Soldiers sat their horses at half-mile intervals, awaiting the
appointed hour to give the signal for the home seekers to cross the
line.
Molly Lassiter’s eyes snapped excitedly as she viewed the scene,
a spectacle which has never been duplicated in all history. More
than a hundred and fifty thousand souls were banked up behind the
Cherokee-Kansas line and a thinner wave had assembled on the Oklahoma
side, where the barrier would be lowered at the same hour as that along
the northern edge.
“And six months ago I was thinking it would take years to settle it,”
Carver said. “There’s twelve thousand square miles in the unowned
lands--and within four hours from the time the pistol cracks she’ll be
settled solid; every foot of ground staked and tenanted, right down to
the last odd scrap.”
Bart Lassiter joined them as they rode along behind the line. Every
sort of conveyance the West has ever seen was represented. Hundreds of
canvas-covered wagons were stationed along the front ranks of the mob,
their owners having camped there for days, in frequent instances for
months, to make certain of holding a place in the forefront of the run.
Buckboards and lumbering farm wagons, top buggies and family carriages,
shining runabouts, with here and there a racing cart, the slender,
high-strung horse between the shafts fretting restlessly for the start.
Saddle horses of every conceivable size and color. Scores of Kentucky
thoroughbreds had been shipped in to make the run and even now, two
hours before the start, their riders were maneuvering for favorable
positions as formerly they had jockied at the wire.
Individuals reacted differently to the strain of waiting. Some genial
souls called encouragement to others and optimistically predicted that
there would be claims for all as they motioned some anxious newcomer
in the rear to some gap nearer the front. Others glared suspiciously
at all about them and resented every shift of their neighbors lest
the movement provide space for another hopeful soul. Many men seemed
anxious and careworn. Most of these had families and the next few
hours would mean much to them, their every hope based upon staking out
a claim. Some feverishly discussed their chances while others were
quite stolid; many were boastful, announcing for the benefit of all
within earshot that they knew exactly the best piece of ground in
the Strip and would beat all others to the spot. One woman called out
hysterically to a friend some yards away as the three riders passed
behind her,
“Have your man stake the claim next to ourn,” she screeched. “Then we
can neighbor back and forth. Watch now and pull right in behind us,”
she urged, as if the start were but two seconds off instead of as many
hours. “Don’t let any one wedge in between.”
There were already a half-dozen vehicles in between and their occupants
fidgeted irritably under the constant scourge of her insistent screech.
One ample soul fanned her infant while answering the questions showered
upon her by the rest of her brood, smiling meanwhile at all who caught
her eye and occasionally dropping a word of good cheer to the tall
lean man who occupied the seat beside her, his eyes roving moodily
off across the burned and blackened area of the promised land. A meek
little woman near by cried quietly while her man awkwardly sought to
dissuade her, speaking gruffly in his concern over this unforeseen
situation.
“Close up it sounds like a flock of chattering magpies,” said Carver.
“And from a distance it sounds like the everlasting blat of a band of
sheep. Whatever do you suppose brought all this swarm together?”
“The need that every human feels,” Molly answered. “The urge to have a
home.”
She had pulled up her horse and Carver, following the direction of her
gaze, saw an old couple on the seat of a wagon on the very front of
the line. The man’s beard was white and a ragged fringe of white hair
showed beneath his battered hat; one of the pioneers who had helped hew
out homes in the West for others but who had neglected to retain one
for himself. For a year old Judd Armstrong had been camped at various
points along the line and Caldwell had come to know him. The little old
lady beside him was hatless, her hair drawn tightly back from her brows
and twisted in a scanty knot behind, the blistering sun falling full
upon her wrinkled, weather-beaten face. She gazed serenely forth upon
the restless horde of humanity around her, undisturbed by the nearness
of the hour which would determine whether at last she should have a
home after having been deprived of one for all these many years. Life
had handed her many reverses but she had faced them all with that same
serenity, confident that old Judd would see her through.
“Is there any chance for them?” the girl anxiously inquired.
Carver shook his head doubtfully as he studied the two patient, bony
horses that were destined to carry the ancient couple into the wild
scramble of the most desperate stampede of the century.
“Not much, I’m fearing,” he returned. “This will be one awful tangle,
with every man for himself. Poor old souls; they oughtn’t to go into it
with that worn-out team.”
He turned to Molly and she was looking up at him, in her eyes that same
expression which, at that first meeting, had impressed him with the
thought that she was in grave need of something.
“Don’t look at me like that, Honey,” he said. “Not with folks looking
on. I might lose my head and forget there was any one around. Maybe
they’ll find a scrap of ground that the rest have run over without
noticing. We’ll hope it transpires that way, won’t we?”
She nodded without speaking and they rode on down the line. A little
knot of horsemen appeared some distance out across the blackened
landscape, their progress marked by puffs of fine black ashes and
tossed aloft by their horses’ hoofs.
“Cavalry patrol bringing out some sooner they’ve picked up,” Carver
stated, as he watched the group approach. “There’s likely two hundred
odd hiding out down there to take their pick of the claims when the run
sets in.”
All through the preceding night there had been irregular spurts of
rifle shots at various points along the line as troopers opened up on
sooners that had watched their chance to slip through the cordon of
guards and make a run for it.
“Did you hear the shooting last night?” she asked, and Carver nodded.
“Tumbleweeds drifting through,” he said. “Most of them urged on just
for the love of taking chances--others on the chance of making a few
dollars by selling out.”
“Are there many like that?” she asked. “I mean ones who are doing it
for the sake of a few dollars instead of with the idea of living on
their claims.”
“Thousands,” Carver testified. “Every puncher that ever rode in the
Strip will stake a claim and there’s not one out of ten that would live
on the place a week. Most of them are going in for the sport of making
the run.”
“And they’ll stake the best tracts,” she said.
“They will,” Carver agreed. “They know the country and are equipped
to get there first. But there’s such a scattering few compared to
the size of the country that their filings all combined won’t make a
pin-prick on the map.”
“And where will you file?” she inquired.
“The Half Diamond H,” he said. “That’s my destination. Every ranch down
there stands just as she was left when the cowmen vacated the Strip.
Owners are privileged to move their improvements off but they’re mostly
sod buildings. The parties filing on them will be saved the trouble and
expense of erecting new sod huts.”
“But there’s a frame house on the Half Diamond H,” she said.
“Four rooms--the only one in this end of the Strip,” he returned. “Old
Nate said he couldn’t move it off with any profit and that whoever
staked it wouldn’t likely offer any sum to speak of, so it was mine if
only I’d stake the place myself.”
“But won’t all the boys that used to ride that country be heading for
that same spot?” she asked.
“The old home-ranch sites will be the plums,” he admitted. “They’re
located in good country and all the peelers will line out for them.
If one of the boys beats me to it, I’ll give him a hundred to move on
and stake the next. The Half Diamond H sets in twenty sections of rich
bottom land in the Cabin Creek valley. There’ll likely be thirty or
more old friends of mine head right into that bottom to file, and I can
buy the big part of them out. They’ll sell to the first man who appears
and puts in a bid. That will be me.”
“You’ve found one customer now,” Bart announced. “You can buy me out
cheap.”
“Pick your places in the line and hold them,” Molly urged. “You’ll have
a bad start otherwise.”
“Plenty of time,” Carver said. “We couldn’t get into the front rank
or anywhere near it, so I’d as soon start from behind. A fifty-yard
handicap won’t matter much in a long pull. Those thoroughbreds will
stretch out in the lead for the first couple of miles and give their
riders a chance to stake, but they wouldn’t last on a long hard drag.
One of them would run my horse off his feet in the first three miles
and mine would kill him off in the next ten or twelve. You notice the
boys aren’t much concerned over places,” and he motioned toward an
irregular string of riders well back of the congested throng banked up
along the Cherokee-Kansas line.
All the old-time cowhands of the Strip were prowling here and there,
inspecting those who were so soon to swarm in and take over their old
stamping ground.
The crowd tightened as the hour approached, squeezing a few feet toward
the front as if every inch in the direction of their goal would count
for much in the final frenzied spurt of the get-away. Carver looked at
his watch and snapped it shut.
“Five minutes,” he announced. “You follow along to the Half Diamond H
if you lose us, Molly. I’ve got a food cache there.”
They pulled up their horses, having returned to the point of their
original stand. Judd Armstrong seemed never to have shifted in his
seat and the emaciated horses drooped contentedly, unmindful of the
sudden tenseness that gripped all those around. The more high-strung
horses sensed it and fidgeted nervously. The ample soul still mothered
her infant and smiled while her man sat as stolidly as before, gazing
somberly out across the blackened waste that stretched out ahead. The
troopers had ceased patrolling the line and now sat their horses at
half-mile intervals and faced the eager horde they had held in check
for so long a time. The hysterical lady cut short a screech of advice
to her neighbor four rigs away as the strains of a bugle sounded
faintly from afar, penetrating the buzz of conversation and silencing
it. A second note, far to the westward, joined the first and in a space
of two seconds the clear ringing strains of the bugles pealed the same
message along a front of two hundred miles.
There was a sudden tense hush, the troopers sitting rigidly in their
saddles. As the last notes died away each soldier fired a single shot,
and with a tremendous sullen roar the most spectacular run of all time
was off to a running start.