September and October passed before the surveyors, long looked for, came
through, and three months dragged out their slow length before the
pre-emptors could file and escape from their claims.
By the first of November the wonder had gone out of the life of the
settlers. One by one the novelties and beauties of the plain had passed
away or grown familiar. The plover and blackbird fell silent. The
prairie-chicken's piping cry ceased as the flocks grew toward maturity,
and the lark and cricket alone possessed the russet plain, which seemed
to snap and crackle in the midnight frost, and to wither away in the
bright midday sun.
Many of the squatters by this time had spent their last dollar, and
there was little work for them to do. Each man, like his neighbor, was
waiting to "prove up." They had all lived on canned beans and crackers
since March, and they now faced three months more of this fare. Some of
them had no fuel, and winter was rapidly approaching.
The vast, treeless level, so alluring in May and June, had become an
oppressive weight to those most sensitive to the weather, and as the air
grew chill and the skies overcast, the women turned with apprehensive
faces to the untracked northwest, out of which the winds swept
pitilessly cold and keen. The land of the straddle-bug was gray and sad.
One day a cold rain mixed with sleet came on, and when the sun set,
partly clear, the Coteaux to the west rose like a marble wall,
crenelated and shadowed in violet, radiant as the bulwarks of some
celestial city; but it made the thoughtful husband look keenly at the
thin walls of his cabin and wonder where his fuel was to come from. In
this unsheltered land, where coal was high and doctors far away, winter
was a dreaded enemy.
The depopulation of the newly claimed land began. Some of the girls went
back never to return; others settled in Boomtown, with intent to visit
their claims once a month through the winter; but a few, like the
Burkes, remained in their little shanties, which looked still more like
dens when sodded to the eaves. The Clayton girls flitted away to
Wheatland, leaving the plain desolately lonely to Bailey. One by one the
huts grew smokeless and silent, until at last the only English-speaking
woman within three miles was old Mrs. Bussy, who swore and smoked a
pipe, and talked like a man with bronchitis. She was not an attractive
personality, and Mrs. Burke derived little comfort from her presence.
Willard was away a great deal teaming, working desperately to get
something laid up for the winter. The summer excursion, with its
laughter, its careless irresponsibility, had become a deadly grapple
with the implacable forces of winter. The land of the straddle-bug had
become a menacing desert, hard as iron, pitiless as ice.
Now the wind had dominion over the lonely women, wearing out their
souls with its melancholy moanings and its vast and wordless sighs. Its
voices seemed to enter Blanche Burke's soul, filling it with hunger
never felt before. Day after day it moaned in her ears and wailed about
the little cabin, rousing within her formless desires and bitter
despairs. Obscure emotions, unused powers of reason and recollection
came to her. She developed swiftly in sombre womanhood.
Sometimes Mrs. Bussy came across the prairie, sometimes a load of
land-seekers asked for dinner, but mainly she was alone all the long,
long days. She spent hours by the window watching, waiting, gazing at
the moveless sod, listening to the wind-voices, companioned only by her
memories. She began to perceive that their emigration had been a bitter
mistake, but her husband had not yet acknowledged it, and she honestly
tried not to reproach him for it. Nevertheless, she had moments of
bitterness when she raged fiercely against him.
Little things gave her opportunity. He came home late one day. She
greeted him sullenly. He began to apologize:
"I didn't intend to stay to supper, but Mrs. Bradley--"
"Mrs. Bradley! Yes, you can go and have a good time with Mrs. Bradley,
and leave me here all alone to rot. It'd serve you right if I left you
to enjoy this fine home alone."
He trembled with agony and weakness.
"Oh, you don't mean that, Blanche--"
"For Heaven's sake, don't call me pet names. I'm not a child. If I'd had
any sense I'd never have come out here. There's nothing left for us but
just freeze or starve. What did we ever leave Illinois for, anyway?"
He sank back into a corner in gentle, sorrowful patience, waiting for
her anger to wear itself out.
While they sat there in silence they heard the sound of hoofs on the
frozen ground, and a moment later Bailey's pleasant voice arose: "Hullo,
the house!" Burke went to the door, and Blanche rose to meet the visitor
with a smile, the knot in her forehead smoothed out. There was no alloy
in her pure respect and friendship for Bailey.
He came in cheerily, his hearty voice ringing with health and good-will.
He took her hand in his with a quick, strong grip, and the light of his
brown eyes brought a glow to her heart.
"I've come over to see if you don't want to go to the city to-morrow?
I've got Joe Pease to stay in the store, and so I thought I'd take an
outing."
Burke looked at his wife; she replied, eagerly:
"I should like to go, Mr. Bailey, very much. Our old team is so feeble
we daren't drive so far. I'm afraid every time old Dick stumbles he'll
fall down on the road."
"We'll have to get back to-morrow night," Burke said.
"Oh, we'll do that all right," replied Bailey.
As she planned the trip with tremulous eagerness, Bailey studied her.
She was paler than he had ever seen her, and more refined and
thoughtful, scarcely recognizable as the high-colored, powerful woman
for whom he had helped build the shanty in March. There were times now
when it seemed as if she were appealing to him, and his heart ached
with undefined sorrow as he looked about her prison-like home.
For half an hour she chatted with something of her old-time vivacity,
but when he went out her face resumed its gloomy lines, and she silenced
her husband with a glance when he attempted to keep up the cheerful
conversation.
The next morning, as she was dressing, she turned sick and faint for a
moment. Her breath seemed to fail her, and she sat down, dizzy and weak.
She was alone, but the red blood came swelling back into her face as she
waited.
She grew better soon, and rose and went about her work. Then the
excitement and pleasure of her trip, the expectation of meeting Rivers,
helped her to put her weakness away.
Bailey called for the Clayton girls, who were making their monthly visit
to their claim, and Mrs. Burke, seeing the shine of a lover's joy in
Bailey's face, and the clear, unwavering trust of a pure, good girl in
Estelle's gray eyes, fell silent, and the shadow of her own sorrow came
back upon her face.
The ride seemed short, and the town at the end wondrously exciting.
Rivers met them at the hotel, and insisted on their being his guests
during their stay. They had a jolly supper together, after which they
all went to the little town-hall to see a play. Blanche sat beside
Rivers, and as she laughed at Si Peasley and his misadventures in the
city she was girlishly happy. It was not very much of an entertainment,
but in contrast with life in a sod shanty it was all very exciting for
her.
"Oh, I wish we could live in town this winter!" she sighed in Rivers'
ear.
"You can," he answered, with significant inflection.
Altogether, the evening was one of deep pleasure for Blanche. She
enjoyed the companionship of the Clayton girls, who had never been so
friendly and sympathetic with her before. They invited her to spend the
night with them, which pleased her very much, and they all sat up till
one o'clock, talking upon all sorts of tremendously interesting feminine
subjects.
Next morning Estelle went with her while she did a little
shopping--pitifully little, for she only had a dollar or two to
spend--while Bailey loaded up his team. At last, and all too soon, her
outing ended, and she faced the west with heavy heart.
Poor Willard also felt the menace of the desolate, wild prairie, but he
had no conception of the tumult of regret and despair which filled his
wife's mind as she climbed into the wagon for their return journey. She
was like a prisoner whose parole had ended.
The Clayton girls said good-bye with pity in their voices, and Rivers
sought opportunity to say, privately: "I hate to see you back out there
on the border. If you need anything, let me know."
"All aboard!" called Bailey, as he took his reins in hand.
A bitter blast and a gray sky confronted them as they drove out of the
town, and not even Bailey's abounding vitality and good-humor could keep
Blanche from sinking back into gloomy silence. The wind was keen,
strong, prophetic of the snows which were already gathering far in the
north, and the journey seemed endless; and when late in the afternoon
they drew up before the squat, low hovel in which she was to spend a
long and desolate winter, Blanche was shivering violently, and so
depressed that she could not coherently thank the kindly young fellow
who had afforded her this brief respite from her care. She staggered
into the house, so stiff she could scarcely walk, and sank into a chair
to sob out her loneliness and despair, while Willard pottered about
building a fire on their icy hearth.
Willard Burke had a question to ask, and that night, as they were
sitting at their poor little table, he plucked up courage to begin:
"Blanche, I want to ask you something--that is, I've been kind o'
noticin' you--" Here he paused, intending to be sly and suggestive.
"Seems to me this climate ain't so bad, after all; you complain a good
deal, but seems to me you hadn't ought to." He trembled while he smiled.
"It's done a lot for you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her face flushing with confusion.
"I mean"--he tried to laugh--"your best dress seems pretty tight for
you. Oh, if it only should be--"
"Don't be a fool," she angrily replied. "If anything like that happens,
I'll let you know."
His face lengthened, and the smile went out of his eyes. He accepted her
tone as final, too loyal to doubt her word. "Don't be mad; I was only in
hopes." He rose after a silence and went out with downcast head.
She sat rigidly, feeling as if the blood were freezing in her hands and
feet. The crisis was upon her. The time of her judgment was coming--and
she was alone! She burned with anger against Rivers. Why had he waited
and waited? "_He_ can put things off--he is a man, but I am the woman--I
must suffer it all." The pain, the shame, the deadly danger--all were
hers.
Burke returned, noisily, stamping his feet like a boy.
"It's snowin' like all git out," he said, "and I've got to rig up some
kind of a sled. I reckon winter has come in earnest now, and our
coal-pile is low."
He went to sleep with the readiness of a child, and as she lay listening
to his quiet breath she remembered how easy it had once been for her to
sleep. She had the same agony of pity for him that she would have felt
for a child she had wronged malevolently.
The next day Mrs. Bussy came over. At her rap Blanche called, "Come in,"
but remained seated by the fire.
The old woman entered, knocking the snow off her feet like a man.
"How de do, neighbor?"
Blanche drew her shawl a little closer around her. "Not very well; sit
down, won't you?"
"Can't stop. You don't seem very peart. I want to know what seems to be
the trouble." Her keen eyes had never seemed so penetrating before.
Blanche flushed and moved uneasily. She was afraid of the old creature,
who seemed half-man, half-woman.
"Oh, I don't know. Rheumatism, I guess."
"That so? Well, this weather is 'nough to give anybody rheumatiz. I
tell Ed--that's my boy--I tell Ed we made holy fools of ourselves comin'
out here. I never see such a damn country f'r wind." She rambled on
about the weather for some time, and at last rose. "Well, I wanted to
borrow your wash-boiler; mine leaks like an infernal old sieve, and I
dasen't go to town to get it mended for fear of a blow. What's trouble?"
Blanche suddenly put her hand to her side and grew white and rigid. Then
the blood flamed into her cheeks, and the perspiration stood out on her
forehead. She clinched her lips between her teeth and lay back in her
chair.
"Ye look kind o' faint. Can't I do something for ye? Got any
pain-killer? That's good, well rubbed in," volunteered the old woman.
"No, no, I--I'm all right now, it was just a sharp twinge, that's
all--you'll find the boiler in the shed; I don't need it." Her tone was
one of dismissal.
The old woman rose. "All right, I'll find it. Set still." As she went
out she grinned--a mocking, sly, aggravating grin. "It's all
right--nothin' to be ashamed of. I've had ten. I called _my_ first one
pleurisy. It didn't fool any one, though." She cackled and creaked with
laughter as she shut the door.
Blanche sat motionless, staring straight before her, while the fire died
out and the room grew cold.
Her terror and shame gave way at last, and she allowed herself to dream
of the mystical joy of maternity. She permitted herself to fancy the
life of a mother in a sheltered and prosperous home. She felt in
imagination the touch of little lips, the thrust of little hands, the
cling of little arms. "My baby should come into a lovely, sun-lit room.
It should have a warm, pretty cradle. It should--"
The door opened and her husband entered.
"Why, Blanche--what's the matter? You've let the fire go out. It's cold
as blixen in here. You'll take cold, first you know."