THE ANNUAL PRAIRIE FIRES--THE TERROR OF THE SETTLERS
During this decade of getting the ground ready and gradually getting
an equipment for real farming there was one great enemy which was a
continual menace and terror to the homesteaders--the semi-annual
burning of the prairie. From times immemorial, before the White
settler came, the prairie fire had stalked in majestic splendor over
the vast and boundless sea of grass, covering this and adjoining
states, licking up with his red and cruel tongue everything before him
and leaving a barren desolation behind him. Sometimes set by the
lightning, or Indians, or the campfire of the early explorer or
trader, this fire, driven by the wind, would meander back and forth
over the prairie for days and weeks until rain or a considerable
stream might at last stay his stride.
With the first influx of the settler the fire menace greatly
multiplied, for not understanding the nature of this menace, they
themselves unintentionally set many of these fires. Thus there came to
be a fairly certain expectation on the part of the homesteaders of a
visit from this monster twice a year--spring and fall--unless he made
a clean sweep in the fall, which was not generally the case.
As a boy I recall waking up at night and seeing a strange glare
against the window, and upon looking out, I saw a great wave of fire,
a moving wall of flame, pass by our house and going on to the south.
Let me give a brief sketch of one of these fires, well remembered by
the old settlers and reported to me by H.B. Reese, who was then old
enough to be out with the men on the fire fighting line. I give it
largely in his own words.
It was Good Friday, 1887. In the morning we noticed smoke in the
northwest. There was also a strong wind from that direction. There had
just previously been several days of wind as also sunshine, so
everything was dry as tinder. We knew at once what the black flag,
hoisted to the sky in the northwest meant. It meant a challenge from
the Fire King to come out and fight for our own and our neighbors'
homes--buildings, stock and everything we had that could burn. We
hurriedly got our weapons of sacks and water ready and started out to
meet the giant and offer him all the resistance we could. But our
antagonist was terribly swift as well as strong, and when we reached
Jonas Vaabeno's place, three miles to the northwest, he had already
done his terrible work, making a clean sweep of all out-buildings,
mostly made of hay or straw, as also of the dugout which served for a
dwelling. Where the stable had stood were the remnants of some
half-burnt cattle. We hurried on to Peter Johnson's, but the Fire
Demon was victorious and took everything except the dugout dwelling.
The same fate was dealt out to Ole Liabo farther north. We were now
driven back on our own home premises, and after desperate efforts we
saved our buildings, but, of course, had to surrender everything not
on the premises where the buildings were, such as trees, hay, etc.
When night came and we could return to the house we just threw
ourselves flat on the floor completely exhausted, not having tasted
food during the whole day.
Next day, looking out over the country to the northwest, we could see
very little except a vast desolation--how far no one seemed to
know--of blackened prairie, dotted with many ashpiles which in many
cases, as tho they were tombstones, marked the graves of all the
settlers' material possessions except the land and a few cattle. It is
a puzzle to know how they managed to keep these cattle with the
prairie burned off, but they did. Not only that, but tho sorely tried,
yet not broken in will or spirit, they borrowed money, even at
outrageous interest rates, rebuilt their temporary shelters and began
the struggle once more from the bottom up.
The last and most terrible of all the fires, as far as known, swept
over that country only two years later, 1889. As the writer of this
was old enough to be an active participant in connection with this, I
recall it vividly. The day was in early spring and began very hazy
with so much smoke in the atmosphere that one could not see much
beyond half a mile. There was a strong wind from the northwest, such
as was common in spring in those days, and the prairie grass was
thoroly dried out and very abundant. This condition, however, was not
unusual in the spring of the year. On coming out after dinner I
noticed that the haze or smoke seemed thicker toward the northwest
than in other directions. On looking more closely I soon saw whirls of
smoke rolling up toward the sky. I immediately gave the alarm, and
every one at the house, including mother, rushed out to meet the foe.
We did not have to go far before we met him, and so swiftly did he
come that in our hasty retreat toward the house Mother was very nearly
overcome by the smoke and heat. Fortunately there was a piece of
plowed ground near by where she was able to find safety and lie down
until sufficiently recovered to go on to the house. Then we all took
our stand, some hauling water, others fighting at the front. There was
a strip of plowed ground, or fire break, around the place, but the
terrific wind continually threatened to carry the fire across, now at
one point, now at another. Moreover, some barn manure had been spread
on this plow land, and this, taking fire and blowing everywhere in the
terrific wind, made our situation quite desperate for a while.
However, we at last won to the extent of saving the buildings. This
fire, together with the one which raged next day, when the wind was
still more terrific, did enormous damage, burning out, in part or
whole, even some of the older settlers, such as James Hoxeng and
others. The town of Volin was almost completely destroyed. Some who
had suffered loss in the previous fire were again burned out in part
or whole, and the grass, as was the case after such a fire, was
damaged for years to come. Many are the stories of narrow escapes in
saving their homes and even their lives told by the old timers in
connection with these fires. Sometimes there would be a whole company
of women and children out on the middle of a plowed field, having fled
there as the only refuge.
In every new country the Fire King, as tho endowed with a dramatic
instinct, seems to end his performances with a grand climax. So here
this was the last prairie fire of any consequence in that part of the
country. King Corn from now on began to reign and the Fire King had to
abdicate his immemorial sway and boundless dominions.