The Homesteader: A Novel

  CHAPTER II

  THE FORECLOSURE

  Early in July when the drought had burned the crops to a crisp, andplant life was beyond redemption, the Banks, Trust and InsuranceCompanies holding notes secured by mortgages against the land and stockof Jean Baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. He read with thecold perspiration upon his forehead the notices that appeared in thepapers. Attachments were filed against all he personally possessed inGregory County, as well as in Tripp County. The fact that he had not hadhis sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had just madeproof that summer, was a relief to him now, and with a sigh he laid downthe newspapers containing the notices.

  It was no surprise since he had been threatened with such for manymonths, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable. But when the grimreality of the situation dawned upon him, it weakened him. Never had hedreamed that it would come to this. He took mental inventory of hispossessions and what he could lay claim to, and he happened to thinkabout his wife's homestead. On this he had made his home since herdeparture, and no trouble had been given him. While the local landoffice had rendered a decision in her favor; the contestee had taken anappeal to the general land office and the commissioner and upon beingrepresented by an attorney, the local land office's decision had beenreversed. It had been up to him then to go further, which he had done,by appealing the case to the highest office in the land department, theSecretary of the Interior, and here it rested. To do this, he had agreedto pay the attorney $300 to win, and one hundred dollars in the event heshould not, the latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. He hadformulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he would continueto hold it, since now it was a settled fact in his mind that he and thewoman he had married were parted forever.

  But poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years was a generaland accepted thing now. And the fact that he was being foreclosed,occasioned no comment, and at least he could continue on withoutintensely feeling the attendant disgrace.

  It was at this juncture in life that a new thought came to JeanBaptiste. In all his life he had been a thinker, a practical thinker--aprolific thinker. Moreover, a great reader into the bargain. So thethought that struck him now, was writing. Perhaps he could write. If sothen what would he write? So in the days that followed, gradually a plotformed in his mind, and when he had decided, he chose that he couldwrite his own story--his life of hell, the work of an evil power!

  Of writing he knew little and the art of composition appeared verydifficult. But of thought, this he had a plenty. Well, after all thatwas the most essential. If one has thoughts to express, it is possibleto learn very soon some method of construction. So after some weeks ofspeculation, he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up theart of writing.

  He found no difficulty in saying something. The first day he wrote tenthousand words. The next day he reversed the tablet and wrote tenthousand more. In the next two days he re-wrote the twenty thousand,and on the fifth day he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds.

  He had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures had beencompleted and the wheat had been threshed he sowed a large portion ofthe seed back into the ground on three hundred acres of ground uponwhich the crop that year had failed. According to the law of the state,when a foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may redeemthe land within one year from the date of the foreclosure. Or, betterstill, he may pay the interest, and taxes at the end of one year fromthe date of the foreclosure, and have still another year in which toredeem the land. So it is to be seen that if Jean Baptiste could pay hisinterest and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years inall to redeem his lost fortunes. Hence, in seeding a large acreage ofwheat, he hoped for the best. The years, however, had been too adverseto now expect any returns when a crop was sown and it had been merelygood fortune that he happened to secure the means with which to sowanother, for credit there was for few any more.

  When this was done, there was nothing to do but listen to the wind thatblew dry still, although the protracted drought had been broken by lightautumn rains. So took he up his pencil and fell to the task of writingagain. Through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at hisdifficult task, the task of telling a story. The greatest difficulty heencountered was that he thought faster than he could write. Therefore heoften broke off right in the middle of a sentence to relate an incidentthat would occur to him to tell of something else. But at last he hadwritten something that could be termed a story. He took what appeared tohim to be quite sufficient for a book to a friend who had voiced aninterest in his undertaking. In fact, although he had said nothingabout it, the news had spread that he was writing a story of the countryand everybody became curious.

  Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art ofcomposition. To them, a patriotic, boosting people--despite the ravagesof drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,--asubtle method of advertising the country. So everybody began looking forthe appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. The facthelped the newsdealers considerably. But to return to Jean Baptiste andthe story he was writing.

  The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. Hepretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him toanother. But it was a long time before he found any one who was willingto attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who neededthe wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it heplunged. He staggered along with much difficulty and managed to completehalf of it by Christmas. The remainder was corrected by a woman whoproved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the factthat she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of quickwit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was veryhelpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he hadsome sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers.

  And here was the next great problem. He had, while writing, and before,read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted forpublication. But, like most writers in putting forth their firstliterary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was sodifferent from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, thatit must therefore receive preference over all.

  So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to aChicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.

  It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days hereceived a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, andwould be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it tothem.

  Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anewthat it would be accepted.

  In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it wouldappear. He was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculationwas the issue. Many inquired if he had featured them in the story, andwere cheered if he said that he had, while others showed theirdisappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. But withone and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literaryeffort.

  So anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the dayspassed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board untilhe could receive a reply. And as time passed, he became more and morenervous. At last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive thatif he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. Thereforehe would entertain no possibility of a rejection. It _must_ be accepted,and that was final. Added to this, he took note of all the publicity hehad been accorded with regard to the same. How would he be able to facethese friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that it hadbeen rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him considerably, andmade him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it.

  Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligationanticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds forsettlement--the question of acceptance they did not know enough aboutto consider. So it went, the time passed,
and he could scarcely waituntil the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail.He was never later than the second at the postoffice window. He had readin Jack London's _Martin Eden_ that an acceptance meant a long thinenvelope. Well, that was the kind he watched for--but of course, heestimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope,so he wouldn't take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelopeshould be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.

  And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster, who knew everybody'sbusiness, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner,and said:

  "There she is! Now read it aloud!"

  Baptiste muttered something about that not being the one, and got out ofthe office. His heart was pounding like a trip hammer; for, while he hadconcluded that a long thin envelope would not necessarily mean anacceptance, his was a short one, and he was greatly excited.

  He went blindly down the street, turned at the corner and sought a quietplace, a livery barn. Herein he found an empty stall that was darkenough not to be seen, and still afforded sufficient light to read in.He nervously held the letter for some minutes afraid to open and readthe contents, and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart. Atlast, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the letter forth andread:

  "_Mr. Jean Baptiste_,

  "DEAR SIR:

  "As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found unavailable for our needs. We are therefore returning the same to you today by express.

  "Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be,

  "Cordially and sincerely yours,

  "A.C. MCGRAW & CO."

  He gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. He was trying tobelieve he had read awrong. So he read it again. No, it read just thesame as it had before. It was done; his last opportunity for redemptionseemed to be gone. He turned and staggered from the barn and wentblindly up the street. At the corner he met the deputy sheriff, whoapproached him jovially, and then gave him another shock when he said:

  "I've got a writ here, Baptiste, and will be glad to have you tell mewhere this stuff of yours is so I can go and get it."

  He raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking. He _had_ todo something, for although all his land had been foreclosed on, he hadtwo years to redeem the same. But this writ--well, the man was there totake the stock, then!