THE NEW MOVERS
Far away, across the wide gray plain, appeared a tiny dot, apparently
an unimportant fixture of the landscape. An hour earlier it might not
have been observed at all by even the keenest eye, and it would have
needed yet more time to assure an observer even now that the dot was a
moving object. Under the shifting play of the prairie sun the little
object appeared now dark, now light in colour, but became gradually
more distinct. It came always crawling steadily on. Presently an
occasional side-blown puff of dust added a certain heraldry, and thus
finally the white-topped wagon and its plodding team came fully into
view, crawling ever persistently from the East into the West.
Meantime, from the direction of the north, there came travelling across
the prairie another cloud of dust more rapid than that stirred up by
the slow-moving emigrant wagon. Sam, the stage driver, was crossing on
his regular buckboard trip from Ellisville to Plum Centre, and was now
nearly half-way on his journey. Obviously the courses of these two
vehicles must intersect, and at the natural point of this intersection
the driver of the faster pulled up and waited for the other. "Movers"
were not yet so common in that region that the stage driver, natural
news agent, must not pause for investigation.
The driver of the wagon, a tall, dark man, drew rein with a grave
salutation, his tired horses standing with drooping heads while there
took place one of the pregnant conversations of the Plains.
"Mornin', friend," said Sam.
"Mornin', sir," said the other.
"Which way you headin', friend?" asked Sam.
"Well, sir," came the answer, slowly, "I rather reckon you've got me.
I've just been movin' on out. I want to locate, but I reckon my team
could travel a little further if they had to." This with a certain
grimness in his smile, as though he realized the whimsicality of the
average motive which governed in that day in quests like his. "Is
there much travel comin' through here this season?" he resumed, turning
in his seat and resting one foot on the wheel as he sat still perched
on the high wagon seat.
"Well," replied Sam, "they ain't so much just yet, but they will be
pretty soon. You see, the Land Office is about sixty mile east of here
yet, and folks is mostly stoppin' in there. Land around here is pretty
much all open yet. If they move the Land Office to the track-end, of
course all this land will be taken up a good deal faster."
"Is it good farmin' land around here?"
"Sure. Better'n it is farther west, and just as good as it is farther
east. Wheat'll do well here, and it ain't too cold for corn. Best cow
country on earth."
"How is Ellisville doing now?"
"Bloomin'."
"Yes, sir, so I heard farther back. Is it goin' to be a real town?"
"That's whatever! How can it help it? It's goin' to be a division
point on the road. It's goin' to have all the cattle-shippin' trade.
After a while it'll have all the farmin' trade. It's goin' to be the
town, all right, don't you neglect that. They's fifteen thousand head
of cattle in around here now. Town's got two hotels, good livery
stable--that's mine--half a dozen stores, nigh on to a dozen saloons,
an' two barber-shops. Yes, sir, Ellisville is the place!"
"Which way are you bound, sir?" asked the stranger, still sitting,
apparently in thought, with his chin resting on his hand.
"Well, you see, they's another town goin' up below here about twenty
mile--old man Plum's town, Plum Centre. I run the mail an' carry folk
acrost from Ellisville to that place. This here is just about halfway
acrost. Ellisville's about twenty or twenty-five mile north of here."
Sam spoke lucidly enough, but really he was much consumed with
curiosity, for he had seen, behind the driver of the wagon, a face
outlined in the shade. He wondered how many "women-folk" the new mover
had along, this being ever a vital question at that day. The tall man
on the wagon seat turned his face slowly back toward the interior of
the wagon.
"What do you think, Lizzie?" he asked.
"Dear me, William," came reply from the darkness in a somewhat
complaining voice, "how can I tell? It all seems alike to me. You can
judge better than I."
"What do you say, niece?"
The person last addressed rested a hand upon the questioner's shoulder
and lightly climbed out upon the seat by his side, stooping as she
passed under the low bow of the cover frame. She stood upright, a tall
and gracious figure, upon the wagon floor in front of the seat, and
shaded her eyes as she looked about her. Her presence caused Sam to
instinctively straighten up and tug at his open coat. He took off his
hat with a memory of other days, and said his "Good-mornin'" as the
schoolboy does to his teacher--superior, revered, and awesome.
Yet this new character upon this bare little scene was not of a sort to
terrify. Tall she was and shapely, comely with all the grace of youth
and health, not yet tanned too brown by the searing prairie winds, and
showing still the faint purity of the complexion of the South. There
was no slouch in her erect and self-respecting carriage, no shiftiness
in her eye, no awkwardness in her speech. To Sam it was
instantaneously evident that here was a new species of being, one of
which he had but the vaguest notions through any experiences of his
own. His chief impression was that he was at once grown small, dusty,
and much unshaven. He flushed as he shifted and twisted on the
buckboard seat.
The girl looked about her for a moment in silence, shading her eyes
still with her curved hand.
"It is much alike, all this country that we have seen since we left the
last farms. Uncle William," she said, "but it doesn't seem dreary to
me. I should think--"
But what she would have thought was broken into by a sudden exclamation
from farther back in the wagon. A large black face appeared at the
aperture under the front wagon bow, and the owner of it spoke with a
certain oracular vigour.
"Fo' Gawd, Mass' William, less jess stop right yer! I 'clare, I'se
jess wore to a plum frazzle, a-travelin' an' _a-travelin'_! Ef we
gwine settle, why, less _settle_, thass all I say!"
The driver of the wagon sat silent for a moment, his leg still hanging
over the end of the seat, his chin in the hand of the arm which rested
upon his other leg, propped up on the dashboard of the wagon. At
length, quietly, and with no comment, he unbuckled the reins and threw
them out and down upon the ground on either side of the wagon.
"Whoa, boys," he called to the horses, which were too weary to note
that they were no longer asked to go farther on. Then the driver got
deliberately down. He was a tall man, of good bearing, in his
shoulders but little of the stoop of the farmer, and on his hands not
any convincing proof that he was personally acquainted with continuous
bodily toil. His face was thin, aquiline, proud; his hair dark, his
eyes gray. He might have been a planter, a rancher, a man of leisure
or a man of affairs, as it might happen that one met him at the one
locality or the other. One might have called him a gentleman, another
only a "pilgrim." To Sam he was a "mover," and that was all. His own
duty as proselyter was obvious. Each new settlement was at war with
all others, population being the first need.
"We'll turn out here," said the man, striking his heel upon the ground
with significant gesture, as was an unconscious custom among the men
who chose out land for themselves in a new region. "We'll stop here
for a bite to eat, and I reckon we won't go any farther west. How is
this country around here for water?"
"Sure," said Sam, "excuse me. I've got a jug along with me. I nearly
always carry some water along, because they ain't but one creek, and
they ain't no wells.--Have a drink, miss?" And he politely pulled out
the wooden stopper of a jug and offered it with a hand which jumped in
spite of himself.
"Thank you, sir," said the girl, and her uncle added his courteous
thanks also. "What I meant to ask, sir, however," he continued, "is
what is the prospect of getting water in this part of the country in
case we should like to settle in here?"
"Oh, that?" said Sam. "Why, say, you couldn't very well hit it much
better. Less'n a mile farther down this trail to the south you come to
the Sinks of the White Woman Creek. They's most always some water in
that creek, and you can git it there any place by diggin' ten or twenty
feet.
"That's good," said the stranger. "That's mighty good." He turned to
the wagon side and called out to his wife. "Come, Lizzie," he said,
"get out, dear, and take a rest. We'll have a bite to eat, and then
we'll talk this all over."
The woman to whom he spoke next appeared at the wagon front and was
aided to the ground. Tall, slender, black clad, with thin, pale face,
she seemed even more unsuited than her husband to the prospect which
lay before them. She stood for a moment alone, looking about her at
the land which had long been shut off from view by the wagon tent, then
turned and went close to the man, upon whom she evidently relied for
the solution of life's problems. Immediately behind her there
clambered down from the wagon, with many groanings and complaints, the
goodly bulk of the black woman who had earlier given her advice. "Set
down yer, Mis' Lizzie, in the shade," she said, spreading a rug upon
the ground upon the side of the wagon farthest from the sun. "Set down
an' git a ress. Gawd knows we all needs it--this yer fo'saken kentry.
'Tain' good as Mizzoury, let 'lone Kaintucky er Ole Vehginny--no, mam!"
There was thus now established, by the chance of small things, the
location of a home. This wagon, with its occupants, had come far and
journeyed vaguely, having no given point in view. The meeting of this
other vehicle, here in the middle of the untracked prairie, perhaps
aided by the chance words of a tired negress, made the determining
circumstances. It was done. It was decided. There was a relief at
once upon every countenance. Now these persons were become citizens of
this land. Unwittingly, or at least tacitly, this was admitted when
the leader of this little party advanced to the side of the buckboard
and offered his hand.
"My name is Buford," he said slowly and with grave courtesy. "This is
my wife; my niece, Miss Beauchamp. Your name, sir, I don't know, but
we are very glad to meet you."
"My name's Poston," said Sam, as he also now climbed down from his
seat, seeing that the matter was clinched and that he had gained a
family for his county--"Sam Poston. I run the livery barn. I sure
hope you'll stop in here, for you won't find no better country. Do you
allow you'll move up to Ellisville and live there?"
"Well, I've started out to get some land," said Buford, "and I presume
that the first thing is to find that and get the entry made. Then
we'll have to live on it till we can commute it. I don't know that it
would suit us at Ellisville just yet. It must be a rather hard town,
from all I can learn, and hardly fit for ladies."
"That's so," said Sam, "it ain't just the quietest place in the world
for women-folks. Only five or six women in the place yet, outside the
section boss's wife and the help at the depot hotel. Still," he added
apologetically, "folks soon gets used to the noise. I don't mind it no
more at all."
Buford smiled as he glanced quizzically at the faces of his
"women-folks." At this moment Sam broke out with a loud exclamation.
"Say!" he cried.
"Yes, sir," said Buford.
"I'll tell you what!"
"Yes?"
"Now, you listen to me. I'll tell you what! You see, this here place
where we are now is just about a mile from the White Woman Sinks, and
that is, as I was sayin', just about halfway between Ellisville and
Plum Centre. Now, look here. This country's goin' to boom. They's
goin' to be a plenty of people come in here right along. There'll be a
regular travel from Ellis down to Plum Centre, and it's too long a trip
to make between meals. My passengers all has to carry meals along with
'em, and they kick on that a-plenty. Now, you look here. Listen to
me. You just go down to the White Woman, and drive your stake there.
Take up a quarter for each one of you. Put you up a sod house quick as
you can--I'll git you help for that. Now, if you can git anything to
cook, and can give meals to my stage outfit when I carry passengers
through here, why, I can promise you, you'll git business, and you'll
git it a-plenty, too. Why, say, this'd be the best sort of a lay-out,
all around. You can start just as good a business here as you could at
Ellisville, and it's a heap quieter here. Now, I want some one to
start just such a eatin' place somewheres along here, and if you'll do
that, you'll make a stake here in less'n two years, sure's you're born."
Sam's conviction gave him eloquence. He was talking of business now,
of the direct, practical things which were of immediate concern in the
life of the region about. The force of what he said would not have
been apparent to the unpracticed observer, who might have seen no
indication in the wide solitude about that there would ever be here a
human population or a human industry. Buford was schooled enough to be
more just in his estimate, and he saw the reasonableness of what his
new acquaintance had said. Unconsciously his eye wandered over to the
portly form of the negress, who sat fanning herself, a little apart
from the others. He smiled again with the quizzical look on his face.
"How about that, Aunt Lucy?" he said.
"Do hit, Mass' William," replied the coloured woman at once with
conviction, and extending an energetic forefinger. "You jess do whut
this yer man says. Ef they's any money to be made a-cookin', I kin do
all the cookin' ever you wants, ef you-all kin git anything to cook.
Yas, suh!"
"You ain't makin' no mistake," resumed Sam. "You go in and git your
land filed on, and put you up a sod house or dugout for the first
season, because lumber's awful high out here. It's pretty late to do
anything with a crop this year, even if you had any breakin' done, but
you can take your team and gether bones this fall and winter, and
that'll make you a good livin', too. You can git some young stock out
of the trail cattle fer a'most anything you want to give, and you can
hold your bunch in here on the White Woman when you git started. You
can cut a little hay a little lower down on the White Woman for your
team, or they can range out in here all winter and do well, just like
your cows can. You can git a lot of stock about you before long, and
what with keepin' a sort of eatin' station and ranchin' it a bit, you
ought to git along mighty well, I should say. But--'scuse me, have you
ever farmed it much?"
"Well, sir," said Buford, slowly, "I used to plant corn and cotton,
back in Kentucky, befo' the war."
"And you come from Kentucky out here?"
"Not precisely that; no, sir. I moved to Missouri from Kentucky after
the war, and came from Missouri here."
Sam looked at him, puzzled. "I allowed you'd never ranched it much,"
he said, vaguely. "How'd you happen to come out here?"
The quizzical smile again crossed Buford's face. "I think I shall have
to give that up, on my honour," he said. "We just seem to have started
on West, and to have kept going until we got here. It seemed to be the
fashion--especially if you'd lost about everything in the world and
seen everything go to pieces all about you." He added this with a slow
and deliberate bitterness which removed the light trace of humour for
the time.
"From Kentucky, eh?" said Sam, slowly and meditatively. "Well, it
don't make no difference where you come from; we want good men in here,
and you'll find this a good country, I'll gamble on that. I've
followed the front clean acrost the State, the last ten years, and I
tell you it's all right here. You can make it if you take hold right.
Now I must be gittin' along again over toward Plum Centre. See you
again if you stop in here on White Woman--see you several times a week,
like enough. You must come up to Ellis soon as you git straightened
out. Ain't many women-folks up there, but then they're fine what there
is. Say," and he drew Buford to one side as he whispered to him--"say,
they's a mighty fine girl--works in the depot hotel--Nory's her
name--you'll see her if you ever come up to town. I'm awful gone on
that girl, and if you git any chanct, if you happen to be up there, you
just put in a good word for me, won't you? I'd do as much for you. I
didn't know, you know, but what maybe some of your women-folks'd sort
of know how it was, you know. They understand them things, I reckon."
Buford listened with grave politeness, though with a twinkle in his
eye, and promised to do what he could. Encouraged at this, Sam stepped
up and shook hands with Mrs. Buford and with the girl, not forgetting
Aunt Lucy, an act which singularly impressed that late inhabitant of a
different land, and made him her fast friend for life.
"Well, so long," he said to them all in general as he turned away, "and
good luck to you. You ain't makin' no mistake in settlin' here.
Good-bye till I see you all again."
He stepped into the buckboard and clucked to his little team, the dust
again rising from under the wheels. The eyes of those remaining
followed him already yearningly. In a half hour there had been
determined the location of a home, there had been suggested a means of
livelihood, and there had been offered and received a friendship.
Here, in the middle of the great gray Plains, where no sign of any
habitation was visible far as the eye could reach, these two white men
had met and shaken hands. In a half hour this thing had become matter
of compact. They had taken the oath. They had pledged themselves to
become members of society, working together--working, as they thought,
each for himself, but working also, as perhaps they did not dream, at
the hest of some destiny governing plans greater than their own. As
Buford turned he stumbled and kicked aside a bleached buffalo skull,
which lay half hidden in the red grass at his feet.