark around him, he was so angry. He did not know that
Jean Baptiste had saved him from losing his stock or being forced to
sell them; he had never connected Baptiste and Agnes as being other than
friends, and friends they had a right to be. But Jack Stewart _did_
regard Jean Baptiste as a gentleman and gentlemen he respected. His
knockout therefore was brief. He soon recovered. He could not speak, he
could not even stammer; but with a sudden twitch of the tug his hands
held, he came away around with it, and the heavy leather took Bill
fairly in the mouth, in the middle of the mouth. And then Jack got his
voice, and ready for another swing; but not before Bill found something,
too. It was his feet.
"You stinkin', low down, pup!" cried Stewart, falling over from the
force of the swing he had missed. "You trash of the sand hills! You
tobacco chewin', ragga-muffin!" Getting his balance, and turning after
William madly, he resumed: "You ornery, nasty, filthy, houn'! If I get
my han's on you, I swear t' God I'll kill you."
But Bill Prescott now held the advantage. He was younger, and more fleet
of foot; so therefore out ran Jack, who was left before he reached the
gate, far to the rear, and Bill gained his side of the wide road with a
safe lead. Jack finally came to a stop before getting off the premises
with his blood boiling with such heat that he drew his hat off and beat
himself with it. In the meantime, Agnes, who had witnessed the
controversy from the gate, ventured out to where her father stood and
taking him gently by the arm, she led him inside.
"My blood's up, my blood's up!" Jack kept crying and repeating. "That
stinkin', triflin' peace a nothin', has been gittin' smart. Tryin' to
low rate me; tryin' to low rate my girl. Insultin' Jean Baptiste! Dang
him, dang him!"
"Father, father!" cried Agnes soothingly.
"Did you hear'm! Did you hear'm! Why, the low down, good for nothin',
I'm a good mind to go cross the road and skin him alive!"
"Father, father!" begged Agnes.
"Did you hear what he said," insisted the infuriated senior.
"Yes, father," she confessed. "I heard him."
"You did! 'N that's worse!" Whereupon he tore loose and threw up his
arms in an angered gesture.
"Now, papa," Agnes argued kindly. "I heard him, and what he said to you.
He was in here and insul--spoke to me before he went out there.... I
understand all about it.... So you must simply be calm--and forget it.
That's all...."
"I don't care so much for myself, but that he should speak about you and
Baptiste! I just wish Baptiste could have heard him and just beat the
gosh danged manure right out of him."
"Please be quiet, papa. Forget Bill Prescott and what he has tried to
insinuate.... We understand _him_ and what he _is_, and we understand
Mr. Baptiste--and what _he is_, so let us just think of other things."
"Yes, Aggie, I suppose you're right. You always seem to be right. And I
will try to forget it; but I'll say this much: If that ornery, lazy cuss
ever crosses this road to my place again I'll thresh him within an inch
of his life!"
"You've agreed to forget it, father...."
"I agree again; but it's outrageous that he should say what he did about
Jean Baptiste, now isn't it?"
"It is, father," she admitted with downcast eyes.
"Of course it is. Never was there more of a gentleman in the world than
Jean Baptiste."
"Mr. Baptiste is a real gentleman," acknowledged Agnes again.
"There never was, and he knows it, the pup!"
Agnes was strangely silent, which Jack, in his excitement overlooked.
"And even if he should like my girl--"
"Father!"
"Well?"
"Oh, please hush!"
"I will, Aggie," he said slowly. He bent forward presently, folded her
close, kissed her, and then placing his hat on his head, went back to
his work....
CHAPTER XVII
HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT
Harvest time, harvest time! When the harvest time is, all worries have
passed. When the harvest time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears
are no more. When the golden grain falls upon the canvas; when the
meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the land sing the song of
harvest time, the farmer is happy, is gay, and confident.
And harvest time was on in the country of our story.
Jean Baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn, jumped from the
seat, and before he started to unhitch, he gazed out over a stretch of
land which two years before, had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but
was now a world of shocked grain. Thousands upon thousands of shocks
stood over the field like a great army in the distance. His crop was
good--the best. And no crops are like the crop on new land. Never, since
the beginning of time had that soil tasted tamed plant life. It had
seemed to appreciate the change, and the countless shocks before him
were evidence to the fact.
From where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed across country
toward the southeast where lay his other land. Only a part of which he
could see. As it rose in the distance he could see the white topped
oats; and just beyond he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed
blossoms. He sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink,
and turned them toward the pasture. He was not tired; but he went to
the side of the house which the sun did not strike, and sat him down. At
the furthest side of the field he observed Bill and George as they
shocked away to finish. He was at peace again, as he always was, and
thereupon fell into deep thought.
"My crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels to the acre,"
he whispered to himself. "And one hundred and thirty acres should then
yield almost four thousand bushels. I should receive at least eighty
cents the bushel, and that would approximate about three thousand
dollars, with seed left to sow the land again." He paused in his
meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean to him. He
could pay the entire amount on the land he had purchased, and perhaps a
thousand or two more from the flax crop. That would leave him owing but
four hundred dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he felt
he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have 520 acres clear!
He could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain over his
prospects. He was now just twenty-three and appreciated that most of his
life was yet before him. With, at the most, two or three more seasons
like the present one, he could own the coveted thousand acres and the
example would be completed.
That was the goal toward which he was working. If he or any other man of
the black race could acquire one thousand acres of such land it would
stand out with more credit to the Negro race than all the protestations
of a world of agitators in so far as the individual was concerned.
"It is things accomplished," he often said to himself.
"It is what is actually accomplished that will get notice--and credit!
Damn excuses! The best an excuse can secure is dismissal, and positively
that is no asset." He would then invariably think deeply into the
conditions of his race, the race who protested loudly that they were
being held down. Truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to
solve with prolific thinkings. He compared them with the Jew--went away
back to thousands of years before. Out of the past he could not solve it
either. All had begun together. The Jew was hated, but was a merchant
enjoying a large portion of the world commerce and success. The Negro
was disliked because of his black skin--and sometimes seemingly for
daring to be human.
At such times he would live over again the life that had been his before
coming West. He thought of the multitudes in the employment of a great
corporation who monopolized the sleeping car trade. Indeed this company
after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men. Not so much
in what was collected in tips and in other devious ways, nor from the
small salary, but from the great opportunity of observation that that
particular form of travel afforded.
But so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves thereby. He
continued to think along these lines until his thoughts came back to a
point where in the past they were wont to come and stop. He could not in
that moment understand why they had not been coming back to that
selfsame point in recent months.... Since one cold day during the first
month of that year.... He gave a start when he realized why, then
sighed. It seemed too much for his thoughts just then. He regarded Bill
and George at their task of trying to finish their work. Upon hearing a
sound, he turned. Behind him stood Agnes.
"My, how you frightened me!" he cried.
She held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him and her brothers.
This she had brought every day, but he had been so absorbed in his
thoughts that he had quite forgotten that she was coming on this day as
well. As she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter than
she really was, also more slender, and appeared withal more girlish than
usual. Her eyes twinkled and her heavy hair drawn together at the back
of her head, hung over her shoulders. Her sunkist skin was a bit tanned;
her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown and were very round. And
as Jean Baptiste regarded her there in the bright golden sunlight she
appeared to him like the Virgin Mary.
"You are tired," he cried, and pointed to a crude bench that reposed
against the sod house, which he had just left in his prolific thinking
of a moment before.
"Sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded. She obeyed him
modestly, with a smile still upon her pleasant face.
"I judge that Bill and George will finish in a few minutes, so I'll
wait, that we may all dine together. You'll be so kind as to wait until
then, will you not?" he asked graciously, and bowed.
"Until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly.
"Thanks!" he laughed, good humoredly. Suddenly she cried:
"Oh, isn't it beautiful!" And swept her hands toward the field of
shocked wheat. He had been looking away, but as she spoke he turned and
smiled with satisfaction.
"It is."
"Just lovely," she cried, her eyes sparkling.
"And all safe, that's the best part about it," he said.
"Grand. I'm so glad you have saved it," she said with feeling.
"Thank you."
"You have earned it."
"I hope so. Still I thank you."
"It will bring you lots of money."
"I am hoping it will."
"Oh, it will."
"I was thinking of it before you came up."
"I knew it."
"You knew it!"
"I saw you from a distance."
"Oh...."
"And I knew you were thinking."
"Oh, come now."
"Why shouldn't I? You're always thinking. The only time when you are not
is when you are sleeping."
"You can say such wonderful things," he said, standing before her, the
sun shining on his tanned features.
"Won't--ah--won't you be seated?" she invited. He colored unseen. She
made room for him and he hesitatingly took a seat, at a conventional
distance, on the bench beside her.
"Your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably.
"I'm going over to look at them this afternoon."
"You should."
"Where is your father today?"
"Gone to town."
"Wish I'd known he was going; I'd had him bring out some twine for me. I
think the oats will be ready to cut over on the other place right away,
and I don't want to miss any time."
"No, indeed. A hail storm might come up." He glanced at her quickly. She
was gazing across the field to where her halfwitted brothers worked,
while he was thinking how thoughtful she was. Presently he heard her
again.
"Why, if it is urgent--you are out, I--I could go to town and get the
twine for you." She was looking at him now and he was confused. Her
offer was so like her, so natural. Why was it that they understood each
other so well?
"Oh, why, Agnes," he stammered, "that would be asking too much of you!"
"Why so? I shall be glad--glad to oblige you in any way. And it is not
too much if one takes into consideration what you have done for--I'll be
glad to go...."
"Done for what?" he said, catching up where she had broken off, and
eyeing her inquiringly.
She was confused and the same showed in her face. She blushed. She had
not meant to say what she did. But he was regarding her curiously. He
hadn't thought about the note. She turned then and regarded him out of
tender eyes. She played with the bonnet she held in her lap. She looked
away and then back up into his face, and her eyes were more tender
still. In her expression there was almost an appeal.
"What did you mean by what you started to say, Agnes," he repeated,
evenly, but kindly.
"I--I--mean what you did for papa. What--you--you did about
that--that--note." It was out at last and she lowered her eyes and
struggled to hold back the tears with great effort.
"Oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. "That was nothing." And he laughed
again as if to dismiss it.
"But it _was_ something," she cried, protestingly. "It _was_ something.
It was _everything_ to us." She ended with great emotion apparent in
her shaking voice. He shifted. It was awkward, and he was a trifle
confused.
"Please don't think of it, Agnes."
"But how can I keep from thinking of it when I know that had it not been
your graciousness; your wonderful thoughtfulness, your great kindness,
we would have been sold out--bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me!" She covered
her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now raining down her
face and dropping upon her lap.
"Oh, Agnes," he cried. "I wish you wouldn't do that! Please don't. It
hurts me. Besides, how did you know it? I told Brookings that your
father was not to know it. I did not want it known." He paused and his
voice shook slightly. They had drawn closer and now she reached out and
placed her small hand upon his arm.
"Brookings didn't tell. He didn't tell papa; but I knew." She was
looking down at the earth.
"I don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly.
"But didn't you think, Jean, that I understood! I understood the very
day--a few minutes after papa returned home, brought the old note and
told me about the extension." She paused and looked thoughtfully away
across the field. "I understood when you drove by a few minutes later.
You had forgotten about it, I could see, and your mind was on other
things; but the moment you came into my sight, and I
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