Jim Butler was one of those men called in the West "land poor." Early in
the history of Rock River he had come into the town and started in the
grocery business in a small way, occupying a small building in a mean
part of the town. At this period of his life he earned all he got, and
was up early and late sorting beans, working over butter, and carting
his goods to and from the station. But a change came over him at the end
of the second year, when he sold a lot of land for four times what he
paid for it. From that time forward he believed in land speculation as
the surest way of getting rich. Every cent he could save or spare from
his trade he put into land at forced sale, or mortgages on land, which
were "just as good as the wheat," he was accustomed to say.
Farm after farm fell into his hands, until he was recognized as one of
the leading landowners of the county. His mortgages were scattered all
over Cedar County, and as they slowly but surely fell in he sought
usually to retain the former owner as tenant.
He was not ready to foreclose; indeed, he had the name of being one of
the "easiest" men in the town. He let the debtor off again and again,
extending the time whenever possible.
"I don't want y'r land," he said. "All I'm after is the int'rest on my
money--that's all. Now, if y' want 'o stay on the farm, why, I'll give
y' a good chance. I can't have the land layin' vacant." And in many
cases the owner remained as tenant.
In the meantime he had sold his store; he couldn't spend time in it; he
was mainly occupied now with sitting around town on rainy days smoking
and "gassin' with the boys," or in riding to and from his farms. In
fishing-time he fished a good deal. Doc Grimes, Ben Ashley, and Cal
Cheatham were his cronies on these fishing excursions or hunting trips
in the time of chickens or partridges. In winter they went to Northern
Wisconsin to shoot deer.
In spite of all these signs of easy life Butler persisted in saying he
"hadn't enough money to pay taxes on his land," and was careful to
convey the impression that he was poor in spite of his twenty farms. At
one time he was said to be worth fifty thousand dollars, but land had
been a little slow of sale of late, so that he was not worth so much.
A fine farm, known as the Higley place, had fallen into his hands in the
usual way the previous year, and he had not been able to find a tenant
for it. Poor Higley, after working himself nearly to death on it in the
attempt to lift the mortgage, had gone off to Dakota, leaving the farm
and his curse to Butler.
This was the farm which Council advised Haskins to apply for; and the
next day Council hitched up his team and drove down to see Butler.
"You jest let me do the talkin'," he said. "We'll find him wearin' out
his pants on some salt barrel somew'ers; and if he thought you wanted a
place he'd sock it to you hot and heavy. You jest keep quiet; I'll fix
'im."
Butler was seated in Ben Ashley's store telling fish yarns when Council
sauntered in casually.
"Hello, But; lyin' agin, hey?"
"Hello, Steve! how goes it?"
"Oh, so-so. Too dang much rain these days. I thought it was goin' t'
freeze up f'r good last night. Tight squeak if I get m' ploughin' done.
How's farmin' with you these days?"
"Bad. Ploughin' ain't half done."
"It 'ud be a religious idee f'r you t' go out an' take a hand y'rself."
"I don't haff to," said Butler, with a wink.
"Got anybody on the Higley place?"
"No. Know of anybody?"
"Waal, no; not eggsackly. I've got a relation back t' Michigan who's
ben hot an' cold on the idee o' comin' West f'r some time. Might come if
he could get a good lay-out. What do you talk on the farm?"
"Well, I d' know. I'll rent it on shares or I'll rent it money rent."
"Waal, how much money, say?"
"Well, say ten per cent, on the price--two-fifty."
"Waal, that ain't bad. Wait on 'im till 'e thrashes?"
Haskins listened eagerly to his important question, but Council was
coolly eating a dried apple which he had speared out of a barrel with
his knife. Butler studied him carefully.
"Well, knocks me out of twenty-five dollars interest."
"My relation'll need all he's got t' git his crops in," said Council,
in the same, indifferent way.
"Well, all right; say wait," concluded Butler.
"All right; this is the man. Haskins, this is Mr. Butler--no relation to
Ben--the hardest-working man in Cedar County."
On the way home Haskins said: "I ain't much better off. I'd like that
farm; it's a good farm, but it's all run down, an' so 'm I. I could make
a good farm of it if I had half a show. But I can't stock it n'r seed
it."
"Waal, now, don't you worry," roared Council in his ear. "We'll pull y'
through somehow till next harvest. He's agreed t' hire it ploughed, an'
you can earn a hundred dollars ploughin' an' y' c'n git the seed o' me,
an' pay me back when y' can."
Haskins was silent with emotion, but at last he said, "I ain't got
nothin' t' live on."
"Now, don't you worry 'bout that. You jest make your headquarters at ol'
Steve Council's. Mother'll take a pile o' comfort in havin' y'r wife an'
children 'round. Y' see, Jane's married off lately, an' Ike's away a
good 'eal, so we'll be darn glad t' have y' stop with us this winter.
Nex' spring we'll see if y' can't git a start agin." And he chirruped to
the team, which sprang forward with the rumbling, clattering wagon.
"Say, looky here, Council, you can't do this. I never saw--" shouted
Haskins in his neighbor's ear.
Council moved about uneasily in his seat and stopped his stammering
gratitude by saying: "Hold on, now; don't make such a fuss over a little
thing. When I see a man down, an' things all on top of 'm, I jest like
t' kick 'em off an' help 'm up. That's the kind of religion I got, an'
it's about the only kind."
They rode the rest of the way home in silence. And when the red light of
the lamp shone out into the darkness of the cold and windy night, and he
thought of this refuge for his children and wife, Haskins could have
put his arm around the neck of his burly companion and squeezed him like
a lover. But he contented himself with saying, "Steve Council, you'll
git y'r pay f'r this some day."
"Don't want any pay. My religion ain't run on such business principles."
The wind was growing colder, and the ground was covered with a white
frost, as they turned into the gate of the Council farm, and the
children came rushing out, shouting, "Papa's come!" They hardly looked
like the same children who had sat at the table the night before. Their
torpidity, under the influence of sunshine and Mother Council, had given
way to a sort of spasmodic cheerfulness, as insects in winter revive
when laid on the hearth.