Boy Settlers: A Story of Early Times in Kansas

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  DISCOURAGEMENT.

  Right glad were our settlers to see their log-cabin home peacefullysleeping in the autumnal sunshine, as they returned along the familiartrail from the river. They had gone back by the way of the Younkinsplace and had partaken of the good man's hospitality. Younkins thoughtit best to leave his brood with his neighbors on the Big Blue foranother day. "The old woman," he said, "would feel sort of scary-like"until things had well blown over. She was all right where she was, andhe would try to get on alone for a while. So the boys, under hisguidance, cooked a hearty luncheon which they heartily enjoyed.Younkins had milk and eggs, both of which articles were luxuries tothe Whittier boys, for on their ranch they had neither cow nor hens.

  "Why can't we have some hens this fall, daddy?" asked Sandy,luxuriating in a big bowl of custard sweetened with brown sugar, whichthe skilful Charlie had compounded. "We can build a hen-house there bythe corral, under the lee of the cabin, and make it nice and warm forthe winter. Battles has got hens to sell, and perhaps Mr. Younkinswould be willing to sell us some of his."

  "If we stay, Sandy, we will have some fowls; but we will talk aboutthat by and by," said his father.

  "Stay?" echoed Sandy. "Why, is there any notion of going back? Backfrom 'bleeding Kansas'? Why, daddy, I'm ashamed of you."

  Mr. Howell smiled and looked at his brother-in-law. "Things do notlook very encouraging for a winter in Kansas, bleeding or notbleeding; do they, Charlie?"

  "Well, if you appeal to me, father," replied the lad, "I shall be gladto stay and glad to go home. But, after all, I must say, I don'texactly see what we can do here this winter. There is no farm workthat can be done. But it would cost an awful lot of money to go backto Dixon, unless we took back everything with us and went as we came.Wouldn't it?"

  Younkins did not say anything, but he looked approvingly at Charliewhile the other two men discussed the problem. Mr. Bryant said it waslikely to be a hard winter; they had no corn to sell, none to feed totheir cattle. "But corn is so cheap that the settlers over onSolomon's Fork say they will use it for fuel this winter. Battles toldme so. I'd like to see a fire of corn on the cob; they say it makes ahot fire burned that way. Corn-cobs without corn hold the heat a longtime. I've tried it."

  "It is just here, boys," said Uncle Aleck. "The folks at home arelonesome; they write, you know, that they want to come out before thewinter sets in. But it would be mighty hard for women out here, thiscoming winter, with big hulking fellows like us to cook for and withnothing for us to do. Everything to eat would have to be bought. Wehaven't even an ear of corn for ourselves or our cattle. Instead ofselling corn at the post, as we expected, we would have to buy of ourneighbors, Mr. Younkins here, and Mr. Fuller, and we would be obligedto buy our flour and groceries at the post, or down at Manhattan; andthey charge two prices for things out here; they have to, for it costsmoney to haul stuff all the way from the river."

  "That's so," said Younkins, resignedly. He was thinking of making atrip to "the river," as the settlers around there always called theMissouri, one hundred and fifty miles distant. But Younkins assuredhis friends that they were welcome to live in his cabin where theystill were at home, for another year, if they liked, and he would haulfrom the river any purchases that they might make. He was expecting tobe ready to start for Leavenworth in a few days, as they knew, and oneof them could go down with him and lay in a few supplies. His teamcould haul enough for all hands. If not, they could double up the twoteams and bring back half of Leavenworth, if they had the money to buyso much. He "hated dreadfully" to hear them talking about going backto Illinois.

  But when the settlers reached home and found amusement and some littleexcitement in the digging up of their household treasures and puttingthings in place once more, the thought of leaving this home in the FarWest obtruded itself rather unpleasantly on the minds of all of them,although nobody spoke of what each thought. Oscar had hidden hisprecious violin high up among the rafters of the cabin, being willingto lose it only if the cabin were burned. There was absolutely noother place where it would be safe to leave it. He climbed to the loftoverhead and brought it forth with great glee, laid his cheek lovinglyon its body and played a familiar air. Engrossed in his music, heplayed on and on until he ran into the melody of "Home, Sweet Home,"to which he had added many curious and artistic variations.

  "Don't play that, Oscar; you make me homesick!" cried Charlie, with asuspicious moisture in his eyes. "It was all very well for us to hearthat when this was the only home we had or expected to have; but daddyand Uncle Charlie have set us to thinking about the home in Illinois,and that will make us all homesick, I really believe."

  "Here is all my 'funny business' wasted," cried Sandy. "No Indian cameto read my comic letter, after all. I suppose the mice and cricketsmust have found some amusement in it; I saw any number of themscampering away when I opened the door; but I guess they are the onlyliving things that have been here since we went away."

  "Isn't it queer that we should be gone like this for nearly two days,"said Oscar, "leaving everything behind us, and come back and know thatnobody has been any nearer to the place than we have, all the time? Ican't get used to it."

  "My little philosopher," said his Uncle Charlie, "we are living in thewilderness; and if you were to live here always, you would feel, byand by, that every newcomer was an interloper; you would resent theintrusion of any more settlers here, interfering with our freedom andturning out their cattle to graze on the ranges that seem to be solike our own, now. That's what happens to frontier settlers,everywhere."

  "Why, yes," said Sandy, "I s'pose we should all be like that man overon the Big Blue that Mr. Fuller tells about, who moved away when anewcomer took up a claim ten miles and a half from him, because, as hethought, the people were getting too thick. For my part, I am willingto have this part of Kansas crowded to within, say, a mile and a halfof us, and no more. Hey, Charlie?"

  "HOME, SWEET HOME."]

  But the prospect of that side of the Republican Fork being over-fullwith settlers did not seem very imminent about that time. From partsof Kansas nearer to the Missouri River than they were, they heard of aslackening in the stream of migration. The prospect of a cold winterhad cooled the ardor of the politicians who had determined, earlier inthe season, to hold the Territory against all comers. Something like atruce had been tacitly agreed on, and there was a cessation ofhostilities for the present. The troops had been marched back fromLawrence to the post, and no more elections were coming on for thepresent in any part of the Territory. Mr. Bryant, who was the onlyardent politician of the company, thought that it would be a good planto go back to Illinois for the winter. They could come out again inthe spring and bring the rest of the two families with them. The landwould not run away while they were gone.

  It was with much reluctance that the boys accepted this plan of theirelders. They were especially sorry that it was thought best that thetwo men should stay behind and wind up affairs, while the three ladswould go down to the river with Younkins, and thence home by steamerfrom Leavenworth down the Missouri to St. Louis. But, after a few daysof debate, this was thought to be the best thing that could be done.It was on a dull, dark November day that the boys, wading for the lasttime the cold stream of the Fork, crossed over to Younkins's early inthe morning, while the sky was red with the dawning, carrying theirlight baggage with them. They had ferried their trunks across the daybefore, using the oxcart for the purpose and loading all intoYounkins's team, ready for the homeward journey.

  Now that the bustle of departure had come, it did not seem so hard toleave the new home on the Republican as they had expected. It had beenagreed that the two men should follow in a week, in time to take thelast steamboat going down the river in the fall, from Fort Benton,before the closing of navigation for the season. Mr. Bryant, unknownto the boys, had written home to Dixon directing that money be sent ina letter addressed to Charlie, in care of a well-known firm inLeavenworth. They would find it
there on their arrival, and that wouldenable them to pay their way down the river to St. Louis and thencehome by the railroad.

  "But suppose the money shouldn't turn up?" asked Charlie, when told ofthe money awaiting them. He was accustomed to look on the dark side ofthings, sometimes, so the rest of them thought. "What then?"

  "Well, I guess you will have to walk home," said his uncle, with asmile. "But don't worry about that. At the worst, you can work yourpassage to St. Louis, and there you will find your uncle, Oscar G.Bryant, of the firm of Bryant, Wilder & Co. I'll give you his address,and he will see you through, in case of accidents. But there will beno accidents. What is the use of borrowing trouble about that?"

  They did not borrow any trouble, and as they drove away from thescenes that had grown so familiar to them, they looked forward, as allboys would, to an adventurous voyage down the Missouri, and a welcomehome to their mothers and their friends in dear old Dixon.

  The nights were now cold and the days chilly. They had cooked a goodlysupply of provisions for their journey, for they had not much readymoney to pay for fare by the way. At noon they stopped by the roadsideand made a pot of hot coffee, opened their stores of provisions andlunched merrily, gypsy-fashion, caring nothing for the curious looksand inquisitive questions of other wayfarers who passed them. For thefirst few nights they attempted to sleep in the wagon. But it wasfearfully cold, and the wagon-bed, cluttered up with trunks, guns, andother things, gave them very little room. Miserable and sore, theyresolved to spend their very last dollar, if need be, in paying forlodging at the wayside inns and hospitable cabins of the settlersalong the road. The journey homeward was not nearly so merry as thatof the outward trip. But new cabins had been built along their route,and the lads found much amusement in hunting up their formercamping-places as they drove along the military road to FortLeavenworth.

  In this way, sleeping at the farm-houses and such casual taverns ashad grown up by the highway, and usually getting their supper andbreakfast where they slept, they crept slowly toward the river. Sandywas the cashier of the party, although he had preferred that Charlie,being the eldest, should carry their slender supply of cash. Charliewould not take that responsibility; but, as the days went by, herigorously required an accounting every morning; he was very muchafraid that their money would not hold out until they reachedLeavenworth.

  Twenty miles a day with an ox-team was fairly good travelling; and itwas one hundred and fifty miles from the Republican to the Missouri,as the young emigrants travelled the road. A whole week had beenconsumed by the tedious trip when they drove into the busy andbustling town of Leavenworth, one bright autumnal morning. All alongthe way they had picked up much information about the movement ofsteamers, and they were delighted to find that the steamboat "NewLucy" was lying at the levee, ready to sail on the afternoon of thevery day they would be in Leavenworth. They camped, for the last time,in the outskirts of the town, a good-natured border-State manaffording them shelter in his hay-barn, where they slept soundly allthrough their last night in "bleeding Kansas."

  The "New Lucy," from Fort Benton on the upper Missouri, was blowingoff steam as they drove down to the levee. Younkins helped themunload their baggage, wrung their hands, one after another, with realtears in his eyes, for he had learned to love these hearty, happylads, and then drove away with his cattle to pen them for the day andnight that he should be there. Charlie and Oscar went to the warehouseof Osterhaus & Wickham, where they were to find the letter from home,the precious letter containing forty dollars to pay their expenseshomeward.

  Sandy sat on the pile of trunks watching with great interest the novelsight of hurrying passengers, different from any people he ever sawbefore; black "roustabouts," or deck-hands, tumbling the cargo and thefirewood on board, singing, shouting, and laughing the while, thewhite mates overseeing the work with many hard words, and the captain,tough and swarthy, superintending from the upper deck the mates andall hands. A party of nice-looking, citified people, as Sandy thoughtthem, attracted his attention on the upper deck, and he mentallywondered what they could be doing here, so far in the wilderness.

  "Car' yer baggage aboard, boss?" asked a lively young negro, half-cladand hungry-looking.

  "No, not yet," answered Sandy, feeling in his trousers pocket the lasttwo quarters of a dollar that was left them. "Not yet. I am not readyto go aboard till my mates come." The hungry-looking darky made a rushfor another more promising passenger and left Sandy lounging where theother lads soon after found him. Charlie's face was a picture ofdespair. Oscar looked very grave, for him.

  "What's up?" cried Sandy, starting from his seat. "Have you seen aghost?"

  "Worse than that," said Charlie. "Somebody's stolen the money!"

  "Stolen the money?" echoed Sandy, with vague terror, the whole extentof the catastrophe flitting before his mind. "Why, what on earth doyou mean?"

  Oscar explained that they had found the letter, as they expected, andhe produced it, written by the two loving mothers at home. They saidthat they had made up their minds to send fifty dollars, instead ofthe forty that Uncle Charlie had said would be enough. It was inten-dollar notes, five of them; at least, it had been so when theletter left Dixon. When it was opened in Leavenworth, it was empty,save for the love and tenderness that were in it. Sandy groaned.

  The lively young darky came up again with, "Car' yer baggage aboard,boss?"

  It was sickening.

  "What's to be done now?" said Charlie, in deepest dejection, as he saton the pile of baggage that now looked so useless and needless. "Ijust believe some of the scamps I saw loafing around there in thatstore stole the money out of the letter. See here; it was sealed withthat confounded new-fangled 'mucilage'; gumstickum I call it. Anybodycould feel those five bank-notes inside of the letter, and anybodycould steam it open, take out the money, and seal it up again. We havebeen robbed."

  "Let's go and see the heads of the house there at Osterhaus &Wickham's. They will see us righted," cried Sandy, indignantly. "Iwon't stand it, for one."

  "No use," groaned Charlie. "We saw Mr. Osterhaus. He was verysorry--oh, yes!--awfully sorry; but he didn't know us, and he had noresponsibility for the letters that came to his place. It was only anaccommodation to people that he took them in his care, anyhow. Oh,it's no use talking! Here we are, stranded in a strange place, knowingno living soul in the whole town but good old Younkins, and nobodyknows where he is. He couldn't lend us the money, even if we were meanenough to ask him. Good old Younkins!"

  "Younkins!" cried Sandy, starting to his feet. "He will give us goodadvice. He has got a great head, has Younkins. I'll go and ask himwhat to do. Bless me! There he is now!" and as he spoke, the familiarslouching figure of their neighbor came around the corner of awarehouse on the levee.

  "Why don't yer go aboard, boys? The boat leaves at noon, and it's pasttwelve now. I just thought I'd come down and say good-by-like, forI'm powerful sorry to have ye go."

  The boys explained to the astonished and grieved Younkins how they hadbeen wrecked, as it were, almost in sight of the home port. The goodman nodded his head gravely, as he listened, softly jingled the fewgold coins in his trousers pocket, and said: "Well, boys, this is thewust scald I ever did see. If I wasn't so dreadful hard up, I'd giveye what I've got."

  "That's not to be thought of, Mr. Younkins," said Charlie, withdignity and gratitude, "for we can't think of borrowing money to gethome with. It would be better to wait until we can write home formore. We might earn enough to pay our board." And Charlie, with asigh, looked around at the unsympathetic and hurrying throng.

  "You've got baggage as security for your passage to St. Louis. Goaboard and tell the clerk how you are fixed. Your pa said as how youwould be all right when you got to St. Louis. Go and 'brace' theclerk."

  This was a new idea to the boys. They had never heard of such a thing.Who would dare to ask such a great favor? The fare from Leavenworth toSt. Louis was twelve dollars each. They had known all about that. Andthey knew, too, tha
t the price included their meals on the way down.

  "I'll go brace the clerk," said Sandy, stoutly; and before the otherscould put in a word, he was gone.

  The clerk was a handsome, stylish-looking man, with a good-naturedcountenance that reassured the timid boy at once. Mustering up hiswaning courage, Sandy stated the case to him, telling him that thatpile of trunks and guns on the levee was theirs, and that they wouldleave them on board when they got to St. Louis until they had foundtheir uncle and secured the money for their fares.

  The handsome clerk looked sharply at the lad while he was telling hisstory. "You've got an honest face, my little man. I'll trust you.Bring aboard your baggage. People spar their way on the river everyday in the year; you needn't be ashamed of it. Accidents will happen,you know." And the busy clerk turned away to another customer.

  With a light heart Sandy ran ashore. His waiting and anxiouslywatching comrades saw by his face that he had been successful, beforehe spoke.

  "That's all fixed," he cried, blithely.

  "Bully boy!" said Younkins, admiringly.

  "Car' yer baggage aboard, boss?" asked the lively young darky.

  "Take it along," said Sandy, with a lordly air. They shook hands withYounkins once more, this time with more fervor than ever. Then thethree lads filed on board the steamboat. The gang-plank was hauled in,put out again for the last tardy passenger, once more taken aboard,and then the stanch steamer "New Lucy" was on her way down the turbidMissouri.

  "Oh, Sandy," whispered Charlie, "you gave that darky almost the lastcent we had for bringing our baggage on board. We ought to have luggedit aboard ourselves."

  "Lugged it aboard ourselves? And all these people that we are going tobe passengers with for the next four or five days watching us while wedid a roustabout's work? Not much. We've a quarter left."

  Charlie was silent. The great stern-wheel of the "New Lucy" revolvedwith a dashing and a churning sound. The yellow banks of the Missourisped by them. The sacred soil of Kansas slid past as in a swiftlymoving panorama. One home was hourly growing nearer, while another wasfading away there into the golden autumnal distance.