The journey of thousands of miles, the excitement of getting settled,
and cool fresh breezes that swept down from the snow capped peaks of the
Cascades, made sleep easy, and no thought of the morrow disturbed the
rest of this emancipated renter. Morning came, and with it the bright
sunshine and oppressive silence of the desert; not a dog to bark, nor a
noisy fowl to break the stillness. As the sun rose from the horizon, and
before it assumed its brassy glare, a mirage formed across the level
plain, magnifying the humble homes of the neighboring homesteaders into
palatial mansions, and the sage brush into forests, and glistening lakes
with twinkling waves upon their surfaces. Travis Gully, with his family,
stood awed by the magnitude of the panorama unrolled before their gaze,
and looked with feverish expectancy into the vista of possibilities the
future held in store for them. The sun mounted higher into the blue
dome, the mirage passed, and objects assumed their normal proportions,
while the faithful wife told of the hopes for good this vision foretold.
The weeks that followed, each day of which was fraught with hours of
patient toil, clearing away the brush for the first spring planting, the
honest father hewing a spot in the wilderness of sand and sage brush,
the eager children rushing in at each stroke of the mattock, seizing
the uprooted particles of brush and bearing them triumphantly away, to
be placed on one of the many piles of rubbish that marked the path of
this industrious toiler; the patient mother, appearing at the doorway,
looking out across the miles of unchanging gray toward the far east with
that indefinable expression of homesickness depicted upon her face. Of
such scenes as this is the material made of which the everlasting
monument, in the form of a prosperous farming district is built. _Every
fruit tree that grows in the far famed Northwest should be looked upon
as a sprig in the laurel wreath with which to crown the brows of the
sturdy homesteaders--those departed and yet to come._
At the close of each day, and after the evening meal, huge bonfires were
lit in the clearing, around which the children danced gleefully, their
shadows casting fantastic shapes in the background, where the gaunt and
hungry coyote lurked, and at intervals mingled its voice in discordant
note with their merry laughter, as if in vain endeavor to impress upon
their minds the narrowness of the space that lay between their joyous
anticipations and deepest gloom.
Planting time arrived with all its hopes for a bounteous yield. Each day
was devoted to preparing the ground and planting. The winter just passed
had afforded sufficient snow and moisture to produce perfect planting
conditions, and many were the plans made for the expenditure of the
proceeds of this first harvest for a good home, farming implements, and
other necessities for successful farming.
The grain was sown, and the kitchen garden planted in precise rows and
nicely shaped beds. A wagon load of scabrock was hauled from a dry
coulee that wended its way diagonally across this vast area of sand and
sage. These were used to form the border of prim walks and flower beds,
each stone being placed in position and carefully embedded in the soft
sand, _each a cornerstone for the castle of hope_, soon to be displaced
by an inexorable nature, and to allow the upper structure of dreams to
fall about the builder, a pall of utter disappointment.
Just a few days of alluring sunshine, only a few balmy nights, and the
tiny plants were raising their tender shoots above the surface of the
sand, which through its ages of shifting now refused to remain under
control of mere man, and was growing restless, rolling in fiendish glee
down the sides of the nicely formed flower beds and rollicking in
sparkling bits across the walks, filling, with maddening persistance,
every opening made in its surface by the upspringing plants.
The age worn battle between the Goddess Flora and the relentless desert
was being fought over. She with all her garlands, was trying to wreath
the brow of this gray monster, while he, with his withering sunrays and
constant battering with tiny particles of sharp, flinty sand, was
repulsing her every advance.
The Gods, Jupiter, Pluvius and Boreas, standing sponsors for the
contending forces, intervened and changed at times what seemed certain
victory. One with his gentle showers or torrential downpour would rush
to the scene of the fray, settling the tiny grains of sand and thereby
quelling the galling batteries that were assailing the tender plants, at
the same time administering to their bruised and quivering stems and
foliage; then, conscious of a kindly act, he sails away, seated upon his
fleecy crafts of air, emitting an occasional growl, warning his enemy,
the wind, against his return. Scarcely has his frown disappeared over
the brow of the hills to the south, followed by his majestic guard of
chariots, with billowing gold and silver plumage, when a faint whisper
is heard in the grass. Hark! 'tis louder! See the tops of the bunchgrass
moving restlessly; Old Boreas is stalking his enemy. He creeps prone
upon the ground, like a serpent he raises his head with a hissing sound;
on, upward to the top of the tallest reeking sage brush he crawls;
maddened by the presence of those hated sparkling drops of crystal water
that bedecks this misshapen shrub, he shakes them in myriads to the
ground and laughs with glee. But in so doing he is restraining one of
the arch fiends of the desert, the sand. At this discovery he shrieks
with anger, and seizing the precious drops, hoists them into the air,
scattering them in misty spray and hurries them miles through space,
back to their natural haunts, where they are left to assemble themselves
and await another call. Thus left to their own, again the sun and sand
renew the attack, and wear down, by constant onslaught, every particle
of vegetation not originally intended to laugh to scorn their every
effort.
But the fortitude of those alien plants was noble; gallantly they
withstood the siege. For days and weeks, constantly scorched and
blistered during the day, they came up smiling in the morning, with
heads erect, to greet the same sun their parent plant had known and
throve under, but stung, whipped and tortured by the never ceasing, ever
shifting myriads of cutting particles of sand, bleeding to the last
infinitesimal mite, they had to die; they hung their noble heads, became
discolored and withered, and when the morning sun shone forth it was
upon the same dwarfed sage brush and hissing bunchgrass it had always
known. The scabrock border, the horned toad that sought shelter beneath
the protecting edges, all one color, gray, monotonous gray.
Small indeed would be the area of reclaimed land in the great northwest
if each homesteader had given up hopes and abandoned his dreams with his
first disappointment, and had he not awakened to renewed effort at each
stroke of misfortune administered by what seemed to be a relentless
fate.
Nature, in her lavish distribution of blessings, had not wholly
forgotten this seemingly neglected spot. The nights were cool and
refreshing, the air pure and uncontaminated, and both he and his family
being blessed with rugged health. Travis Gully looked upon the havoc
wrought with undaunted courage and determination. He submitted to the
loss of his first planting with resignation, and hastened to seek means
whereby he might provide food and other necessities for his family. To
the north lay the never failing wheat fields of the Big Bend country;
east, the Couer d'Alene mining district; and west of the Cascade
Mountains the lumbering industries of the Puget Sound region. These each
offered a solution of a means of livelihood, ample employment and good
wages; but with the departure of the family from the homestead went the
cherished dream of a home.
Often at night when the children, now grown sunburned and inured to the
intense heat and blistering sands, were on their pallets, enjoying the
peaceful sleep of tired but happy childhood, Gully and his wife would
sit for hours and try to devise means whereby the coming winter might be
lived through with some semblance of comfort. During these heart to
heart talks, while seated before the door of their humble home, Gully's
gaze would wander out across his broad acres, which under the pale
starlight in this clear desert air, could easily be transformed, in
vision, to fields of waving grain; conversation would cease; a restless
move made by one of the children would attract the attention of the
watchful mother, who, upon entering the house cautiously stepping with
stealthy tread among the little sleeping forms, would approach the
table, give the flame of the one small kerosene lamp a gentle turn
upward and throw into bold relief every evidence of abject poverty
within the confines of that one sparsely furnished room. With wide
staring eyes she would hastily scan the face of each sleeping child as
if in dread of finding the fiendish hand of hunger clutching at some
innocent throat; but all is quiet. Passing a trembling hand across her
weary forehead, she slowly turned, and as she did so, read in every
object that met her gaze one word, _sacrifice_. The little blue
overalls, with their numberless patches, and frayed and tattered hem,
the little gingham aprons, worn threadbare by the constant nipping,
picking and catching on the scraggling branches of the despised sage
brush, all shrieked sacrifice. Suddenly, with a quick movement, a little
foot is thrust from beneath the scant cover, and at the same time a
varicolored sand lizzard scurries across the bare floor and disappears
through a convenient crack. Seizing the lamp, she hurries to the side of
the sleeping child, takes the little brown foot in her loving hands and
seeks in vain for some mark of injury inflicted by the frightened
lizzard; finding none, she places the little foot tenderly on the pallet
and reaches for the cover; stops, and stares. What does she see? Only a
little toe, the nail gone, a partially healed wound, showing where the
cruel snag of the hated sage brush had torn its way into her very flesh
and blood. With a groan she bows her head for a moment, then hastily
scanning the room, she misses the little shoes and stockings so much
needed for the protection of those little feet. Arising, she replaces
the lamp upon the table, turns it low, and returns to her husband's
side, prepared to make one of the greatest sacrifices ever made by a
woman, and one of which little has even been said or written. She must
tell him to go, and leave her and the children alone and unprotected in
the desert. He must go, that they might live, go until the winter snows
drive him home. O God! it would be lonely, days of constant watching
across the quivering sea of unchanging gray, nights of wakeful
listening, broken by the sound of the ghoulish yip of the hungry coyote
and the mournful hoot of the ground owl.
_Give honor to the famous women of our land, if you must. She who first
made our glorious flag, those who devoted their lives to nursing back to
health and strength our nation's heroes, and the sainted mothers of
distinguished men; but, oh! remember the wives of the pioneer and
homesteader, and ask yourself; is she not entitled to a place among
these?_
Travis Gully, being completely lost in his dreams of independence, had
not missed her from his side. The good wife stole softly up to him, and
placing her hand upon his knee, slipped down beside his chair. He, being
thus suddenly aroused from his reverie, and noting her appearance of
abject misery, assisted her to arise, drew her trembling form near him,
and spoke cheerfully of the situation, assuring her all would be well in
the end. He forbade her to discuss his departure at that time, and there
beneath the broad expanse of star bedecked sky, surrounded by the vast
and desolate desert, they renewed their faith in each other and resolved
to continue the battle, and with revived hopes they planned for the
future, and for hours rebuilt the castle so ruthlessly destroyed by the
desert storm.