THE HOMESTEADERS
Of neighbors, I had many. There was Miss Carter from old Missouri whose
claim joined mine on the west, and another Missourian to the north of
her; a loud talking German north of him, and an English preacher to the
east of the German. A traveling man's family lived north of me; and a
big, fat, lazy barber who seemed to be taking the "rest cure," joined me
on the east. His name was Starks and he had drawn number 252. He had a
nice, level claim with only a few buffalo wallows to detract from its
value, and he held the distinction of being the most uncompromisingly
lazy man on the Little Crow. This, coupled with the unpardonable fault
of complaining about everything, made him nigh unbearable and he was
known as the "Beefer." He came from a small town, usually the home of
his ilk, in Iowa, where he had a small shop and owned three and a half
acres of garden and orchard ground on the outskirts of the town. He
would take a fiendish delight in relating and re-relating how the folks
in his house back in Iowa were having strawberries, new peas, green
beans, spring onions, and enjoying all the fruits of a tropical climate,
while he was holding down an "infernal no-account claim" on the Little
Crow, and eating out of a can.
A merchant was holding down a claim south of him, and a banker lived
south of the merchant. Thus it was a varied class of homesteaders
around Calias and Megory, the first summer on the Little Crow. Only
about one in every eight or ten was a farmer. They were of all vocations
in life and all nationalities, excepting negroes, and I controlled the
colored vote.
This was one place where being a colored man was an honorary
distinction. I remember how I once requested the stage driver to bring
me some meat from Megory, there being no meat shop in Calias, and it was
to be left at the post office. Apparently I had failed to give the stage
driver my name, for when I called for it, it was handed out to me, done
up in a neat package, and addressed "Colored Man, Calias." My neighbors
soon learned, however, that my given name was "Oscar," but it was some
time before they could all spell or pronounce the odd surname.
During the month of June it rained twenty-three days, but I was so
determined to break out one hundred and twenty acres, that after a few
days of the rainy weather I went out and worked in the rain. Starks used
to go up town about four o'clock for the mail, wearing a long, yellow
slicker, and when he saw me going around the half-mile land he remarked
to the bystanders: "Just look at that fool nigger a working in the
rain."
Being the first year of settlement in a new country, there naturally was
no hay to buy, so the settlers turned their stock out to graze, and many
valuable horses strayed away and were lost. When it rained so much and
the weather turned so warm, the mosquitoes filled the air and covered
the earth and attacked everything in their path. When I turned my
horses out after the day's work was done, they soon found their way to
town, where they stood in the shelter of some buildings and fought
mosquitoes. Their favorite place for this pastime was the post office,
where Billinger had a shed awning over the board walk, the framework
consisting of two-by-fours joined together and nailed lightly to the
building, and on top of this he had laid a few rough boards. Under this
crude shelter the homesteaders found relief from the broiling afternoon
sun, and swapped news concerning the latest offer for their claims. The
mosquitoes did not bother so much in even so slight an inclosure as
this, so every night Jenny Mule would walk on to the board walk, prick
up her ears and look in at the window. About this time the big horse
would come along and begin to scratch his neck on one of the
two-by-fours, and suddenly down would go Billinger's portable awning
with a loud crash which was augmented by Jenny Mule getting out from
under the falling boards. As the sound echoed through the slumbering
village the big horse would rush away to the middle of the street, with
a prolonged snort, and wonder what it was all about. This was the story
Billinger told when I came around the next morning to drive them home
from the storekeeper's oat bin where they had indulged in a midnight
lunch. The performance was repeated nightly and got brother Billinger
out of bed at all hours. He swore by all the Gods of Buddha and the
people of South Dakota, that he would put the beasts up and charge me a
dollar to get them.
Early one morning I came over and found that Billinger had remained true
to his oath, and the horse and mule were tied to a wagon belonging to
the storekeeper. Nearby on a pile of rock sat Billinger, nodding away,
sound asleep. I quietly untied the rope from the wagon and peaceably led
them home. Then Billinger was in a rage. He had a small, screechy
tremulo voice and it fairly sputtered as he tiraded: "If it don't beat
all; I never saw the like. I was up all last night chasing those darned
horses, caught them and tied them up; and along comes Devereaux while I
am asleep and takes horses, rope and all." The crowd roared and
Billinger decided the joke was on him.
Miss Carter, my neighbor on the west, had her trouble too. One day she
came by, distressed and almost on the verge of tears, and burst out:
"Oh, Oh, Oh, I hardly know what to do."
I could never bear seeing any one in such distress and I became touched
by her grief. Upon becoming more calm, she told me: "The banker says
that the man who is breaking prairie on my claim is ruining the ground."
She was simply heart-broken about it, and off she went into another
spasm of distress. I saw the fellow wasn't laying the sod over smoothly
because he had a sixteen-inch plow, and had it set to cut only about
eight inches, which caused the sod to push away and pile up on edges,
instead of turning and dropping into the furrow. I went with her and
explained to the fellow where the fault lay. The next day he was doing a
much better job.
Those who have always lived in the older settled parts of the country
sometimes have exaggerated ideas of life on the homestead, and the
following incident offers a partial explanation. Megory and Calias each
had a newspaper, and when they weren't roasting each other and claiming
their paper to be the only live and progressive organ in the country,
they were "building" railroads or printing romantic tales about the
brave homesteader girls. A little red-headed girl nicknamed "Jack" owned
a claim near Calias. One day it was reported that she killed a
rattlesnake in her house. The report of the great encounter reached
eastern dailies, and was published as a Sunday feature story in one of
the leading Omaha papers. It was accompanied by gorgeous pictures of the
girl in a leather skirt, riding boots, and cow-boy hat, entering a sod
house, and before her, coiled and poised to strike, lay a monster
rattlesnake. Turning on her heel and jerking the bridle from her horse's
head, she made a terrific swing at Mr. Rattlesnake, and he, of course,
"met his Waterloo." This, so the story read, was the eightieth
rattlesnake she had killed. She was described as "Rattlesnake Jack" and
thereafter went by that name. She was also credited with having spent
the previous winter alone on her claim and rather enjoyed the wintry
nights and snow blockade. Now as a matter of fact, she had spent most of
the previous winter enjoying the comforts of a front room at the Hotel
Calias, going to the claim occasionally on nice days. She had no horse,
and as to the eighty rattlesnakes, seventy-nine were myths, existing
only in the mind of a prolific feature story writer for the Sunday
edition of the great dailies. In fact she had killed one small young
rattler with a button.