ROUGHING IT
After filing at the land office Harris returned at once to the
Arthurses' homestead. The news that the Harrises were to be
neighbours within forty miles was received with enthusiasm by both
Fred and Lilian Arthurs. But Harris was now consumed with a burning
energy; he allowed himself only a precious half-day at the home of
the Arthurses, bade his wife an affectionate farewell, and, with a
cheery good-bye to the warm friends on the homestead, he was away
down the trail to Emerson. By this time the sleighing was gone, and
as his wagon was left with the car he rode one horse and led the
other, carrying with him harness and such equipment as was absolutely
necessary on the road. He expected some trouble from the streams,
which were now breaking up in earnest, but he was determined that at
all costs he would get his wagon, plough, and tools to the homestead
before the frost came out of the ground and left the sod trails
absolutely impassable.
On arrival at Emerson one of the first men he met was Tom Morrison.
The two pioneers shook hands warmly, and in a few words Harris told
of having selected his claim, waxing enthusiastic over the locality
in which his lot was to be cast.
"I must get out there myself," said Morrison.
"Do," Harris urged. "There are some other line quarters in the
neighbourhood, and nothing would be better than to have you on one of
them."
"Well, we'll see. Now, I've got your wagon loaded ready for the road.
I couldn't get all your stuff on, but I loaded what you'll want
first, and the balance can come with the rest of mine, so you won't
have to make another trip. Ned has been back for some days, and we're
ready to pull out too. And the sooner the better. The river is risin'
real dangerous like, and if it keeps on this town's goin' to be under
water before it knows it. Indeed, it wouldn't surprise me if the
bridge went out. So we took the rest of the stuff--yours and
mine--out a day's haul on the road. It's in safe hands there, and we
can get it later even if the bridge does go. We thought we might as
well do that while waitin' for you."
"Waiting for me?" repeated Harris. "You don't mean to say you have
stayed here just on my account?"
"Oh, no; you see, we wanted to get all the stuff out of danger."
But Harris read between the words that honest Tom had valued his
interests equally with his own.
The west-bound trip was made in good time, although not without
difficulty at some points in the road, and before the 10th of April
Harris was back under the shelter of Arthurs' roof. He was for
pressing on alone in the morning, but he found that his wife had made
all her plans to accompany him and would listen neither to persuasion
nor reason.
"No, Jack," she said, gently but firmly setting all his entreaties
aside. "I'm not going to let you do all the pioneering. I'm going
with you."
"But, Mary, there's no house, and no shelter, and no
neighbours--nothing but sky and grass as far as you can see."
"All the more reason I should go," she answered. "If you have to
rough it in the open you at least deserve your meals cooked for you,
and such other help as a woman can give. We will take the cows--one
of them is milking now; the calf will have to go in the wagon; but
we'll have lots of milk, and I'm sure we'll get along. But I really
must be with you. I really must, John, and you know--I'm going."
So at last he consented. The supplies of provisions were increased;
room for the calf was found somewhere in the wagon, and together they
set out to wrestle their fortunes from the wilderness.
On arrival at the homestead the young wife immediately gave evidence
that she intended to bear her full share of the pioneer's duties. A
comparatively dry spot was found among the little poplars, and here
she built a tent with blankets and a bit of rag-carpet that came in
most handy for such purposes. Their stove was set up, and although it
smoked stubbornly for lack of draught, it furnished heat for cooking,
and when Jack returned from tethering the horses the smell of frying
ham and hot tea struck his nostrils.
"Well, that's better than rustling for myself, I will admit," he
said, as she placed his supper on an improvised table. "But it's
mighty rough on you."
"No, it isn't, either. I'm healthy--why, this prairie air gives me an
appetite that city people would pay thousands for, and I'm
strong--and happy."
He drew her to him, thrilled with the pride of her courage.
That night, before the darkness had gathered too deep, they selected
the site of their house on the very bench that McCrae had indicated.
It was about an acre in extent, and stood halfway between the prairie
level and the bottom of the coulee, where a small river was now
running...They would face their house eastward, so it would look over
the pond fifty yards from the door, and the bank behind would shelter
it from the north-west winds of winter...It was quite dark when they
sought the cover of their little tent, and the wolves were howling
far down the ravine.
Presently they were startled by a crashing noise, as of some big
animals rushing upon them through the poplars, and the horses, in
headlong haste, almost swept over their sleeping-place. On
recognizing their master the animals stood, snorting and shivering.
"That wolf howl put the fear into the silly brutes," said Harris,
speaking calmly, although his own flesh was creeping just a little.
"I suppose they've ripped their tether ropes to pieces. Well, we'll
tie them down here, where they'll have company." And he led them back
a short distance into the bushes.
A moment later, suddenly, as if congealed out of thin air, on the
bank right above them, silhouetted against the dim light in the
western sky, stood a horse and rider. Instantly into Harris's mind
came a warning of McCrae: "Sleep with one eye open when your horses
are tethered out."
Harris had no proof that the strange rider was a horse thief, but it
struck him at the moment that the terror of the horses might not have
been due altogether to wolves. Sometimes these noble animals have an
uncanny instinct for detecting danger. He stole silently toward the
tent. There was a gun there, loaded with shot for any possible game
on the prairie. As he moved in the deep darkness of the valley he
stumbled over a root and fell. The same moment came a flash of light
on the bank, and Harris heard the "thuk" of a ball burying itself in
the sod. He lay perfectly still. The stranger peered into the
darkness for a full minute; then, dismounting, began to come
cautiously down the hillside. Harris would have rushed for his gun,
but he feared to reveal the whereabouts of his wife. So he lay still,
and the stranger came on, the glint of his gun-barrel showing in the
darkness. It was evident he thought his bullet had found its mark,
and he proposed still to possess himself of the horses. But he was
taking no chances. Presently he discerned Harris's body on the
ground, and again raised his gun to his shoulder. Harris lay in an
agony of suspense, praying that the aim would be faulty, and that his
assailant would advance until he could spring up and disarm him. Then
came another flash, a loud report, a yell from the intruder, who half
fell to earth, then scrambled to his feet, rushed up the bank, pulled
himself somewhat limply on his horse, and rode into the darkness.
"Oh, Jack, are you killed?" cried the girl, rushing in his direction.
"Not even hurt," he answered; and she fainted in his arms.
He carried her to the tent and applied water to her forehead. As he
was engaged in restoring her his hand fell on his gun. The barrel was
hot.
He raised her face to his, and kissed her again and again.
In the morning they found a few drops of blood on the grass at the
top of the bank.
Harris and his wife allowed themselves no time for nerve-strain over
the experience of their first night on their homestead. It was
fortunate for them there was so much to do, and that they were thrown
entirely upon their own resources. Their little store of money was
running very low, and they decided their house must be of the
cheapest possible construction. Harris had already discussed his
buildings with McCrae, who advised him to make use of sods, and gave
general directions how to do so; and he now set about to put McCrae's
suggestions into effect. Some fifteen miles north of the homestead
was a valley in which grew trees of sufficient size for building
purposes--poplars, cottonwoods, elms, and oaks. Farther down the
valley, at the head of a lake, was a saw-mill, where boards and
shingles might be bought--if one had money.
So this morning, after caring for their cows, they hitched the horses
to the wagon, took an axe, a saw, their gun, and a lunch, and set out
for the valley, returning late at night with sufficient logs and
poles for the framework of their house and stable. The next day
construction was commenced. Four stout posts were set on end,
enclosing a rectangle twelve by sixteen feet. The tops of the posts
were connected by logs laid upon them, dovetailed at the corners
after the fashion of woodsmen, and held in position by wooden pins
driven in auger-holes. Lengthwise along the centre, to form a
ridgepole, another stout log was laid and the whole framework
supported by additional posts, among which were two on the east side
to enclose the door. Small poles were then placed on end, sloping
slightly inwards, and resting against the plate-logs. Similar poles
were laid from the plate-logs to the ridge-pole to support the roof.
Harris found a southern slope where the frost was out enough to admit
of him ploughing some sods. He knew he would not get as good a sod
here as later in the season might be found in some low-lying spot,
but his first consideration was to get some kind of permanent
shelter. So he ploughed the sods, three inches thick and fourteen
inches wide, and cut them into two-foot lengths with his axe, to the
sad injury of its cutting edge. These sods were then built into a
wall like bricks, resting gently against the framework of poles, from
which, however, they were separated by a padding of grass, which
Harris cut in a sleugh with his scythe, and small willows from the
ravine. This mattress of grass and willows prevented any earth
shaking through into the house itself. A framework made of a hewn log
was inserted in the south wall to leave space for a window, which
should be bought when the family finances could afford such luxuries.
For the time being it would be left open in fine weather and covered
with canvas when the elements were gruff or unruly. The rag-carpet,
when no longer needed as a tent, would be draped in the doorway,
pending the purchase of boards to make a wooden door.
For a roof grass was laid on the poles and covered tightly with sods.
Then Harris found a sticky, yellow clay in the side of the ravine,
and two or three inches of this he spread carefully over the sods,
like icing on a great cake. The greasy clay soon hardened in the sun,
and became so impervious to water that the heaviest rains of summer
made no impression upon it.
When, save for the missing door and window, the house was finished,
they stood in the centre and admired. It was absolutely the product
of their own labour, applied to such scanty resources as the prairie
provided. But it was warm and snug, and, as they later on learned,
the wall and roof of sod were almost perfect non-conductors of either
heat or cold. The floor was of earth, but Mary Harris knew the
difference between earth and dirt, although the words are frequently
confounded, and her house was from the first a model of cleanliness
and order.
By this time the snow was all gone, except in north-facing nooks
along the ravine, and the frost was out of the sod in all places deep
enough to admit of plouging. As the stock were taking no harm from
the open air, thanks to the shelter of the ravine, Harris decided to
delay the construction of his stable until after seeding and to
proceed at once with the ploughing of his land. He had also to make a
trip to Arthurs' for seed grain, and to borrow a couple of sections
of drag harrows. With it all, by the middle of May he had sown
fifteen acres of wheat, and notwithstanding a heavy snowfall about
the 23rd, by the 1st of June he had added ten acres of oats. With his
help Mary had planted a small garden of potatoes and vegetables, and
a few flowers were springing up at the door of the house.
It was a life of hard, persistent work--of loneliness, privation, and
hardship. But it was also a life of courage, of health, of
resourcefulness, of a wild, exhilarating freedom found only in God's
open spaces. They had learned to know the animals of the field--the
cheeky gopher; the silent, over-industrious badger; the skunk,
unchallenged monarch of his immediate circle; the sneaky coyote,
whose terror is all in his howl; the red fox, softly searching amid
the grass for the nests of ducks or prairie chicken; and the rabbit,
curious but always gracefully elusive. Then there were the waterfowl,
infinite in number. The stuffed ducks on the dinner-table were
limited only by the amount of powder and shot which Harris cared to
spend on the pond at their door. At night, when the horses had been
unharnessed and dusk was setting in, he would slip his gun under his
arm and walk down among the willows. It was necessary only to wait.
Two graceful forms, feeding under a grassy bank, hearing a slight
rustle above, would shove with quick, silent stroke into the supposed
safety of their native element. Harris would peer through the dusk
for the brighter markings of the male, for only a game-murderer
shoots the female in the nesting season. Then, as they separated a
little, his gun would speak; a sudden splashing of water; a sharp
whistle of rapid wings cutting the air; a form, paddling an uncertain
circle in the pond, then lying strangely flat upon the surface.
Harris as yet had no dog, and often it meant stripping and a sharp
plunge in the ice-cold water to bring in the trophy; but the strong,
athletic young man counted that only part of the sport. At other
times the nights were clamorous with the honking of wild geese, and
in the morning Harris, slipping quietly over the bank of the coulee,
would see the prairie white as from new-fallen snow with the backs of
countless thousands of "wavies." Sometimes the geese, secure in the
supposedly unsettled wilderness, relaxed the vigour of their military
guard, and on such occasions he could get within range. But if there
is one quality the goose lacks it is that which is most attributed to
him--foolishness. On his marches through the unmapped desert of the
air he moves with the precision of an army in the field, scouting out
all the land, taking aerial observations before making camp, and
immediately throwing out sentries around his feeding ground. But
long-continued immunity from attack breeds carelessness, even in a
goose, and the price of such neglect frequently adorned the table in
Harris's cabin.
The prairie flowers, too, were a never-ending delight to the heart of
the young woman. She knew some of them by name, but many were
peculiar to the prairie. The first few warm days of spring had
clothed all the wilderness with a magic carpet of pale-purplish
blossoms, and the advancing season brought new blooms to view with
every passing week. On Sundays, when there was total relaxation from
their regular labours, the two, arm in arm, would stroll along the
bank of the ravine, or walk, ankle-deep in strawberry blossoms, far
over the undulating plain to the west. Returning, they would find
their way to the edge of the stream, where, in the shallow crossing,
the suckers would dart in all directions in panic at their
appearance. Here they would sit and listen to the gentle murmur of
the water, while fleecy clouds mirrored themselves in its glassy
depths, and plovers ran whistling up and down the bank, and a
meadow-lark sent its limpid challenge from a neighbouring bush. And
at night, when the moon rose in wonderful whiteness and purity,
wrapping field and ravine in a riot of silver, the strange,
irresistible, unanswerable longing of the great plains stole down
upon them, and they knew that here indeed was life in its fulness--a
participation in the Infinite, indefinable, but all-embracing,
everlasting.