"They say there is wealth in the doing,
That royal and rich are the gains,
But 'tisn't the wealth I am wooing,
So much as the life of the plains;
For here in the latter day morning,
Where Time to Eternity clings,
Midwife to a breed in the borning,
I behold the Beginning of things!"
_The Empire Builders._
Thirty hours later, in a forward seat of a colonist car, sat a young man
with his face in bandages. A strong odour of disinfectants pervaded that
section of the car, and other passengers avoided it as much as possible,
but a doctor's certificate that the trouble was not of a dangerous
nature satisfied conductors and trainmen. For thirty hours the young man
had fasted, and the interminable journey across the broad vest of the
prairie country wore on in dull monotony. Villages, towns and cities had
flashed by, and now they were in the great unsettled ranching country,
where one may travel many townships without seeing sign of human life.
Here and there, at great intervals, the eye caught a glimpse of
numberless herds grazing on the rolling uplands; and at intervals
greater still a horseman loomed high against the distant horizon. The
two slender threads of steel seemed the only connecting link with modern
civilization, and as they strung far into the endless West the very
minds of the passengers underwent an evolution, a broadening, a
disassociation with Established Things, and assumed an attitude of
receptiveness toward That Which Shall Be. Here, at last, was the new
West, the manless land, its bosom bared for a thousand miles to the
hungry embrace of landless man.
Through his little window Burton watched it, and with the eye of faith
and optimism saw all this boundless country checkered into farms; towns
and cities rising where now were flag-stations and water-tanks,
telephones and telegraphs where now were fences and buffalo runs;
electric railways groaning with wheat across the now trailless prairie.
Here was a chance to be in at the beginning; to lay new foundations of
business, government, and society, unchecked by tradition, unhampered by
convention, undaunted by the arrogance of precedent. How well those
foundations must be laid; a variation of a thousandth of a principle,
projected through a thousand years, might swing the centre of gravity of
society beyond its base! And who were the men to lay this foundation? To
whom had Fate entrusted such responsibility? He glanced about the car,
foul from its long journey, saturated in tobacco smoke, reeking with
alcoholic fumes and the nameless odours of unwashed humanity. Across the
aisle sat a mother from Central Europe, crowded in the seat with her
three children, clad in shawls and blankets, sweltering in the July
heat. Once he caught their eye; they looked at him through the eye of
the hunted thing, the croucher, the oppressed; the eye where hate serves
for passion, where strength means tyranny, where love has only an animal
significance. Was it from this that the ideal State should rise; from
this sad flotsam of the seas of oppression and vice? And yet as he
looked he saw in that same eye another element, deeper, perhaps, and
less pronounced, as though only rising into being. It was the element of
wonder; and whoso wonders is not without hope. And there was ambition!
This little frightened family had dared to cross an ocean and half of
two continents--for what? Surely only to share in a possibility
impossible at home. Likely enough the husband was already a homesteader
in the new land; he would meet them at one of these little flag-stations
with his ox-team and wagon, and they would trek away, fifty, sixty, a
hundred miles into the wilderness to rear their home, to lay the
foundations of their future, to bring up a family of free-born
Canadians. The whole car was filled with such foreigners; rough and
vicious-looking many of them; sad-eyed and wondering a few, with here
and there a son of that jocund hilarity which knows no restraint and
whose current runs fullest where is most to dry it up.
And yet, who should set bounds to their future? What "mute, inglorious
Miltons," what "village Hampdens" might be here, waiting only the saving
grace of environment to bring them surging into the fulness of a life
unknown, undreamt, and yet the lure of whose prophetic vision had fired
their dark eyes in the far fields of their unhappy ancestry! How far
from the civilisation of the past, how far even from the civilisation of
the present, had they thrown themselves in this wild projection into the
unknown and the unlimited!
The train stood, waiting, on a side-track. With his head out of the
window Burton saw a black cloud of smoke far to the westward; steadily
it grew until the muzzle of a locomotive could be distinguished, and in
a few minutes the eastbound express roared past them in its down hill
run to evening dress and music and conventions made for the fascination
of disregarding them! But even as it swept by from the open windows of
the dining car came the scent of fresh-cut roses and carnations, and a
moment later the "newsy" hurried through the car with a bundle of
morning papers. Burton stopped him and bought a copy, somewhat to the
vendor's surprise, and settled down to read, verbatim, the speech of the
Prime Minister of England delivered in London the evening before!
As the train approached the young man's destination he quietly slipped
into the washroom and removed his bandages. With soap which the doctor
had supplied him he erased the salve and grease, and after a good wash,
with his hair combed and his collar and tie adjusted, he felt more like
a civilized being than at any time since he had left the consultation
room of Dr. Millar. As the crowd swept out at the station he mingled,
unnoticed, among them.
He rushed first into a lunch-room, and after satisfying his long hunger
he had scarce set foot on the station platform until a friendly hand
grasped him by the arm and led him to one side.
"Come this way, Jack," said a young man, little older than himself, but
with that alert, active manner which is as distinctive of the country as
the chinook. "Let's get out of this bunch before they get wised up.
Lucky I saw you in time. Jimmy Reid, a chum of mine that came in here
homesteadin' last year, has just got word tuh go home tuh I-o-way, where
his father's most all in, an' he says to me last night--no longer ago
than last night--he says, 'Frank, slip down tuh the station to-morrow an'
if yuh see a likely lookin' fellow 'at 'ud appreciate a bit of a start
in this country put him next tuh my homestead. I got tuh let her go,' he
says, 'Dad's all in an' I'll have tuh coop up under Old Glory for
awhile, anyway. Put some decent fellow next it,' says he. Talk about
luck----"
"But I am afraid I don't understand," said Burton. "A man can't sell a
homestead unless he has the patent, can he?"
The new acquaintance looked Burton in the face for five seconds, and
then burst into a sudden guffaw.
"No, of course he can't," he declared, slapping his leg and laughing
hilariously. "Not any more than he can travel on a train without a
ticket. Oh, you wise one," he exclaimed, giving Burton a friendly nudge
in the ribs, and dropping his voice, "what are you travellin' colonist
fer? Oh, don't tell me," he went on, without waiting for an answer.
"It's easier 'an butter. My chum has the best homestead outa doors, an'
I can't take it, 'count o' havin' exhausted my rights already, an'
that's the only reason you get in easy. All you got tuh do is stick
around until notice o' cancellation is posted, an' then get in your
application. He's sixty days to get back on the job, an' unless he sees
it's goin' your way back he'll come, an' spoil the game of any one that
tries tuh butt in. It's done ev'ry day in the week, an' you're as safe
as a dollar."
"What's this information going to cost me?" Burton interrupted.
Jimmy Reid's chum hesitated for a minute. "I wouldn't hardly like to say
just what Jimmy was settin' on that place," he said at last, slowly, as
one who is deliberating every word. "It's easy worth twenty dollars an
acre, which is thirty-two hundred fer the quarter, an' when a man is
lookin' fer a farm to achually go out an' live on a homestead's as good
as railway land. The duties don't cut no figure if your goin' to live
there anyway. Course, Jimmy was expectin' whoever got it 'ud use him
decent--say about two thousand." The last word was uttered with an
inflection as though the speaker asked a question.
"I'm afraid it's out of my class," said Burton. "I've only a few dollars
with me, and I intend to work out for a while to get enough to start me
on a claim of my own."
"I'm awful sorry," said the other, "I am, fer a fact. 'Taint ev'ry day
such a chance goes strolling by. But--oh, by the way, I was forgettin'.
Here's somethin' right in your line. Put that few dollars of yours into
some A number one top-notch town property an' it'll earn more fer you
before the snow flies than your muscles will. Here's somethin' extra
good," as he drew a map from his pocket. "See this block--high class
industrial property. Prices from one hundred to three hundred dollars a
lot, tenth down an' ten dollars a month until paid fer; no taxes,
interest, or charges of any kind. Here's a fine corner here, facin'
south an' west, overlookin' the town, five hundred dollars fer two lots,
that's only fifty dollars you'd need to put up an' we'll sell those lots
again for a cool thousand before December. Come along, you're dry after
your trip; let's wet this thing a little an' then we'll take an auto out
an' show you the stuff."
"Sorry," confessed Burton, rather ashamed to have to refuse, "but I
really couldn't handle any of it. I've just four dollars and forty cents
in my pocket at this minute, and no more coming until I earn it."
"Sorry too," said the land man, with no abatement of his good humour.
"Sorry both fer you and me. But that really is a great buy. Come an' see
me when yer in town. You don't look like a fellow that 'ud stay
sod-bustin' long when you can make more money in town in six months than
most of these moss-backs ever saw. Here's my card--look me up when yuh
get settled an' perhaps I can turn something your way yet. Here's a man
I've got to see. So long. Good luck!" and the real estate dealer drilled
away through the crowd.
Down the platform a little way a group of men were gathered about an old
farmer--a tall, thin, one-time Yankee, typical from top boots to chin
whiskers. He was dickering with a bunch of new arrivals for labour for
his farm. A few foreigners, curious-eyed, gazed at him for a minute or
two, their packs on their backs and their chins drooping; then swung
away to gravitate to railway construction offices or the town labour
department. Half a dozen Anglo-Saxons remained; two Englishmen, in
riding breeches, and three or four Eastern Canadians and Americans.
Burton joined the group.
"I came out to learn to fawm, sir," one of the Englishmen was saying. "I
should jolly well like to have a gow at it. Is there any gime--er--any--er
antelope or--gophahs?"
The farmer chewed a generous ration of tobacco reflectively for some
seconds, then expectorated with much accuracy at a fish-plate on the
railway. "Ah," he said at length, "there be some game, all right, young
man, and there also be some gun experts. Ah got a neighbour out there
who's been stuffin' birds an' beasts fer twenty year, an' he's so durn
handy with a gun he can wing a grass-hopper without breakin' a bone. I
reckon he's got most every crittur indig'ous to this country in that
collection o' his'n. Ah," repeated the farmer, meditatively, "I reckon
he has."
"Ah, bah jove, I should like to meet him. A jolly good sort, I should
say."
"Yep, not so bad. An' awful accerate with a gun. He'd be glad tuh see
yuh, too. But if he caught you walkin' round in them seeder-drills yer
wearin' he'd sure enough bag another zoological specimen. An' yu'd loose
yerself in a pair o' jeans."
There was a laugh in which all but the Englishmen joined, and they, with
a remark about a "lot of bally rough-necks" withdrew themselves from the
group.
"I tell you what, Mr. Whiskers," said a young fellow wearing a Stetson
and cigarette, "I think I'm just the man you need. Was born on a farm
and know the whole deck. Can drive anything from a dog-team to a
traction engine. Nothin' in the State had anythin' on me when it came to
drivin'."
The farmer focused his eyes on the cigarette with supreme contempt. "If
Ah had ye ah'd use ye fer driving all right," he said, speaking with
great deliberateness. "Yep. Ah'd use ye fer drivin' posts--if I could fit
a handle!"
There was another laugh, but the crowd was thinning down.
"Well, Ah suppose you was brung up on a farm, too?" continued the
farmer, addressing a husky looking chap in a cottanade suit and flannel
shirt. "Can ye shock?"
"Well I guess I can," said the man addressed. "I was the long-distance
shocker of our settlement."
"Use tuh take in shockin', Ah suppose," answered the farmer. "Waal, how
many sheaves did they put in the shock, your way about?"
The candidate for the position hesitated a moment. "Well," he ventured
at length, "I don't know that I ever counted, but I should say about
fifty."
"That'll do fer you," said the farmer. "You're not a shocker. You're a
stacker." Then turning to Burton, "Ah suppose you was raised on a farm
too?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ever drive a binder?"
"Yes, sir."
"How's binders built--right or left-hand cut?"
"Most of them are left-hand, except McCormicks."
"By hang," said the farmer, addressing an invisible audience, "here's a
fellow that knows somethin', anyhow. Say! Now, supposin' you was drivin'
a binder, an' she was kickin' out loose sheaves right along, with the
knot all on one end o' the string, what'ud yuh do fer it?"
"I'd sharpen the knotter-knife first," said Burton, "and if that didn't
fix it I'd----"
"Thet'll do," interrupted the farmer. "This is my wagon here. Throw in
yer bundle an' stretch yerself around town fer an hour, an' then we'll
hit the trail. But Ah forgot to tell you, it's fifty miles tuh my farm,
an' the comp'ny out there ain't much writ up in the sassiety papers."
"The farther the better," said Burton. There was a touch of bitterness
in his voice, and the old man looked at him keenly.
"Love--or law?" he asked, at length.
Burton flushed but did not reply, and the farmer continued, with a
sudden kindness in his speech, "Never mind, lad. This country's full of
fellows who're tryin' to git away from one or t'other of them two
irresistibles--love an' law. But God help the fellow thet gits hit by
both. When a chinook crosses the path of a nor'wester there's trouble
fer everybody."
Burton accompanied his new employer about the town for a couple of
hours. The farmer was making purchases at the stores and implement
houses, and as he did not expect to be in the town again until after the
threshing it was some time before his business was completed. The young
man stood beside him in the store, and his practical knowledge of
quality and values astonished the old farmer. At length the purchasing
was finished, and with the double wagon-box piled high with groceries,
canned goods, dry-goods, hardware, harness, binder twine, machine oil
and all the other sundries demanded by the activities of the harvest
season, the two men started on their journey farmwards.
The sun was well into the western sky before they left the town, and in
the hot July afternoon the horses had to be allowed their pace. The
roads were alive with traffic, farmers driving in as much as a hundred
miles for their fall supplies. Scores of other wagons, loaded as was
this one, were to be seen; great stacks of lumber were dragged slowly
along by four- and six-horse teams; a veritable procession of mowers,
rakes and binders, some loaded on wagons and some running on their own
wheels, stretched along the country road, the procession here and there
blocked into divisions by giant steam or gas tractor outfits with their
long, slow-crawling caravan of paraphernalia.
Sundown found our travellers approaching a diminutive farm house, where
the team of their own accord turned in at the open gate.
"This is whar Zeb Ensley lives," said the farmer. "His shack is small,
but his hospitality would fill a hemisphere, an' Ah gen'rally allow to
put up with him goin' an' comin'. Zeb's English, but he's past the
moultin' stage, an' he's awful white. After an Englishman moults--gits
rid of his unnecessary feathers--they ain't no better neighbour."
By this time the team had stopped in front of an enclosure made by
standing mill slabs on end, which was all the shelter provided for Mr.
Ensley's horses. The host himself was beside the wheel, and placed a
brown hand in the farmer's as the latter clambered down from the high
spring seat.
"How are you, Mr. McKay? Back this far, safe, I see, with a big load and
a likely looking farm hand. Won't you introduce me?"
"Waal, now, by hang, thet's one thing Ah can't do," said Mr. McKay.
"They ain't been no formalities yet. When Ah find a man 'at knows gee
frum haw Ah don't worry much about what he was christened."
"Call me Ray," said Burton, as he threw the inside tugs over the horses'
backs and slipped the tongue from the neck-yoke. "Go into the house and
rest, Mr. McKay, and I will put the team away, if Mr. Ensley will show
me where."
"Waal, what d'ye think of thet?" said Mr. McKay, slapping his thigh.
"The young fellow's givin' orders already. An' what's more--what's more,"
he repeated, pointing a huge fore-finger at Burton--"what's more, the old
man's goin' tuh do as he's told."
Burton unhitched the team and watered them; drew the harness off and
rubbed them down with a wisp of hay as Ensley filled the mangers. Then
the two men walked to the shack, where they found Mr. McKay with his
great boots off and his stockinged feet resting comfortably on the
ash-pan of the stove, in which a slab fire burned cheerily. The
tea-kettle was singing lustily; a saucepan of dried apples simmered on
the back of the stove, and presently the appetising smell of frying
potatoes and eggs filled the little room. The light from Ensley's single
lamp fell on the walls, papered with pictures and cartoons from English
publications, with a dry-goods box nailed up for a cupboard, and over
the door the miniature arsenal which always marks the Britisher's home.
Outside the darkness was settling down; the long, persistent twilight of
the Canadian summer lingered in the western sky, but the east loomed
black and colourless, and a strange night wind sighed mournfully over
the endless, sweeping fields of grass.