diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/60844-h/60844-h.htm')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60844-h/60844-h.htm | 19101 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 19101 deletions
diff --git a/old/60844-h/60844-h.htm b/old/60844-h/60844-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index be8c8ad..0000000 --- a/old/60844-h/60844-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19101 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang= -"en"> -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= -"text/html; charset=utf-8" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> -<title>Memory's Storehouse Unlocked</title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<style type="text/css"> - -/**/ -body {margin:10%} -ol{margin:0;padding:0}table td,table th{padding:0}.c17{padding-top:18pt;padding-bottom:4pt;line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c7{-webkit-text-decoration-skip:none;color:#1155cc;font-weight:400;text-decoration:underline;text-decoration-skip-ink:none;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c1{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt;height:11pt}.c21{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;height:24pt}.c15{padding-top:10pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c4{padding-top:10pt;padding-bottom:4pt;line-height:1.0;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c3{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c10{padding-top:3pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c28{padding-top:24pt;padding-bottom:6pt;line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c8{color:#000000;font-weight:700;text-decoration:none;font-size:24pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c31{color:#000000;font-weight:700;text-decoration:none;font-size:36pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c9{color:#000000;font-weight:700;text-decoration:none;font-size:18pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c34{color:#000000;font-weight:400;text-decoration:none;font-size:12pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c2{color:#000000;font-weight:400;text-decoration:none;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";font-style:normal}.c32{color:#000000;font-weight:700;text-decoration:none;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"}.c20{color:#000000;font-weight:700;text-decoration:none;font-size:24pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"}.c35{padding-top:4pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c14{color:#000000;font-weight:400;text-decoration:none;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"}.c25{color:#666666;font-weight:400;text-decoration:none;font-size:24pt;font-family:"Georgia"}.c23{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;text-align:left;margin-right:8.5pt}.c22{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;text-align:left}.c29{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;text-align:left;margin-right:18pt}.c30{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;text-align:left}.c18{text-decoration-skip-ink:none;-webkit-text-decoration-skip:none;color:#1155cc;text-decoration:underline}.c26{padding-top:0pt;padding-bottom:0pt;line-height:1.0;text-align:center}.c13{color:#000000;text-decoration:none;font-size:11pt;font-style:normal}.c33{background-color:#ffffff;max-width:468pt;padding:72pt 72pt 72pt 72pt}.c6{font-weight:400;font-family:"Courier New"}.c16{color:inherit;text-decoration:inherit}.c24{orphans:2;widows:2}.c5{margin-left:36pt}.c12{font-style:italic}.c36{page-break-after:avoid}.c27{height:11pt}.c0{vertical-align:baseline}.c19{margin-left:18pt}.c11{vertical-align:sub}.title{padding-top:24pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:36pt;padding-bottom:6pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}.subtitle{padding-top:18pt;color:#666666;font-size:24pt;padding-bottom:4pt;font-family:"Georgia";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;font-style:italic;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}li{color:#000000;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"}p{margin:0;color:#000000;font-size:11pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"}h1{padding-top:0pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:24pt;padding-bottom:0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}h2{padding-top:18pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:18pt;padding-bottom:4pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}h3{padding-top:14pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:14pt;padding-bottom:4pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}h4{padding-top:12pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:12pt;padding-bottom:2pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}h5{padding-top:11pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:11pt;padding-bottom:2pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left}h6{padding-top:10pt;color:#000000;font-weight:700;font-size:10pt;padding-bottom:2pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";line-height:1.0;page-break-after:avoid;orphans:2;widows:2;text-align:left} -/**/ -</style> - </head> - <body class="c33"> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True Stories, by -John T. Bristow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True Stories - Pioneer Days In Wetmore and Northeast Kansas - -Author: John T. Bristow - -Release Date: December 4, 2019 [EBook #60844] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORY'S STOREHOUSE *** - - - - -Produced by Allan Shumaker - - - - - -</pre> - - <div> - <p class="c24 c27 c30"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - </div> - <p class="c24 c28 title" id="h.3vigzhyq45x9"> - <span class="c0">Memory’s</span> <span class="c0 c31">Storehouse - Unlocked</span> - </p> - <p class="c17 subtitle" id="h.uya56u3hgnub"> - <span class="c12 c0 c25">TRUE STORIES</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">by</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">PIONEER DAYS IN WETMORE and Northeast Kansas</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">January</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">1948</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">WETMORE, KANSAS and</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">FRESNO, CALIFORNIA<br /> 1005 Ferger Avenue</span> - </p> - <hr style="page-break-before:always;display:none;" /> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c26"> - <span class="fig" style="width:50%;"> <img src="images/image2.jpg" - alt="image2" width="100%" /><br /> </span> - </p> - <h5> - <a href="images/image2.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h1 class="c21" id="h.mzginbiqhanj"></h1> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.gw1hcsf4ljxk"> - <span class="c0">“The SPECTATOR FORCE”—</span> <span - class="c0">In “GAY NINETIES”</span> - </h1> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This book does not carry the actual work of these - pictured Associates—but it does bring them into the writings. The - Author owes much to them for helpful co-operation during our newspaper - regime—and maybe also, if the truth were known, they have been, in a - manner, quite helpful in the actual writing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The book is dedicated to the memory of them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <hr style="page-break-before:always;display:none;" /> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.lqh9pg7byfk"> - <span class="c8 c0">INDEX</span> - </h1> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c24 c35"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.gw1hcsf4ljxk">“The - SPECTATOR FORCE”—In “GAY NINETIES”</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.lqh9pg7byfk">INDEX</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ppfa02a97ugc">SUNSHINE AND - ROSES</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.fhvbgou0i5cc">Wetmore</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.31bmdeenbyac">The Mineral - Spring</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.xpd9nboonxrq">Wetmore in - 1869-70</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ks86gddgsbg6">Our New - Temporary Home</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.b92q7jgbtiag">Roses The Girls - Didn’t Get</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.58pfj3fxn2hu">LITTLE FILLERS</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.r5phwbef9bvm">CONSIDERATE KID</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.71y78zvtr2g3">THE BOY OF - YESTERYEAR</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.y5b9j27d4r5p">CAREFUL PLANNING</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.a2f2eou7mq0b">RED RIFLEMEN</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ufc12tqc951h">A TWOTIMER</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.vtl80d5o8xki">TEXAS CATTLE AND - RATTLESNAKES</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.deluom6dwjh4">WATCH YOUR - LANGUAGE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.7841zls0tqyo">DONE IN - CALIFORNIA</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.memcz9q6ubeq">THE OLD SWIMMING - HOLE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.k84afdqtsr1t">MISS INTERPRETED</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.mtcfjyr9g3m">THE “CIRCUS” - LAYOUT</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.qfbh4tmy4nwx">Honesty—The - Better Policy</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.g9kz1o1gdpr4">INNOCENT - FALSEHOOD</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.tjlfcgzgj7a5">FATHER AND SONS</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c5 c10"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.kgq1g61eo22w">PLUGGING FOR HER - DADDY</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.dw8umbyk1ll2">THE STRANGE CASE - OF MR. HENRY, et al.</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.3i8gykido7kv">SMALLPOX - PESTILENCE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c5"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ll8wzb5or0mx">CORRECT VISION</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.v0qu7q54o4ny">GRAPES—RIPENED - ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.9r1jv2u9y5pr">LOCAL “BOARD - OF TRADE”</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ppld0c1w9o2f">FAMILY AFFAIR</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.s9fp15acgy7j">COMPLIMENTARY TO - THE “KIDS”</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.qhgjfa4z85nv">ANOTHER BRIGHT - LITTLE STAR</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.zac316rj5in8">LLEWELLYN CASTLE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.31gddwwveoa">MORE ABOUT THE - COLONY FOLK</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.y7wxppf2a39h">HAPPY DAZE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ka2vqr2uw0xh">ODD CHARACTERS—COLORFUL, - PICTURESQUE</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.5z9xiwb60pqr">MY BEST - INVESTMENT</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.jsrbonnn7c8a">THE VIGILANTES</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.39ggf083w6zg">MOUNT ERICKSON</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.ciaftympo7ql">TURNING BACK THE - PAGES</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c10 c19"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.enew19t18hyv">WANTS - INFORMATION</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.qjs89hxngq19">MEMORY’S - STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.k8itvqilkz36">DESERT CHIVALRY</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c7 c0"><a class="c16" href="#h.yai9ngwxcpc1">THE WIFE—AT - GOODSPRINGS</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c18"><a class="c16" href="#h.g0putm51w0yi">MONEY MUSK</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c18"><a class="c16" href="#h.k62efezfs3d2">GONE WITH THE WIND</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c18"><a class="c16" href="#h.plvp0vtqb2mf">WHITE CHRISTMAS</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c15"> - <span class="c18"><a class="c16" href="#h.t6e5uija2f7v">UNCLE NICK’S - BOOMERANG</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c4"> - <span class="c18"><a class="c16" href="#h.2d8o58tp09f">SHORT CHANGED</a></span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.ppfa02a97ugc"> - <span class="c8 c0">SUNSHINE AND ROSES</span> - </h1> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">Because of World Unrest and conditions with the - Printing Fraternity what they are, this job has lain on the shelf for over - a year. Most</span> <span class="c6">of the articles</span> <span - class="c6 c0">are dated, and appear just as written and published. Later - unpublished articles remain as written at the time of preparation. Except - for</span> <span class="c6">1</span> <span class="c13 c6 c0">story, and a - few “Notes” the issue bears the date of January, 1948—and - with situations running back into pioneer times.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">THE AUTHOR.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This foreword is being written in California—in - the shadow of Campbell mountain, a 1700-foot detachment from lofty Sierra - Nevada range, 25 miles east of Fresno, on Christmas Day, 1947—six - days before my eighty-sixth birthday.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I am writing on an envelope—and a used one, at that—out - in the open, in Anna’s and Virginia Anne’s rose garden, at the - ranch home of my nephew, Sam Bristow, from whose orchard came the choice - oranges sampled by our Wetmore friends at Christmastimes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I am writing in the rose garden for the same reason I - Imagine Gray’s Elegy was written in the Country Churchyard—for - privacy. My nephew’s home is filled with relatives, seventeen by - actual count, waiting for the call to a turkey dinner.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, too, I want to get in a word about this most - unusual Christmas Day—something seldom seen in my cold climate home - state. As a rule you just don’t write on a tab out in the open, nor - pluck roses in the wintertime, back home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Though, on Christmas Day, 1937, I cut four lovely - long-stemmed perfectly developed Radiant Beauty (red) roses from a single - unprotected plant, the one blooming plant among hundreds, in my rose - garden in Northeast Kansas. And, to make it appear all the more unusual, - Radiant Beauty was brought out in 1934 as a hot-house rose. Also, I needed - a little data—and I got it from Sam in the rose garden. And this - seemed the opportune time to write a few lines.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It will not, of course, be a “White Christmas” - here as is likely back home—never is in the San Joaquin valley. - Sunshine and Roses enhance the beauty of the day here. But farther up—up - in the high Sierras, up toward Mount Whitney, the highest point in the - United States, only a few hours away, there will be snow aplenty today, - tomorrow—and forever.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This book is not my memoirs. It is not a family tree. - It is not a complete history. But it is, sketchily, all of these things. - The book is not a connected narrative. The articles, each complete within - timely as of the date of the situation. Also, some of the characters - depicted as living at the time of the writings have since died—but - the stories are printed as originally written. And for clear understanding - the articles should be read consecutively, as they appear in the book.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">These feature articles, pertaining mostly to Wetmore - and Northeast Kansas, have all been written—some by request—for - the home papers since my retirement from the newspaper field, in 1903. The - first one, “The Boy of Yesteryear” was printed in W. F. - Turrentine’s Wetmore Spectator, May 29, 1931.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One or more of these articles have been printed in - George and Dora Adriance’s Seneca Courier-Tribune—and, later, - in Jay Adriance’s Courier-Tribune; General Charles H. Browne’s - Horton Headlight; Will T. Beck’s Holton Recorder: Ray T. Ingalls’ - Goff Advance; Senator Arthur Capper’s Topeka Daily Capital; and the - Atchison Daily Globe. And all of them, with twelve exceptions, have - appeared in the Wetmore Spectator. The twelve exceptions are recent - writings—since the Spectator’s demise—rounding out - topics previously introduced.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Pictured with the writer in the forepart of this book are - two of the principals of the old Spectator force during</span> <span>o</span> - <span class="c2 c0">ur newspaper regime through the “Gay Nineties.” - While referred to often in the articles they had no part in the writing - thereof. Regretfully, they were both dead before e beginning of these - writings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Besides these two capable assistants, our printing - office had something no other paper could boast. Our “itchyfoot” - Devil—for a short time only—was a personality of high - adventure. Like Nellie Bly, of (National) magazine fame, and Ed Howe of - (Atchison) Daily Newspaper fame, Bert Wilson, better known as “Spike” - Wilson, went around the world. But unlike Nellie, backed by a magazine in - a race against time; and Ed, teeming with newspaper dollars, our “Spike” - bummed his way, with a minimum of work—mostly dish-washing—all - the twenty-five thousand miles around the globe while still in his teens. - “Spike” aspired to become a printer for the advantage it would - afford him in his desire to see the world. A journeyman printer could - always get a lift from any country newspaper in those days. Old Busbee, - Nationally known “tramp printer” dropped in on us one time. He - was given a day’s work—and a half-week’s salary. He - tried to discourage “Spike”—and maybe he did. But I - think his woe-begone looks was the greater influence. Busbee came this way - three times within my recollection. “Spike” Wilson was the - stepson of “Mule” Gibbons, who came here with his family from - Corning in the early 90’s—and several years later moved to - Holton.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">President Grant’s Congress</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">1876</span> <span>—memorialized</span> <span - class="c0">the state legislatures to have County Histories written for the - benefit of posterity. Nemaha County has had three—but not one of - them touched on the subjects covered in this volume. Usually local - histories are compiled for profit</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">colored, biased; boosting individuals who are willing to pay - for a write-up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There is no angling for profit in this work.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">These stories are now printed in book form to preserve - them for their historic value. The book is not for sale. It is my gift to - the home folks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The books are costing me about ten dollars a copy—and, - naturally, I won’t have enough of them to be passed out - promiscuously. I shall place them in the schools, and libraries, and with - the newspapers in the county—and with friends here and there, where - all the home folks can have the chance to read the book, should they so - desire. I am sure that I have more friends than I have copies of the book, - and I trust that those who do not receive a copy will not feel that, in my - estimation, they do not rate one.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.fhvbgou0i5cc"> - <span class="c0">Wetmore</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was not an excess of water, as one might suppose, - that gave Wetmore its name. Nor was it, as some have been led to believe, - because a certain Captain Wetmore, with a number of soldiers during the - Civil War chanced to camp over night at our ever-flowing mineral spring. - Art Taylor says his grandmother told him that such was the case.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It has been generally understood all along that the - town was named after a New York official of the railroad which came - through here in 1867. Confirmed, this would seem to kill the Taylor - version of it, by at least two years. The matter, I believe, was settled - for all time a couple of summers back when a New York woman, returning by - automobile from the Pacific coast, called at the Wetmore post office to - mail some letters. She told Postmaster Jim Hanks that the town was named - after her father, who was an official of the railroad—and that she - had driven a hundred miles out of her way to have her letters bear the - Wetmore postmark.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I have seen Wetmore grow—and slip. Compact at - the time of my entry seventy-nine years ago, occupying less than a half - block, the town spread out through the years to a space of one-half mile - by nearly one mile—not quite solid. The town became a City in 1884, - with Dr. J. W. Graham as first Mayor—and at its peak had a - population 687. The population at this time—1948—is 373.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There is not a person in this City today who was here - when I came. Gone, all gone now. And nearly all dead. Something more than - a tinge of sadness accompanies this thought. There is not a building of - any kind standing that was here when I came—not a tree but what has - been planted since that day. In truth, there is nothing, not a thing left, - save the eternal hills and the creek which flows through the south edge of - the City that antedates the time I came here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Yet, I do not feel old. And should any of my friends - choose to wish me anything, let them wish with me that I never do grow - old.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.31bmdeenbyac"> - <span class="c9 c0">The Mineral Spring</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">To enlarge a bit on our ever-flowing mineral spring! It - was—and is—near the creek in a natural grove of big trees at - the southwest limits of Wetmore. Nathaniel Morris, an early-day merchant, - had an analysis of the water made—and talked of developing the - spring into a health resort. The water was pronounced medicinally good</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">mostly iron, I believe. But, - beyond attracting large celebration crowds, his dream was never realized. - However, Morris induced the railroad to run in an “excursion” - train of flat-cars canopied with heavy-foliaged brush against a blazing - summer sun, on the occasion of one Fourth of July celebration. Green - leafed brush also covered some of the stands on the south margin of the - grove. Green brush was the standard picnic coverings in those days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, later, Charley Locknane, Jay W. Powers, and Jim - Liebig, undertook to popularize the spring—and incidentally, make - some money for themselves. They invested considerable money in - improvements. Locknane was a budding promoter with considerable nerve—and - a pull with the railroad. He caused a special excursion train to be run - out from Kansas City, $1.50 fare for the round trip. Also, Charley - organized a Girl Band of twenty pieces, which furnished music for the - opening picnic—and many occasion thereafter. The Girl Band gained - national acclaim. Locknane was State Deputy for the Modern Woodmen of - America—and took his Girl Band to the Head Camp at Colorado Springs - in 1901, and to Minneapolis in 1902. The members were: Dora Geyer, Mollie - Neely, Nora Shuemaker, Mabel Geyer, Phoena Liebig, Iva Hudson, Daisy - Terry, Blanche Eley, Kate Searles, Truda Berridge, Edith Lapham, Pearl - Nance, Maude Cole, Jennie Scott, Belle Searles, Grace Maxwell, Ruby Nance, - Myrtle Graham, Mrs. Ella Rice and Mrs. Carrie Glynn, of McLouth, Kansas, - were numbers five and six in the line-up as written on the back of an - enlarged photograph now in possession of Mrs. P. G. Worthy—formerly - Myrtle Graham.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The dance pavilion was well patronized between - celebrations—and the town populace turned out of evenings for a - stroll to the spring. It was really popular. Then a flood, an unusually - big flood, swept the park clean of all improvements. The large frame - dance-hall came to anchor on a projection of land on the present Bill - Winkler farm nearly a mile down the creek. The town jester said that as - the pavilion floated away the piano was automatically playing “Over - the Ocean Waves.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The mineral spring is still here—but that’s - all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At one of the big celebrations about the turn of the - century a farmer brought his family to town in a spring wagon. He tied his - team on the town-side of the picnic grounds, leaving a three-year-old - child asleep in the wagon. When the parents returned after taking in the - picnic, the child was gone. Then the picnickers began a search which - lasted throughout the night. All roads were covered for four or five miles - out. One searching party went four miles west on the railroad track—then - turned back, believing a small child could not travel that far. The - section men out Wetmore found the mangled body of the child in a small - wash by the side of the railroad about a half-mile beyond the point - abandoned by the searchers. An early morning freight train had bumped it - off a low bridge. Then there was much speculation as to how a small child - could have traveled that far—even hints, unwarranted suspicion, of - foul help. Then there was a story afloat about the conductor whose train - had struck the child. When told of the killing, it was claimed, he cried - and said had he known a child was lost along the track he would have - walked ahead the train.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.xpd9nboonxrq"> - <span class="c9 c0">Wetmore in 1869-70</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were only eleven buildings and thirty-four - people Wetmore when I came here with my parents from our Wolfley Creek - farm home in the fall of 1869.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was one general store owned by Morris Brothers. - Uliam Morris, with his wife Eliza and daughter Nannie, and his brother - Nathaniel, lived over the store. Kirk Wood had a blacksmith shop, a small - home, his wife Euphemia and two children, Riley and Jay. Kirk’s - brother Jay lived with the family. M. P. M. Cassity, lawyer, owned his - home and rental house, had a wife—off and on—and a son, - George. Martin Peter Moses Cassity’s second marriage with his - Griselle (Wheeler), the birth of Eddie, and the final parting, were after - we came.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">James Neville, section foreman, had a residence, his wife - Sarah, and five children—William, George, Mary Ann, Jo Ann, and - Mahlen. Dominic Norton, section hand, had six motherless children</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Anna, Kate, Bridget, Ellen, - Mollie, and Michael. Mike Smith, a plasterer, lived with the Nortons in - the section house. Ursula Maxwell, a widow, with her son Granville and - daughter Lizzie, lived in her own home. Ursula’s daughter Maggie, - married to Jim Cardwell, was also temporarily in her home at this time. - Samuel Slossen was building a hotel. He had a wife and a son, George. And - there was a railroad station, and an agent named Catlin. Also a school - house, and a teacher—John Burr.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The family of Peter Isaacson, deceased, in a farm home - separated from the town by a street, were considered as town folk. Here - lived the mother (married to A. Anderson) and four of her children—Andy, - Edward, Irving, and Matilda. Anderson had two children, Oscar and Emily, - living in the home. William and Alma were born later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Matilda Isaacson, a very pretty girl, later, married - Alfred Hazeltine. By reason of his living in a farm home on the opposite - side of town, Alfred was also considered as belonging. Well, in fact, - Alfred did live in town several years prior to his marriage. We roomed - together at the Overland Hotel when he was engaged in business, partner in - the Buzan, Hazeltine & Hough Lumber Company, and I was clerking in - Than Morris’ store. Our family was then</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">ten years after first coming to Wetmore—doing a - three-year stretch on a portion of the Charley Hazeltine farm west of - Alfred’s place, beyond the timber on the south side of the creek. - And I was working out a store bill. Father still worked at his trade in - town, but he could go home before dark; and, anyway, he wasn’t - afraid of Erickson’s ghost—nor panthers. More about Erickson’s - ghost and the panthers, later. My work kept me in the store until 10 o’clock, - at night. After marrying, Alfred Hazeltine built a home in town, the house - now owned by Adam Ingalls. And later he bought the Charley Hazeltine - 120-acres adjoining his farm, and moved back to the country. His brother - Charley and family went to Payette, Idaho. Alfred Hazeltine was a fine - man. He was deacon in the Baptist Church. One time when a protracted - meeting was in progress, he said to me, “By-damn, You, you ought to - join the Church.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Andrew J. Maxwell, with his wife Lizzie and two - children, Demmy and May, and, at this time, the estranged wife of Elisha - Maxwell, lived on a homestead adjoining town-and, like the Isaacsons and - Andersons and Alfred Hazeltine, were regarded as town folk. Elisha - Maxwell, brother of Andy, lived part time with his mother in town, as did - also his wife. Elisha’s wife was the daughter of Matt Randall, then - living near Ontario, seven miles south-west of Wetmore. There was much in - common between the town folk and those borderites. Let it be a picnic or a - dog-fight they were all on hand. Altogether they made one big-shall I say—happy - family. This, however, strictly speaking, would not be quite right. Gus - Mayer built the first residence in Wetmore—the Neville dwelling on - the corner where the First National Bank now stands. His daughter Lillie - (Mrs. Peter Cassity) was the first child born in the town—though - Irving Isaacson was born earlier in a temporary shack near the present - depot before the town was established.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There was a one-room school house on the site of the - present City hall, with one teacher, John Burr—in 1869. I was nearly - eight years old then, and my brother Charley was a little over nine. This - was to be our first—and last</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">school. Charley died at the age of eighteen; and I was out - of school—not graduated, not expelled, but out—before the - shift to the present location on the hilltop.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">While our home was being built in Wetmore on the lot - where Hart’s locker is now, the family found shelter in a one-room, - up-and-down rough pine board shanty in hollow west of the graveyard, on - the Andy Maxwell homestead—the farm now owned and occupied by - Orville Bryant. This little “cubbyhole” was originally built - to house Andy</span> <span>’</span> <span class="c0">s brother - Elisha—known here as “The Little Man”</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and his bride.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Charley and I followed a cow-path through all prairie - grass all the way from the shack</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">about a half mile</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">to - the school house. And during that first winter, after the path had been - obliterated by a big snow which drifted and packed solidly over the board - fence enclosing the school grounds, bearing up pupils</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">even horses and sleighs zoomed over the drifted in - fence—we skimmed over the white in a direct air line to the school, - with not a thing in the way.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Our parents were from the deep South, and on the farm - Charley and I had no playmates other than our younger brothers, Sam, Dave, - and Nick—even the hired hand on the Wolfley Creek farm, Ben Summers, - was a Tennessean</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">hence we - brought into a school already seven-ways-to-the-bad, in language, just one - more type of bad English.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Many of the other pupils were children of immigrants</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">from Germany, England, Ireland, - Wales, and the three Scandinavian countries</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">whose picked-up English was maybe not so good as our - own. In those days we learned from our associates rather than from books—that - is, unconsciously became imitators—and the result, in most cases, - was not promising. My mentor was a Swede girl several years my senior. - “Tilda” Isaacson was neat, sweet, and sincerity compounded. - She would tell me, “You youst don’t say it that way here, my - leetle Yonnie.” This, of course, was the first runoff. In time, our - Wetmore school was to rank with the best. And for all I know maybe it did - then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The old Wetmore school made history</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">history of a kind. An incident of those eventful years - having decidedly bad-English flavor occurred after John Burr had been - succeeded by D. B. Mercer, who came to us from a homestead up in the Abbey - neighborhood between here and Seneca. Mercer gave one of his pupils a - well-earned whipping one forenoon. At the noon hour, the boy’s older - brother danced up and down the aisle in the school-room, singing, “Goodie, - goodie, popper’s goin’ to lick the teacher.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That dancing boy was Clifford Ashton.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Soon after school had taken up in the afternoon, Mr. - Ashton, late of London, walked in unannounced. He was moderately docile in - presenting his grievance and the teacher, not to be outdone by this green - Englishman, treated his caller civilly. The trouble seemed to be amicably - settled. But the teacher’s mild manner had emboldened the - Englishman. As a parting stab, in an acrimonious monotone without stopping - for breath or punctuation, Ashton delivered the ultimatum: “But if - you ever w’ip one of my children again sir I shall surely</span> - <span>’</span> <span class="c2 c0">ave to w’ip you.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">This was a mistake</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">a real “John Bull” blunder, Mercer was a large, - muscular man. With a single pass he knocked the Englishman cold right - there in the school room. Ashton fell almost at my feet. When he had come - up out</span> <span>o</span> <span class="c2 c0">f his stupor, still - blinking and grimacing, Ashton bellowed, “I shall see a solicitor - about this!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“See him and bedamned,” bawled Mercer. - “Now get out!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After he had become seasoned, Ashton was really a fine - fellow, rather above the average of his countrymen in intelligence. And he - reared a fine family of boys and girls</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">Clifford, Anna, Eva, Stanley, Horace, and Vincent. Ashton - was a carpenter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At another time, James Neville rushed unceremoniously</span> - <span>i</span><span class="c2 c0">nto the schoolroom and hurled a big rock - at Mercer’s head, barely missing. The rock tore a big hole in the - blackboard back of the teacher. Neville was a powerful man. Just what the - grievance was, and how a lively fight was averted, has slipped my memory—though - I rather suspect Neville did not tarry long after he had failed to make a - hit with the rock.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">These two infractions, and many more, passed as being - only by-plays incidental to a good school, as interpreted by those - pristine patrons.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Andy Maxwell’s home was on the hill west of the - shack. But Andy did not live there long after we came—in fact, he - was off the place for keeps even before our house in town was ready for - occupancy. Mary Massey, unmarried sister of Mrs. Maxwell, as well as the - estranged wife of Elisha Maxwell, was at this time in the home—altogether - too many Women to be in one man’s home. Mary, a close observer, had - said she’d see a man of her’s and that other woman both in h</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">l before she’d play second - fiddle in her own home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Second fiddle” in this sense was of - course a figurative term having dire implications. Then, too, Lou - Hazeltine, a sister-in-law by reason of a first marriage with a brother of - the Massey sisters, had her say. It was critical.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It occurs to me that I have seen in print a recent - version of an old quotation or saying, often expressed then, which, in - line with Mary’s blow-off, defined the situation admirably. It read: - “Hell hath no music like a woman playing second fiddle.” For - the text of the original quotation, ask any oldtimer—or you may - substitute “fury” for music, and “scorned” for - playing second fiddle, and you will have it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">These facts were gleaned while spending the day with - my mother in Lou Hazeltine’s home. Lou had said to my mother, as was - customary at the time, “Bring the children and stay all day.” - So we were duly scrubbed and dressed up for the occasion. I think Lou - wanted to unburden herself. But how she could have thought the children - would be interested in such topic of conversation is beyond me. True, - there was her daughter Lizzie Massey, about my age, for company—but - Lizzie behaved as though she thought she might miss something, and paid no - attention to her mother’s frequent admonitions, “You children - run along outside and play.” I think Lou was unduly worked-up over - the matter. She would look at us children, and then put her hand up to the - side of her mouth, come down momentarily off her “high-horse” - almost to a whisper, and channel the choice bits to mother. I think my - mother would have been satisfied with less than was said—and - certainly, as a newcomer in town, she did not want to be the one to spread - gossip. However, she repeated it all, with apparent relish, to my father, - adopting Lou’s adept manner of, shielding it from the children with - her hand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Massey women decided that Andy’s sympathies - for his estranged sister-in-law were simply “outlandish”—and - Mrs. Andy invoked the law on him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Constable Lon Huff started to take him to Seneca, but - when they came to the creek crossing, a ford, in my Uncle Nick Bristow’s - timber, Andy slipped off his shackled boots, jumped out of the buggy and - made his getaway, barefooted, over the snow-covered ground. My cousin, - Burrel Bristow, followed Andy’s barefoot tracks through the woods - and counted the trees barked by the constable’s gun.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That Alonzo—he was the shrewd one. Shot up the - trees, he did—and brought home Andy’s shackled boots.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I liked Andy—and, though I was never to see him - again,</span> <span>as</span> <span class="c2 c0">glad that he had gotten - away from the constable. I think that nearly all the other people here - were glad it, too. And, moreover, I’ll bet Andy did not travel far - without foot-protection.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You may be sure Andy did not come home to his wife. - Lou Hazeltine told my mother that the arrest was big mistake. Charley - Hazeltine, Lou’s Swede husband, said “The vimens was yust - yumpin at collusions.” Elisha’s wife and Andy’s daughter - May left Wetmore soon thereafter. Demmy remained here with his grandmother - for several years—then went to his father at Spearfish, South - Dakota, from which place Andy was then operating a stage line to Deadwood.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With Ursula Maxwell and Charley Hazeltine as - long-range intermediaries, Andy Maxwell waived claim to farm equipment, - livestock, and all other belongings, in favor of Lizzie Maxwell. All Andy - asked—and received—were his children, and the promise of no - contest in two divorces, Lizzie Massey Maxwell remained here. She sold the - farm improvements to Dr. W. F. Troughton for $50. Troughton filed on the - homestead in 1872.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the meantime Andy, with his daughter May and Mrs. - Elisha, traveling out of Miles City, Montana, in covered wagons, with four - other men, were attacked by Sioux and Nez Perce Indians—the siege - lasting for three days. The newspapers said at the time, it was the - hardest-fought Indian battle of all times.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">A three-column account of that Indian attack, written - reminiscently by a correspondent of the Chicago Times seventeen years - after it had taken place, found its way by mere chance into the Wetmore - Spectator—right back to the old home of the defenders</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">through the medium of the Western Newspaper Union, - Kansas City, Mo., from which auxiliary the Spectator then got its inside - pages ready-printed. It was a hair-raising story—one that could be - read with interest again and again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Incidentally, Andy Maxwell had Indian blood in his own - veins. His mother told me she was a quarter-breed. She had Indian - features.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then there was another Indian story having Wetmore - connections. I have in my newspaper files Catherine German-Swerdfeger’s - own story</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">nearly a full page - written for the Spectator</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">of - the slaying by the Indians of her father and mother, a brother and two - sisters; and the capture of herself and three sisters—Sophie, Julia, - and Addie. John German, from Blue Ridge, Georgia, with his family, was - traveling by ox-team and covered wagon, through Kansas on the way to - Colorado at the time of the attack.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Catherine’s description of the abandonment of - her two little sisters, aged five and six, after two weeks on the move by - the roving band of Indians, on the then uninhabited plains somewhere - between southwestern Kansas and the main Cheyenne camp in Texas, in the - midst of a big herd of buffalo, where, after following on foot until well - nigh exhausted, as mounted Indians forced the two older girls on ponies - away from the scene, the little girls lived—no, existed—for - six weeks, in October and November weather, with no shelter other than a - clay bank, on the leavings of soldiers, (cracker crumbs, scattered grains - of corn, and hackberries), in a deserted camp, by a creek, would wring - your heart.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Catherine’s personal explanation to me was that - the little girls, when down to the last morsel of edible scrapings, had - difficulty in deciding which one should eat it. The little one thought the - older one should have it—that it might enable her to live to get - away. It would appear that the little one had already resigned herself to - her fate. The older one decided it rightly belonged to the baby. And - neither of them ate it. It was only a dirty kernel of corn, Catherine said - in her article: “God had a hand in that work, and I believe you will - agree with me when I say He wrought a miracle.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And I, for one, certainly do agree.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Several inaccurate accounts of the fate of this - unfortunate family have been written—one by a professor, who - evidently did not have the full facts, as text for the Wichita schools. - And another one, as told to a reporter for the Kansas City Journal by - “Uncle” Jimmy Cannon, an interpreter on Government pay-rolls, - stationed in Kansas (the rider of “Little Gray Johnny”) in - which he himself, in a daring dash on a band of Indians, rescued one of - the little girls</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">which, in - fact, he didn’t do at all, according to Catherine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Actually, it was this story of “Uncle” Jimmy’s - that caused Catherine to write the true story of the massacre and of their - captivity, for my paper. Catherine said it was soldiers under Lieutenant - Baldwin of the Fifth Infantry who found her little sisters, sick, - emaciated, on the</span> <span>verge of starvation</span><span class="c0">, - in that same deserted camp, which was really no camp at all—only an - overnight camp site. And though soldiers were constantly on the trail of - the Indians, there was no spectacular dash by the military in the rescue - the two older girls. When first taken into the main Cheyenne camp, in - Texas, Chief Stonecalf told Catherine, who was then nearly eighteen years - old, that he was grieved know that his people would do such a deed; that - he would, Soon as possible, deliver them to the Cheyenne and Arapahoe - Agency—and that he did. Catherine had much</span> <span>praise</span> - <span class="c2 c0">for Chief Stonecalf, and General Nelson A. Miles, - their efforts in liberating them. Under Indian custom, girls were regarded - as loot, and had to be bought from their captors.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jim Smith, now living in the west part of Wetmore, went - to school</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">at the Porter - school house on Wolfley-creek—with the two younger German girls. Pat - Corney, living on a farm adjacent to the J. P. Smith farm, was guardian of - the girls.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Addie—Mrs. Frank Andrews—is still living, - or was a few years ago, at Berwick in Nemaha county. A few years back, - Mrs. Andrews was invited to appear on a radio program in New York, with - all expenses paid—but she did not go. Amos Swerdfeger, husband of - Catherine—and son of Adam Swerdfeger, who was among the first - settlers here—died at Atascadero, California, Nov. 12, 1921, age 73. - Catherine died in 1932, age 75.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">These two Indian stories would make good reading now—and - while they are in line with my endeavor to give a true picture of the old - days, they are not included in this volume. Nothing but my own writings, - since my retirement from the newspaper field appears in this book. - However, slight reference to those two Indian attacks were made in my more - recently published stories, which are reproduced in this book—just - as they were written at the time. Many changes have taken place in the - meantime.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After it became generally known here that the - defenders of that fiercely fought Indian battle in Montana were former - Wetmore citizens, many of our people came in from time to time to read the - story. That page of the old files is pretty well thumbed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">About fifty years ago, a family by the name of - Cummings came here and lived for a short while in the northwest part of - town. Mrs. Cummings said she was the daughter of Andy Maxwell. I did not - learn her given name, but supposed she was May. She called at the - Spectator office, and read the story.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, in February, 1939, Mrs. Nettie E. Rachford, - Westwood, California, wrote the Spectator asking for a copy of the story, - saying she was the daughter of Andy Maxwell. I then copied the story from - my files, and W. F. Turrentine printed it again in the Spectator, February - 1939.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This reprint of the Maxwell story caused Dr. LeVere - Anderson, born and reared on a farm five miles southwest of Wetmore—now - established in Miles City, Montana—to bring the matter of that - Indian fight to the attention of the Miles City Chamber of Commerce. The - Chamber was at that very time sponsoring a homecoming jubilee—and - after an exchange of letters between Miles City and Wetmore, Andy Maxwell, - then living in Santa Ana, California, was invited to be the Chamber’s - honored guest—but he was unable to make the trip. Andy Maxwell died - at Santa Ana in 1941, at the age of ninety-nine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.ks86gddgsbg6"> - <span class="c9 c0">Our New Temporary Home</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Earlier in this writing I mentioned the fact that our - family had three years on the Hazeltine farm. My older brother, Charley, - contracted “quick consumption.” There was a prevailing notion - that the scent of new pine lumber and fresh country air would be helpful - in effecting a cure. So my father made a contract with Charley Hazeltine - for the erection of a new house under the cottonwoods on the hill near the - old log-house which had been the home of father of the Hazeltine brothers—with - a three-year lease on 40 acres of farm land.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The new house had plenty of exposed pine lumber and - fresh air all right. It was a box-house made of barn-boards, unplastered, - with sleeping quarters in the loft, comparable to the hay-mow in a barn, - reached by a ladder from one corner of the ground-floor room. On - occasions, snow sifted through the cracks in the loft, covering my bed - completely. The lower room was more closely built, which was living room, - kitchen, and sleeping quarters for my parents—and the babies. There - was a standard sized bed, and a trundle bed—the latter shoved under - the regular bed in the daytime, and pulled out to the middle of the room - at night. It was a replica of many another home of that day, only the - others could have added protection of plastered walls. Then too, it was - Dr. Thomas Milam’s belief that Charley would show improvement in the - new home with the coming of spring. But, come time for the swelling of the - buds of those old cottonwoods in the spring of 1879, the “Grim - Reaper” beat the carpenters to the finish. Charley had died before - the new house was ready for occupancy. And that made long lonesome hours - for me on the farm. Charley had an enviable record as an exemplary boy—and, - try as I might, I have not been able to follow wholly in his foot-steps. - But I am sure that my memory of him has helped to make me what I am.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.b92q7jgbtiag"> - <span class="c9 c0">Roses The Girls Didn’t Get</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Reference has been made to my Rose Garden. I have - grown them, you might say, as a hobby—and for the pleasure of giving - the flowers to my friends. Bushels of them have gone in the past to the - Cemetery on Memorial Day, and not a few to sick rooms, to churches, and to - local society functions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The fame of my Rose Garden has traveled far—to - California and to Florida. Proof: The two little girls of Shady Mitchell, - a Tennessean, who conducted a general store in Wetmore some years back and - lived across the street west from the school grounds in the house now - owned and occupied by Prof. Howard V. Bixby—in their school work at - their new home in Orlando, Florida, wrote in collaboration a theme, - beginning: “There was a man living in our town in Kansas who grew - roses just to give them away to his friends—” This is the - extent of the essay which has been relayed to me—but I’ve no - doubt that Verda Bess and Marjorie Lou acknowledged having been the - recipient of roses from my garden. I don’t think I ever permitted a - little girl—nor a big one either, for that matter—who stopped - by to admire my roses, to go away without a bouquet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And particularly have I been pleased to supply the - girl graduates of our splendid Wetmore High School at Commencement time. - Last year—spring of 1947—the garden did not show promise of - early bloom of quality flowers, and I got the girl graduates some - beautiful long-stemmed “Better Times” red roses, ($7.85 per - doz.), from Rock’s in Kansas City. I planned to make this an annual - contribution, whether at home or away, as a sort of commemoration of the - fine Rose Garden I once owned. The garden is now owned by Raymond and - Marjorie McDaniel.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Before leaving in the fall for California, I told the - girls I would send them roses by air mail—but, through an oversight - of someone, I was not apprised of the date of the 1948 Commencement. And - this was one time when the girls, through no fault of their own, (except - possibly trusting another than a member of the class to do the notifying), - missed getting some really high-class graduation roses—roses grow to - perfection in California—which I think was more of a disappointment - to me than perhaps to anyone else, unless it should have been my niece, - Alice Bristow-Tavares, who was to have supplied two dozen extremely - beautiful long-stemmed Etoile de Hollande red roses from her climbers. A - Fresno florist had been engaged to pack them for mailing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.58pfj3fxn2hu"> - <span class="c8 c0">LITTLE FILLERS</span> - </h1> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In this volume will be found several “Little - Fillers”—sayings of children, which have no connection with - the various articles. They have been prepared to fill out the pages where - the ending of a story leaves unused space—so that all articles may - have a top-page heading.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.r5phwbef9bvm"> - <span class="c9 c0">CONSIDERATE KID</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having bought little three-year-old Karen McDaniel a - 5-cent cone, and also one for her to take home to her little brother - Harry, I laid a couple of nickels on the counter at the restaurant; and - then put down a dime, and picked up the two nickels—this - twenty-cents representing the sum total of my cash as of the moment. Karen - said, “What you do that for?” I told her that I was going to - purchase a 5-cent lead-pencil from Charley Shaffer at the drug store, and - that I wanted to keep the nickels, as it would save time of waiting to get - back the nickel in change, were I to keep the dime. She said, brightly, - “He might not have a nickel.” I said, “That’s just - it.” Not realizing the risk which I myself was cooking up at the - moment, I said, “It’s never wise to take a risk when it can - just as easily be avoided.” Placing the two nickels beside the - little dime, I told her the dime was worth as much as the two bigger - nickels. Thinking to see if she had caught on, I said, (rather badly - stated), “Now, what you think—which would you rather have?” - She smiled, almost saucily grinned, and reaching for the dime, said, - “I’ll take the little one—you want to keep the big ones.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.71y78zvtr2g3"> - <span class="c8 c0">THE BOY OF YESTERYEAR</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">May 29, 1931</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was a lazy October afternoon. The woods were still - in full leaf and the tops of the trees, touched by early frost, had turned - to reddish brown and golden yellow. It was a fine day for squirrel - hunting. But this is not strictly a hunting story.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There were six in the party—three men of widely - varying ages and, as the college youth would say, three skirts</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but, for convenience, all wore - trousers that afternoon. It was a sort of boarding-house party out for - recreation and game. They were: Mrs. Edna Weaver, Miss Genevieve Weaver, - Miss Thelma Sullivan, Milton Mayer, Raymond Weaver and the writer.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our wanderings carried us into the heavily wooded - section near the head of Wolfley creek. I had no hunter’s license - and, being a law-loving citizen, carried no gun. The hunters, alert for - game, went deep into the woods. And I trailed along, not noticing, not - caring, where we were going. Having passed the stage of life when one - normally gives a whoop where he is or what he does, to me, one place was - as good as another.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And then, of a sudden, I became tremendously alert. We - were now coming near to my father’s old farm—the home he had - blazed out of the wilderness, so to speak, on first coming to Kansas—oh, - so many years ago. That farm is now owned by Mrs. Worley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A few of the many letters commenting on my published - stories are printed in this volume—in all cases, blocked in the - story to which the letter refers. They help to attest the authenticity and - worthiness of the article. It’s most stimulating to have one’s - friends write in and say, “I know that to be true.” It’s - like the “Amen” to a fervent prayer.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The regret is that so few of the old ones are left.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">For sentimental reasons I wanted to hunt that old place</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">to live, briefly, again the days - of my youth. As we came to the line fence between the Worley farm and the - Brock pasture lands on the east, my companions balked at wire—wanted - to turn back. My suggestion that we go on was regarded as “idiotic.” - The Worley timber was un-inviting. There were lots of weeds over on that - side, and probably snakes, too. I know rattlesnakes infested that place - when I lived there as a boy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I climbed over the fence, anyway, and was soon racing - toward a mammoth elm tree—a tree that had budded and leaves more - than sixty times since the day I last saw that place. The hunters came - over on the bound. “It went up this tree,” I lied. There was - no squirrel. I was in truth a boy again—a very small boy—resorting - to childish subterfuges.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">E D WOODBURN</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Lawyer</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">HOLTON, KANSAS</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">October 19, 1931</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Mr. John Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Dear John:--</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I want to express to you my appreciation for the - opportunity of reading your article, “The Boy of Yesteryear” - published in the Wetmore Spectator May 29, 1931.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">I have never understood and have always regretted the - fact that you quit the</span> <span class="c6">n</span><span - class="c13 c6 c0">ewspaper field. It has always seemed to me that with - your ability to write, you could have been useful as a newspaper man. You - have the happy faculty of getting and holding one’s attention from - beginning to end.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Yours very truly,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">E D WOODBURN</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But my “idiotic” idea wasn’t so bad. - The hunters a got a nice bag of squirrels on that side of the fence and in - passing the spot again an hour later one of party thought she saw my - mythical squirrel go into a hole in one of the top-most branches of that - old monarch of the woods. So that was that. Kindly forget the ethics - involved. We hunted the timber the full length of that place Dad’s - old farm. Now there were big trees—and some tall trees. As I - remember, there were big tall trees on that place when we lived there more - than a half century ago. My father split rails from that timber to fence - the farm, And as ex-woodsman he was he was inordinately proud of that rail - fence, of his excellent craftsmanship. In his native state, with the - straight-splitting birch and poplars, it would have been a simple matter. - Here it was an accomplishment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In that day there were two kinds of rail fences in - general use. The “leaner” fence was constructed with posts set - on top the ground in a leaning position and supported by stakes on the - under side, with the rails nailed onto the posts. The “stake and - rider” fence, also sometimes called the “worm” fence, - was made by laying the end of one rail on top of another, in zigzag - fashion, at an angle of about twenty-five degrees, so that the ends would - lap, with a ground chunk under each section, and when built up to the - desired height</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">usually - seven rails—two cross-stakes were set in the ground at the junction - of the panels, with another rail on top the cross-stake. My father’s - fence was of the latter type. It took a lot of rails.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also I recall seeing my father shoot a squirrel out of - the top of a very tall tree with his Colt’s revolver. That - six-shooter was presented to him by Federal officers during the Civil War - for protecting himself against a band of guerrillas. More about the - guerrillas later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And on this October day I saw the spot where the old - house stood on the south flank of that woodland—the house around - which I played with my brothers as a care-free child, and where my mother - almost cried her heart out because of loneliness. Also, it was here where - my mother told me a story one day—a story of my father, of herself, - of why we had left our home in the Southland. Our tears mingled over the - telling of that story then. And there was sadness in my heart that October - afternoon as I paused, reverently, for a moment in passing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Although I was born in the sunny South where magnolias - bloom and mockingbirds sing all winter long, my first vivid recollection - of life was upon this bleak Kansas farm, hot and wind-swept in summer, - cold and desolate in winter. The rigid climate of this new plains country - home was in such marked contrast to the mild and even temperature of my - mother’s native heavily timbered state as to her long to go back to - her old home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was eight wilderness miles to Powhattan, the - post-office; five miles to Granada, the trading post; and one mile to the - nearest neighbors—Rube and Anne Wolfley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The mill that made our sorghum molasses—nearly - every farmer grew a patch of cane for making molasses to go with - corn-bread, the staple diet—one mile off from Powhattan, was owned - by Charley Smith, the same Charley Smith who had in earlier days, been - keeper of a station (his home ) on the old John Brown “underground - railroad,” where runaway Negro slaves, being transported to Canada, - were in hiding through the day. I know it was the Charley Smith place, for - Ben Summers, our hired man, said it still smelled of “niggers.” - But of course it didn’t. That was Ben</span> <span>’</span> - <span class="c2 c0">s way of opening a sizeable tale about Mr. Brown and - his underground railroad.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And I wouldn’t know how far it was to the mill that - ground our corn-meal, but I do know there was one—for we had no - bread other than cornbread for months on end. Only on rare occasions would - we have “lightbread”—made of wheat flower, of course. - The cornbread my mother usually made was not the cornpone customary in the - South. Cracklin</span> <span>’</span> <span class="c2 c0">bread and - seasoned cornbread was much better—that is, for most palates. I wish - I could have some of it now. But there was one traveling salesman, Hugh - Graham, who preferred the cornpone. He would wire the hotel here of his - expected arrival, which meant that for breakfast, dinner, or supper, he - wanted cornpone. I think the cornpone was made of cornmeal, salt, and - water.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I recall that Ben Summers had gone “acourtin” - Betsy Porter that evening, when my parents were shelling corn, by - candle-light, on a sheet spread upon the kitchen floor, to take to the - mill—probably the Reiderer mill east of Holton</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">when a big bullsnake which had crept in through a - displaced chink in the log house, slithered across the sheet, gliding over - the corn, and out an open door. The matter was debated, seriously—then - it was decided the hogs should have that corn.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father and mother, with their three small children, - came to Kansas from Nashville, Tennessee, in 1865. They came by steamboat - on the Cumberland, the Mississippi and Missouri rivers to Atchison. The - family was met there by my uncle Nick, father’s only brother, with - an ox-team, taking most of two days to drive us to his home on Wolfley - creek. That farm is now owned by William Mast.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the way out from Atchison, as we were nearing home, - we ran into one of those fierce prairie fires that so often menaced life - and property of the early settlers. I was very young then and cannot say - positively that what I am about to relate here is from actual memory, - although I have always believed that I retained a mental picture of that - prairie fire. Details are now a bit hazy—and, you know, with the - very young there is always a borderland not any too well defined between - what you may have actually seen and what you may have heard others - recount.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Anyway, there was a prairie fire. And its sinister red - flames—a long snake-like line of crackling, blazing hell</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">overhung with an ominous pall of - thick black smoke, sent a spasm of fear surging through my uncle and my - parents.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That prairie fire was on one of the big creek bottoms</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">probably on the old Overland Trail</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">somewhere between Granada and - Wetmore, only there was no Wetmore then. We had just forded a stream and - were well out in a big bottom where the slough grass was as tall as the - oxen, when the fire was sighted coming over the hills towards us, and - fanned by a brisk wind it was traveling at terrific speed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My uncle, who was driving, ran up along side his oxen - and yelled, “Whoa-haw-Buck! Jerry!” The oxen seemed to sense - danger and the wagon was turned around in no time. Just then a man on - horseback came running up. Without stopping to say a word the man jumped - off his horse and touched a lighted match to the tall dead grass in front - of the outfit. An effort was made by the man to beat out the fire on the - windward side. The man then excitedly commanded my uncle to drive across - the thin line of back-fire into the newly burned space. It looked like the - rider had come out of that blazing inferno especially to warn us. And as - the wagon moved away he yelled loudly so as to be heard above the roar of - the encroaching flames from behind, “For God’s sake, man, - follow it up as fast as you can.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That young man was Fred Liebig.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Boyhood impressions stick like the bark on a tree, - while later events are submerged in the whirlpool of life and are - forgotten. One of the outstanding incidents of my young life took place - upon this Wolfley creek farm. I remember it as distinctly as if it - occurred only yesterday. It was my first—and last—alcoholic - debauch.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I have already told you that rattlesnakes infested that - place way back in the distant past. One of them—a fat, seven-button - specimen—took a whack at me one summer day, its fangs loaded with - deadly green fluid sinking deep the top of my right foot. It was August</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">dogdays</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and of course I was barefoot. The children of pioneer - settlers didn</span> <span>’</span> <span class="c2 c0">t wear - shoes, except in cold weather, even when their fathers were excellent - shoemakers, a distinction my father enjoyed at that time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My father was over at Granada. A neighbor was sent after - him</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and for whiskey, the - then universal remedy for snakebite. Finding no whiskey at Granada, the - courier, on horseback, came on to Wetmore, which town was just starting - then, and failing again, pushed on the Seneca, stopping on the way long - enough to change horses. The round trip approximately sixty miles and - eight hours had elapsed when the rider returned with whiskey. He brought a - generous supply.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In the meantime my mother had dumped a package of baking - soda into a basin of warm water. She bade me put my foot in it</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and two little fountains of green - came oozing up through the soda-whitened water. And she gave me tea made - from yard plantain—why, I wouldn’t know.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also my Uncle Nick had arrived by the time the rider - returned with the whisky. I didn’t like the taste of the nasty stuff - and, boy-like, set up a howl about having to drink it. And my Uncle, - desirous of helping in every possible way, said, soothingly, “Johnny, - take a little, and Uncle take a little.” We both passed out about - the same time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I don’t mean to infer by this that my Uncle was - a drunkard. He was not. And, mind you, he grew up in a country at a time - when you could buy good old Bourbon at any crossroads grocery store as you - would buy a jug of vinegar—and almost as cheaply.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My Uncle Nick was a soldier in the Mexican war of - 1848. And he was a soldier in the Civil war—an adventurer, and in a - way a “soldier of fortune.” He prospected for gold, and hunted - mountain lions—with the long rifle—in the Rockies, just as he - and my father had hunted panthers in Tennessee.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This ferocious beast, if you don’t know, is the - big cat with four names. In the South and East—extinct in most - sections now—he is the dreaded panther. In the Rockies he is the - mountain lion. Farther west, in Arizona and the Sierras, he is the cougar. - Somewhere he is called the puma. And everywhere he is “the killer.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Two strangers stopped at our home just after I had - passed out—that is, after I had become limp, unable to stand, unable - to talk, from the effects of the whisky. But I could understand as well as - ever what was said. One of the men suggested that if they could find the - snake and cut it open and bind the parts to my foot that it would draw the - poison out. I knew that Jim Barnes had killed that snake, and the stranger’s - suggestion gave me a mental spasm. I could not speak out and tell’ - them that I had had about all of that snake that I could stand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The earthquake of 1868</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">or thereabout</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">greatly - frightened my mother. It was her first experience with quakes. And, - woman-like, with a perpetual grudge against the erratic Kansas weather - changes, she laid this shakeup in climate, which, it seemed, she never - could become accustomed to. And when the house trembled and the dishes - cupboard began to rattle, she rushed out into the yard, where my father - and the children were, and said, “If we must all go to the devil I - would just as soon walk as ride.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also Indians from the Kickapoo reservation, while - harmless enough at the time, had a habit of prowling about over the - country, and a band of them nearly scared the wits out of my mother one - hot summer day. She saw the blanketed red skins, on ponies, coming down - the road, single-file. Gathering her youngsters, much as a hen gathers her - brood the approach of danger—and much as my mother had once before - taken her children under her protecting arms and saved their lives, as you - shall see presently—she hid in the cornfield until the rovers had - left our farm.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now another prairie fire. If there could be any - question about the youngster having retained with photographic accuracy - the horrors of the one earlier mentioned, there can be no doubt about this - later one, which, whipped by the ever-present wind, stole in upon us in - the night, My father’s much prized rail fence was laid low, and only - by heroic efforts was the house saved. These dreaded prairie fires and - other subjected frights incident to the new country seemed to place a mark - upon my mother.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“William,” she said one day to my father, - “we might as well have remained in Tennessee and taken our chances - on being killed by guerillas as to come all the way out to this - God-for-saken country only to be burned to death by prairie fires, or - shaken to pieces by earthquakes, or frightened to death by Indians.” - And I am sure that if the Kansas cyclone had then enjoyed the widespread - reputation that it does in this year of grace, my mother would have - included that also.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In Tennessee, my father was a shoemaker and tanner by - trade. And, by the grace of a kind Providence—and some quick - shooting—he was a live Union “sympathizer” in a Rebel - stronghold. The great conflict—the Civil War—between the North - and the South was then on. My father had not, at this time, joined the - fighting forces on either side. He was content to ply his trade, make - leather and shoes, both of which were very much needed at the time. But my - father made the almost fatal mistake of “exercising his rights as a - free-born citizen,” in having his say.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The South was not quite solid for Confederacy. - Sometimes even families were divided. In my mother’s family two of - her brothers favored the North and two were for the South—”rank - rebels,” my mother said. None of them went to war. They worked in a - powder mill—more dangerous, by far. Twice the mill blew up, and each - time one of my Uncles was blown into fragments. Also one of my mother’s - acquired relatives hid in a cave for the duration of the war.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The guerilla element was composed of Southerners, not in - colors</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and they made life - miserable for any</span> <span>o</span> <span class="c2 c0">ne who dared - to express an opinion, on the aspects of the war, contrary to their views.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The hush of a November night lay upon the forest, in - the thick of which was located my father’s home, his tan-yard, his - shoeshop. The night’s stillness was broken by a volley of bullets - from the guerilla guns crashing through the windows and doors of the log - house.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother—herself only a girl in her teens—took - her two babies and crept under the bed, which, luckily, had been moved to - another part of the house that very day. And that shift of the bed saved - the family from the death-dealing bullets poured into the house with that - first onslaught.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My father had only a muzzle-loading, double-barrel - shotgun, with two charges in the gun—and no more ammunition</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with which to defend himself and - his little family against that mob of armed men. The main body of - guerillas, on horseback, were in the front yard. The house stood upon the - bank of a deep gully, with little or no backyard. A wide plank served as a - walk across the gully. Beyond that was heavy timber.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Believing that his family would be safer with him out - of the house, my father, only partly dressed, grabbed his shotgun and - flung open the back door. He quickly emptied both barrels of his gun into - the two men who were guarding the back door. The revolver in the hands of - the first man in line, standing on the plank, was being brought down on - him when the charge from father’s shotgun cut off the crook of the - man’s arm at the elbow and entered his body, killing him instantly. - The bullet from the guerilla’s revolver plowed through my father’s - hat. And that was the revolver my father shot squirrels with in Kansas. It - was retrieved by Federal soldiers and presented to him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The other man was mortally wounded and lay there in - yard, at the far end of the plank walk, until morning, Things had happened - so quickly, and so disastrously to their ranks, that the mob believed the - house was occupied by armed men. And, after firing another volley into the - home, many of the bullets this time penetrating the bed under which my - mother, with her babies, lay flat on the floor, the mob withdrew to a safe - distance—but sentinels were kept posted in the nearby woods until - morning. All told, more than one hundred shots were fired into the house.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now a man from the outside dashed in at the back - -the door by which father had made his exit. Hurriedly he bolted the door - from within.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother, peering out from her hiding place under - bed, exclaimed in surprise, “You here, Sandy! What does this mean?” - And before he could explain, she cried, “Oh, I smell smoke. Is the - house on fire, Sandy?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Yes,” he said—”it was. And - the tanyard buildings and shoeshop are now burning.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sandy Fouse, a Southern boy, had worked for my father - in his tobacco fields, and lived at our home. My father grew tobacco on - the side. I was told Sandy took a marked interest in me—a baby. God - only knows why it was so, but it seems I was destined to become the - favorite of the family. I had an older brother, too. But it seems I was - the favorite of my Aunt Harriet who helped my mother, and the pet of Sandy - who “wormed” the tobacco.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And as with the prairie fire—only with positive - conviction this time—I must again rely on what has been told me. - Reaching under the bed and hauling me out, Sandy said, “Why, I’d - risk my life any time for this here boy Johnny—or any of you-all.” - And that was just what he was doing that night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">When the mob had withdrawn after starting a fire against - the house, Sandy ran back and kicked the blazing sticks away from the - building—and then made a dash for the door. He was now afraid of the - mob and did not leave the house again that night. Good old boy</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Sandy, Pal, Protector. Just why - you were out with those guerillas that night has never been explained to - me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father did not come back into the house, and my - mother believed that he had been killed, or mortally wounded, as she could - plainly hear the groans of the dying man outside. And she was, of course, - frantic with grief. After hours of agony, when she could stand it no - longer, she took a lighted candle and went outside to investigate.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My mother’s name was Martha. The wounded man kept - groaning, “Oh, Lordy.” And my mother thought it was my father - calling her name. It took some tension off when she discovered the dying - man was not my father</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - she was horrified to find he was the son of a close neighbor. The young - man asked for a drink of water, and wanted someone to pray for his soul. - She gave him water. And she prayed for him. At daybreak the young man’s - companions took him to his father’s home where he died a few hours - later. He told his people that he got what he deserved, that he had no - business in permitting the mob to persuade him to go out with them that - night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Still my mother did not know the fate of my father</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and of course her mind and nerves - were harassed to the point of breaking all through the long hours of the - night. In this story I can only give the facts and trust that some power - of understanding in every human heart may lead the reader to some - appreciation of the tense situation—the web of destiny seemingly - inextricably entangled, in which my parents had been caught.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After shooting his way out, my father had kept on - going, and under protection of the night and the dense woods surrounding - the house, eluded the mob. And after fifteen miles of weary tramping over - the hills and through woods, after hours of worry for the safety of his - family, he reached the Union lines, at daybreak. In the afternoon of that - same day the family was moved to Clarksville, by solders sent out from the - army.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The guerillas had burned my father’s tanyard and - shoeshop, and his tobacco barn. They had stolen his horses</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">four fine grays which were kept on the plantation for - plowing the tobacco fields and for hauling tanbark. And in the end, - someone stole his farm. The trusted agent forgot to remit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father then went as a scout with detachments the - Union army. He served under Major E. N. Morrill, who was later Governor of - Kansas, and a resident of Hiawatha for a number of years. The guerilla - band was broken up. But hostilities did not stop altogether with the - surrender of Lee. And bushwhacking” became a pastime with the - embittered few.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My mother, with her sister, Nan Porter, went back to - Tennessee some years later for a visit. And about the first thing they did - was to attend church—a new church in the old neighborhood. My - resident aunt</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Aunt Harriet - Lovell—had said to her sisters, “You-all will meet lots of - friends after church.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The two Kansas women, with their handsome and deeply - religious young escort, marched into church a trifle late, and my mother - was smiling and nodding to close seated old acquaintances, and properly - attuned, all were living in the happy anticipation of a real love feast - when church would be out. Then suddenly, abruptly, as if she had received - some deadly stroke, the smile faded from her face. She looked at her - sister, in crestfallen dejection, and whispered, “Let’s get - out of here, Nan, just as soon as the services are over.” That - pained look did not belong on my my mother’s sweet face. Some highly - disturbing thing had happened.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Quickly, my mother revised her plans. She could - consistently have waited for the preacher to come down from the pulpit and - address her as “sister” with more significance than ordinarily - accrues to the church going woman. But no, thank you—not my mother. - Not in that spot. She had recognized in that coarse-voiced preacher the - leader of that guerilla mob. He was my non-consanguineous uncle</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">father’s own - brother-in-law. And the accommodating young man who had been so kind as to - “carry” them over in his shiny new buggy could not understand - what made them in such a hurry to get away.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That meeting house was set in a small clearing in the - dense woods on top of a high ridge. It was called “Sentinary.” - The worshippers came in from the lower settlements from every direction. - It was their custom to tarry after services for a visit</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and especially^ if there were strangers in the - congregation they must be wholeheartedly welcomed, Southern style, as I - was to learn.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Some years later it was my pleasure to attend that - same church. And Walter Cox “carried” me over in his buggy—the - same rig in which my mother and my aunt had ridden with him—though - the buggy was now, of course, somewhat the worse for wear, as the roads - down there are rocky. Fully half that four-mile trip was in the bed of a - creek which flowed, clear as crystal, over a rock bottom, between high - hills. And when not in the middle of the creek that road crossed and - recrossed the stream many times.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But the guerilla-preacher—he of the “foghorn” - voice</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">who had so disturbed - my mother’s tranquility, was not at the Church to greet me. It was - my uncle, one of my mother’s rank rebel” brothers, who stepped - down from the pulpit to meet the stranger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And when Walter Cox introduced us—after effusive - greetings and some emotional tears from the older man</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">uncle, with fine Southern accent, said, “I’m - powerful proud that Walter here didn’t introduce you before the - services. If I had known one of sister Martha’s boys was the - congregation I believe I would have forgotten my text.” He stroked - his whiskers. “Yes, suh, it would have frustrated me a heap.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Having registered at the Maxwell House—the one that - presumably made a certain brand of coffee famous—I attended the - Nashville Centennial for three days before looking up any of my relatives. - My Uncle Thomas Cullom lived Nashville</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but my Aunt Nancy Cullom-Porter had written from Wetmore to - my Aunt Harriet Cullom-Lovell at Newsome Station, twelve miles out, of my - expected visit—and I went there first, by train. I inquired at the - Newsome store for a way to get out to John Lovell’s, five miles up - Buffalo creek. Mr. Newsome said, “Just go right down to the mill, - the boy there will carry you over plum to his door—you a Cullom?” - The boy led out two horses, and I was “carried” over astride a - horse to my Aunt’s home, arriving at about four o’clock. And - here I met, for the first time, Uncle John Lovell, his two daughters, Emma - and Margaret; and of course my Aunt Harriet—not however, for the - first time. My mother had told me that we had been pretty good friends in - my baby days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, I met here the renowned spirit medium Jim Spain, - of whom I had heard my mother and my Aunt Nancy tell some tall stories—but - Jim got on a horse, rode away, and I did not see him again that day. Jim - Spain at this me was about thirty-five years old. He had come to the - Lovell home when a young man—and just stayed. I don’t know if - he had any relatives; though undoubtedly there was a time when he might - have been blessed—or plagued—with kin.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At eventide—maybe it would define the hour better - to say as dusk settled on the hills and hollows surrounding my Aunt’s - home, making the hollows thick with semi-darkness—girls, in twos and - threes, began coming in—in all about a baker’s dozen. That - spirit medium had made the rounds spreading the news of my arrival. The - girls were too nearly the same age—sweet sixteen—to be of one - family. They were my relatives</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">or maybe just relatives of my relatives. They were all - cousins. I asked one of the girls where had they all come from? She said, - “Just over the east hill—apiece.” It was a steep hill.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Lovell home, a double structure with the usual - open spacious gallery separating the apartments—a typical Southern - home—was near the junction of Buffalo creek on the north and a deep - gulch between high wooded hills, flowing in from the south. The building - spot, about the size of an ordinary town lot, had been leveled off some - fifteen feet above the wash, with the west end of the dwelling resting on - piles reaching down almost to the water level. To the east, the hill above - the flattened space, was so steep and high that the sun did not» - shine on the house until after ten o’clock. A cook-house stood in - the yard about thirty feet south of the dwelling where family meals were - prepared—presumedly by a colored cook.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here, I must explain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After I had returned home, I learned that my Aunt Nancy - had written my Aunt Harriet advising her to get rid of her Negro cook for - the duration of my visit. Whatever possessed her to do this, I wouldn’t - know—there was, in fact, no justification for it. I had no reason to - be prejudice of Negroes. On the contrary, I may say I “owe my life” - to a Negro</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">my mother said - he was the blackest Negro she had ever seen—for having rescued me - from the river after I had fallen off the deck of the boat, when coming to - Kansas from Tennessee. I was about four years old—and still wearing - dresses, in the fashion of the times. I was told that the Negro said he - had saved my mother’s little darling girl. I didn’t like to be - called a “little girl”—either with or without the - “darling”—but this was no cause for me to forever - dislike the colored folk.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Might say I was nearly six years old before I got my - first pants—and even then I didn’t wear them regularly. They - were knee pants—in style, which style endured for a long time. I - knew one young fellow in Wetmore who wore his knee-pants right up to his - wedding day. When I first began howling for pants, my mother said I was - lucky she hadn</span> <span>’</span> <span class="c0">t dressed me - in a flour sack, with holes cut out for head and arms, like Preacher - Wamyer’s kids had been clothed, in our neighborhood. But the joke - was, she did not happen to have a flour sack, and she said that in this - God-for-saken country she was not likely to have one for ages. My mother - made me shirts with long tails</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and when around home out there in the sticks, in hot - weather, I would not bother with the britches. I recall the time mother - took me with her to a quilting at the home of one of the Porter women—it - might have been at the home of Kate Evans, wife of Bill Evans, the famous - old stage-driver; but more likely it was the home of Amanda Ann Watson, - widow, who later married Brown Ellet. Johnny Bill Watson, a red headed, - freckled face boy about my age, played rough, making it plenty hot for me. - I pulled off my pants, went into the house, and threw my britches onto the - quilting frame—greatly humiliating my mother, and creating uproarous - laughter from the women.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, you know, I didn’t see a “Nigger” - or even hear one mentioned during my visit at my Aunt Harriet’s - home, That cook house was the one place not exploited. But somehow the - meals got cooked—tempting meals just like my mother used to cook—and - I suspect by Auntie Lovell’s regular colored woman, after the Cullom - technique.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The smoked ham, produced and cured on the place, was - the best I have ever eaten. Uncle and Auntie’s 200-acre farm lay in - irregular boundaries—likely described by chains and links - zig-zagging between blazed trees—for two miles up and down Buffalo - creek. Uncle John showed me the limestone ledge protruding over the north - bank of the creek, which sheltered his hogs at such times as they would - come home to spend the night—and feed on perhaps the first “bar’l” - of corn produced on a near-by clearing. The hogs came home only at such - times as the “mast” was insufficient. This combination made - for cheap pork—and delicious hams.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I had recently been in Texas—and because of that - trip to the Lone Star state, I had a message from a relative to a relative - to be delivered in Nashville. Here again I should explain. On learning - that I planned a trip to Galveston ten days hence, my Aunt Nancy Porter - asked me to stop off at Dallas and call on a relative—a Cullom of - the Tennessee tribe. I believe his name was Jerry. But if he were not - Jerry, he was a close relative. When I called at Mr. Cullom’s real - estate office in Dallas, I was told he had gone to Galveston. I went on to - Galveston, and dismissed all thought of seeing my relative. I went out to - the beach, and while strolling on the sands—on the gulf side of the - sea-wall</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">among hundreds, - perhaps thousands of other strollers, fell in with a friendly man. He told - me he was from Dallas, and I told him that I was from Wetmore,„Kansas. - He said, quickly, “Did you say Wetmore? Reckon you might know my - cousin Nan Porter, there.” And I said, “Then, I reckon you - know that my Aunt Nancy asked me to stop off at Dallas, and call on you.” - He grabbed my hand, saying with real Tennessee accent, “Mr. John - Bristow, I’m powerful proud to meet you.” Again, I may be - wrong. It could have been the Texas accent. In the course of our - conversation I told Cousin Cullom that I would be going to Nashville for - the Centennial, and he said likely he would go, too. The message from him - was for my Aunt Tennessee Cullom-Clark, mother’s sister, living in - North Nashville.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I may say I’m “powerful proud” that my - meddlesome letter-writing Aunt Nancy took it upon herself to notify our - Texas cousin of my intended visit. That rather unusual chance meeting is - paralleled by another chance meeting</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">which opens the way for bringing into this writing my - distinguished Kansas cousin. I had an engagement to meet J.L.Bristow at - the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence, when he was Fourth Assistant Postmaster - General</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">later, U. S. - senator from Kansas. He was of my father’s branch of the Virginia - and Tennessee Bristows, a third cousin to me, and up to this time we had - never met. He was billed as principal speaker at a Republican rally in the - Bowersock Opera House that night. Upon my arrival in Lawrence about noon, - I discovered he was registered at the Eldridge House—but I could not - locate him. I went out to the Kansas-Nebraska football game, and got a - seat by a man who seemed to be deeply interested in the game. We conversed - in an off-hand way when he was not up on his toes rooting for the Kansas - team. From the conversation I inferred that he was a newspaper man, like - myself. But, unlike myself, he was a college man. Not being a college man, - I could not get interested in the game. It was brutal. When we had fetched - up at the Eldridge House, this football enthusiast—now surrounded by - politicians—said to me. “I am told by the clerk here that you - were looking for me, and it seems you failed recognize a relative when you - had found him.” He was my man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Might say I first learned of my Kansas cousin when he was - owner and publisher of the Salina Daily Republican, and I was publishing - the Wetmore Spectator. A Kansas City printing firm addressed a letter to - J. L. Bristow, Wet-more, Kansas—one initial off from my own. It was - delivered to me. The contents of the letter showed that it should have - been sent to the other newspaper man in Salina. I mailed it to him. He - came back promptly wanting to know from whom did I get my name? One more - exchange letters told us both exactly who we were. We both claimed kin to - old Ben</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">of Virginia, - Kentucky, and New York fame—though I do not now recall his - specialty. But it’s a safe bet it had to do with politics. My father - was a first cousin of J. L.’s father, a Methodist minister, living - in Baldwin, Kansas. My illustrious cousin Joseph has climbed high up the - ladder of political fame</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - who knows his limit? I shall not lose track of him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After I would have returned from Pensacola, Florida, and - spent a day in Nashville with Uncle Tom and Aunt Irene Cullom, and their - three daughters, cousins Lora, Clevie, and Myrtle, it was planned to give - a party for me at Aunt Harriet’s country home, the day set for one - week hence</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">when they - “allowed” they really would show me some Tennessee girls. - Here, I think my Wetmore Auntie had been meddling in my behalf once again. - Well, no matter. If it was meant that the girls at the coming party would - grade upwards in looks from the first showing, it surely would be worth - coming back for. Cousin Maggie Lovell, a fifteen-year-old beauty, told me - the girls would turn themselves loose at the party—and, she said, - “The woods are full of ‘em.” The girls of the advance - showing had been rather on the reserved order—I might say very - lady-like. Still, I imagine there were missies in that group who would - have been pleased to start something. Also, I imagine they were the flower - of the flock.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">All Southern girls at that time were supposed to be - pretty. The climate, and the care in which the girls were taught to shield - their faces from the sun was believed to make for superior beauty. My - mother said that in her day no girl would ever think of going out without - her sun-bonnet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Admittedly, the South is blessed with some extremely - beautiful girls. But, after extensive searching, may I say that—exempting - cousins of course—I did not find it overwhelmingly so. I am - convinced that it takes something more than climate and ribbed sun-bonnets - to turn the trick; and that the South has no monopoly on this something. - Also, I further find that the strikingly beautiful girl is, like - -prospector’s gold, where you find her. And for my money give me the - sun-kissed girl from the wide-open Kansas range.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Unfortunately, I was called home, and did not have the - pleasure of attending the party—and was compelled to send regrets, - from Nashville, by mail. Also, I missed the chance to see Jim Spain call - up the spirits. But then it was only a half promise. When I asked Jim if - he would hold a seance for me, he said, “Reckon I might—but - generally I aim to do it only for the hill folks.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“But,” I said, “you fooled my mother - and my Aunt Nancy when they were down here not so long ago.” He said - “Yes—I did. But you know they grew up here in the South where - most everybody believes in ghosts.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“My mother used to tell us kids that there was - no such thing as a ghost—but she said it in such a dispirited way as - to cause me, as young as I was, to doubt if she fully believed her own - words.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I grew up in a generation which talked freely, pro and - con, about ghosts. And, believe it or not, I have actually seen Erickson’s - ghost—that is, until the apparition faded away into something - tangible, as “ghosts” always do if given time. There was a - time here when I</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and other - youngsters of like caliber—looked for Erickson’s ghost in - every dark corner. And I think that if I should even now go through the - woods on the old Hazeltine farm adjoining town, at night, as I often did - in the early days, I would involuntarily keep an eye peeled for the ghost - of Jim Erickson, a murderer and suicide, of May 10, 1873—buried, - without benefit of clergy, mourners, or even regulation coffin</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">on top a high hill just south of - town. To mention only one of the several proclaimed haunted houses—which - always go hand in hand with ghosts—Jim Erickson’s ghost cut up - a good many capers here in the early days, particularly where “it” - was often “seen” on the margin of the big swamp lying between - town and the high hill. Let there come a foggy night someone was sure to - say: “Erickson’s ghost will stalk tonight.” A party of - three young couples—boys and girls</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">set out one night to trap old Jim, or whatever it was that - haunted a vacant house of many rooms, which sat on a high hill near the - swamp—but, would you believe it, they were disturbed by another - couple who had preceded them—and all fled the scene in a rout. - Actually, some brave people</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">grown-up’s—positively - refused to venture south of the creek on foggy nights. It’s not a - promise—but I may, at some future date, write the Erickson story for - the Spectator readers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And I can well believe Jim Spain had the situation as - to ghosts stalking among the oldsters of his generation in the South sized - up correctly. However, the bright kids of today should never be troubled - with any such hallucinations.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">No, kids—truly, there is no such thing as a - ghost. My mother told me so.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">NOTE—Cousin Bill Porter recently visited - Nashville, and was told that Jim Spain (having died in cousin Margaret - Lovell-Ezell’s home in Nashville in 1948, aged 84) is only a memory - down there now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And what a memory!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.y5b9j27d4r5p"> - <span class="c9 c0">CAREFUL PLANNING</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When still very young, Donna Cole—in our home—had - eaten an apple and was nibbling the core. My wife said to her niece, - “Oh, oh—child, you must not eat that core.” Donna - smiled, and taking another bite, said, “Ain’t goin’ be - no core.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At another time, the wife and I were visiting in the - Locknane home in Topeka—and Myrtle had taken Donna along with us, at - the suggestion of Coral, who said they would try to get her pictured in - the Sunday Daily Capital. Well, they did that easily. Donna was deservedly - given a top position—a standout picture—among other - youngsters. Myrtle and Coral were very proud of this—and Donna - “rode high” during our stay.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Locknanes had a fine home, neatly, though not - lavishly furnished—and a “hired girl”; a Cadillac car, - and a colored chauffeur.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Along with all her gayety, Donna did a little sound - thinking. She whispered. “How can they beford all this, Aunt Myrtle?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.a2f2eou7mq0b"> - <span class="c8 c0">RED RIFLEMEN</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Feb. 7, 1936—and in</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Seneca Courier-Tribune’s Historical - Edition.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was early autumn far back in the pioneer days. The - wood which this story opens was one of the largest stands big trees in - Northeast Kansas. It was bordered on the high slopes with sumac, - hazelbrush, and tall grass. The trees had not yet fully shed their leaves.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">An Indian, blanketed, with a long rifle swung across - withers of his buckskin pony, detached himself from the band of rovers and - rode straight to the place where my father and I stood, under a great oak - tree, frozen to the spot. A foreboding stillness pervaded the oak grove. I - was terribly frightened. Somehow the idea had formed in my young head that - the Indians would not kill children; that they carried them off alive, - along with the scalps of adult whites.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">About that time frequent accounts of Indian depredations - had filtered in from the west</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">gruesome, hellish, blood-curdling stories they were.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A tribe of Indians lived then, as now, on a - reservation only eight miles away. The fact that those Kickapoos were - considered civilized and peaceable did not register in this all boy’s - mind—nor even in some adult minds.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father, William Bristow, was reared in the heavily - wooded sections of Kentucky and Tennessee, where, in his day, the gun and - the “hound-dog” were man’s dearest possessions. I knew - that he was a crack rifle-shot; that he could, without doubt, hold his own - with the advancing redman—but not against that band of savages - lurking in the background. Wrapped in flaming blood-red blankets, those - Indians, silent and sinister, with the long barrels of their rifles - sticking up like telegraph poles, looked as if they might be making ready - to go on the warpath.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Closer and closer came the Indian. And why the devil - didn’t my father shoot? Was he going to let that redskin take his - scalp? In a fit of panic I dodged behind the big oak tree; and then just - as suddenly I popped out again and backed up my father by clutching his - trousers legs from behind. It is surprising what amount of terror can flit - through a small boy’s mind in so short a time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In a flash I reviewed again the fate of the German - girls, orphaned and stolen by the Indians. All oldtimers here will recall - that the German girls—Kate, Sophia, Addie, and Julia—after - being rescued from the Indians, became wards of the Government and were - placed in the home of Pat Corney, who lived for many years on Wolfley - creek. Their ages ranged from six to seventeen years when rescued. They - were filthy dirty—grimy, without clothes. When the two younger girls - were brought to the Corney home—the other two were recovered later—the - old Irishman exclaimed: “For God’s sake, Louisa, get a tub of - water and a bar of soap!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Also, about this time—probably a few years earlier</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">our townsman, Andy Maxwell, after - leaving Wetmore to take up his home in the West, was besieged for three - days by Sioux and Nez Perce Indians. With Andy were Mrs. Maxwell</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">his sister-in-law</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">his daughter May, and four men. They were traveling - out of Miles City, Montana, in covered wagons. The story of this Indian - encounter had filtered back to Wetmore where Andy Maxwell’s mother, - a brother, and two sisters still lived. According to the report, Maxwell - and his men took their stand in a small timber tract, on three sides of - which were deep gullies. Owing to this advantageous position the Indians - could not follow their customary tactics of circling the whites. They - skulked. And whenever an Indian would get near enough, he would be picked - off by the white man’s bullet. Maxwell and his men killed eight - Indians. Two of the white men were severely wounded. May got an arrow - through her foot; Andy lost a lock of his hair and had his face grazed by - a bullet. Mrs. Maxwell was shot in the arm. The party lost twenty-six - oxen. Andy Maxwell now lives at Santa Ana, California.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I have mentioned these two Indian incidents briefly, - merely to give the reader some idea as to what was, and might have been, - flashing through my mind at that tense moment—and for their historic - value. Also other Indian pictures assailed me. That awful moment will - stand out in my memory while life lasts.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father said not a word, and to be sure I could not - read his reactions. I knew only that he had been harboring a fine mess of - mixed emotions at the moment when the Indians appeared.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mark this well.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“How!” greeted the Indian as he drew rein. - He slid off his pony and surveyed the surroundings quickly. At edge of the - clearing his redskin companions, departing from their single-file - formation, sitting on their ponies, went into a huddle not unlike modern - collegiate intelligentsia on a gridiron.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Though it may be said that the Indian’s mission - was of rather urgent nature, let us leave him standing here by the side of - his pony while I tell you how my father and I happened to be caught in - this embarrassing predicament.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">For some reason, undoubtedly well grounded, the owner - of that timber forbade hunting on his premises. Nevertheless, on one - occasion, that ban was lifted in promise, if not in reality—and - therein lies the nucleus of this tale.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">One day while on a friendly call at the shoeshop in - Wetmore, John Wolfley granted permission to my father to shoot squirrels - in his timber, though he made it plain that this was to be considered a - special favor, because of old friendship. My father and John Wolfley, the - senior John, were among the first settlers in this country. They came - before the railroads, before the towns in this section—in the log - cabin days. The towns then were strung along the old land or military road - passing five miles north of here. As compared with highways of the present - day, it was not a road. It was but a rut, a serpentine streak of dust - spanning the great plains, crossing the mountains—and on to - California. Yet, it carried immense traffic—stage, pony express, - commerce</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and was a - celebrated thoroughfare. Many notables passed this way. U. S. Grant, - Horace Greeley, Mark Twain. And although of no particular moment here, I - might add that I, myself, came into this country over the Old Trail at a - time when traffic was near its peak.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was, therefore, in considerable blitheness of - spirit that on one fine October day my father and I “hoofed it” - five miles up Spring creek to the Wolfley timber. We were going to a - choice and restricted hunting grounds, on invitation of the owner—a - favor granted no one else.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My father shot a squirrel. The report of his gun, heard - by the owner of the place who was in the timber gathering down-wood—sometimes - in the old days called squaw wood</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">brought a vigorous protest from a half-hidden spot across - the creek.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Get out!” the angry voice shouted.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father was not disturbed. Not then. He even laughed - a little. And I fear his voice was charged with rather too much mirth when - he called back across the stream, “Why, John, don’t you know - me?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Like a flash of lightning came back the ultimatum, - “I don’t care if you are General Grant, you can’t hunt - in my timber!” So that was that—a sorry situation for two old - friends to impose upon themselves.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father told me we would leave the Wolfley timber by - the shortest route. Leaving the dead squirrel on the ground where it had - fallen, he started off at once with the stride of one bent upon urgent - enterprise, muttering incoherent but indubitably uncomplimentary things - about his late friend. It is such breaches of friendship, as this seemed - to be, that cause men to talk to themselves.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sometimes, however, what we consider a calamity proves - to be a blessing in disguise. That was true in this case. And the breach, - which loomed so menacingly on the horizon at the moment, instead of - impairing a fine friendship was the indirect cause of making it - everlasting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Even as my father hastened away, the Invisible Hand was - working in his favor. Had there been no interruption, he would have - continued on his course as mapped out, up the creek, and the providential - thing which was very soon to take place would have miscarried. Here I want - to interpose a paragraph—maybe two, or more—to show how - welcome this providential thing that was now about to enter my father</span> - <span>’</span> <span class="c2 c0">s life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A shoemaker with a family rather too large to support - in comfort even in normal times, was my father—a slaving man who, - like so many others in those pioneer days, had nearly reached the limit of - his endurance. In this new country everyone was directly, or indirectly, - dependent upon the products of the soil. Those were the days of Texas - long-horn cattle and ten cent corn—when there was corn. Those were - the days when snows driven by winter’s howling blasts across the - open prairies piled high in the streets and country lanes and cut off all - communications with the outside world for weeks at a time. At such times - we would burn corn for fuel. Well do I remember the superior warmth of - those corn-fed fires. They were life-savers for those who were compelled - to live in the open, wind-blown homes of that day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was land to be had for the taking, but my father - thought he could not afford to take it. Without capital to stock the free - grass range, the pioneer farmer could not hope to make more than a bare - living. And when crops failed for lack of moisture, as they too often did - in the early days before the country became seasonable for the production - of grain, all suffered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That was pioneer Kansas! That was “Droughty Kansas!</span> - <span>”</span> <span class="c2 c0">That was “Bleeding Kansas!” - It was not the Kansas of today—barring, of course, the year 1934, - and maybe with apologies for 1935.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, before that providential find was to bear fruit, - two outstanding reverses visited appalling hardships upon an already - discouraged peoples. The lingering effects of the great money panic of - 1873 was the cause of much distress. There was no such thing as Federal - aid then, and everyone here was on his own. However, the East did - contribute some bacon and a quantity of cast-off clothing, including plug - hats and Prince Albert coats—useful in some cases, but generally - scorned by the needy people.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That money panic was brought on by the collapse of the - Jay Cooke brokerage houses in three eastern cities. Cooke, a nationally - known promoter, was financing the building of the Northern Pacific - railroad, and had made too many advances.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It may be of interest here, especially in Nemaha and - Jackson counties and possibly throughout all Northeast Kansas, to know - that, later, through an unprotected brokerage partnership in the National - Capitol with that wizard of finance, a former resident of Wetmore - township, Green Campbell, who had come into local and national prominence - by reason of his sensational rise to affluence as principal owner of the - famous Horn Silver mine at Frisco, Utah, dropped a cool million of his - mine-made dollars in the aftermath of that failure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After he had failed, Jay Cooke, still the promoter - par-excellence, secured a railroad for Green Campbell’s mine. Later, - after he had sold his mine, Campbell went to Washington as delegate to - Congress from Utah. Still later Campbell joined Cooke there in the - brokerage business. With new money in the firm, Cooke’s old - creditors swooped down upon Campbell like a swarm of bees. And they stung - him hard. His first check was drawn for nine hundred thousand dollars! - However, there was no time after selling the Horn Silver mine that Green - Campbell was not a rich man. Green Campbell endowed a college at Holton, - Kansas, bearing his name. His old homestead was in the southwest part of - Wetmore township. It is now owned and occupied by August Krotzinger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then there was the year 1874—a blank year with - its train of blighted hopes that socked the whole populace still deeper - down into the slough of despond. Following a season of scanty production, - the crops that year, in the spring and up to mid-summer, showed signs of - fulfillment. Then came the usual anxious period—dry, windy, - scorching days, And hope, that had sprung in the tired hearts of the - farmers commenced to die as they looked with anxiety on the drooping - crops. The people prayed for rain. They watched for clouds. Then, out of - the northwest there came a cloud—a black cloud, a menacing cloud, - that was to blot out all renaming hope.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was a rain of pests—a deluge of grasshoppers! - Like the plagues of old they descended upon us. And they greedily devoured - every growing thing—corn, grass, weeds, foliage of the trees—leaving - in their wake a barren waste and a woefully impoverished lot of people. - After devouring every edible thing, and gnawing on pitchfork handles and - axe handles</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">for salt - deposited by sweaty hands</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">the - hoppers deposited eggs in the ground, and then perished with the coming of - cold weather. The young hoppers in the spring of 1875 cleaned up the - farmer’s first plantings—but on a day, at noon, late in June - they rose up as a cloud blotting out the sun from the earth as they winged - their way to greener pastures—where, nobody here knew.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now we have left the Indian standing there by the side - of his pony for a long time. But the Indian doesn’t mind. Not our - Kickapoo, anyway. And, as a stickler for the truth, for accuracy of - detail, I will admit that my deductions, my fears, did not coincide with - the facts as later developed; that, in the language of the street and as - my father said of me at the time out there in the wood—literally, I - was “all wet.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That Indian was not an emissary of destruction, - rather, he was, after the manner of the wise one of his peoples, a maker - of good medicine. My father’s great haste to get away from the - Wolfley timber had been halted by a clump of black oak trees. There were - two holes in a large limb of the great oak under which the Indian found us - standing. The Indian looked up into the tree. “Long time go Indian’s - tomahawk make holes,” he said. “Maybe catchum coon,” He - shifted his beady black eyes to another part of the tree, and exclaimed, - “Seeum squirrel!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father had hot noticed the holes in the limb, nor - the squirrel which the Indian saw flattened out on a branch high up in the - tree. To my father, that tree presented far more interesting - possibilities. Before interrupted, his thoughts had, more or less, shifted - from the man who had treated him so shabbily and had carried him back to - the sunny Southland, to the evergreen hills of his boyhood home. There he - had successfully operated a tannery—successfully, until the Civil - War put him out of business.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The tree my father was now viewing was a huge black - oak. It was surrounded by more of its kind. At any time the sight of a - black oak attracted him. Black oak bark was the agency he employed in - making leather in his Tennessee tannery. He longed to get back into the - business. There were other black oaks in the country; yet he questioned if - there were enough to justify the establishment of a tannery here. He was - constantly on the lookout for a substitute for making leather.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Pointing to the boots he himself wore, my father told - the Indian that his interest in that tree was because the bark of the - black oak was used in making leather. Also, noticing that the Indian was - wearing moccasins and other deerskin raiment under his blanket, my father - asked him what the Indians used for tanning. The Indian became thoughtful - and finally said something that sounded like “Sequaw.” But - that was worse than Greek to my father.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is fitting that I pause here to pay tribute to one - of those little borderlets mentioned in the opening paragraph. Resplendent - in its lofty setting that little borderlet, and its kind, possessed - priceless properties. Henceforth it becomes golden thread in the woof and - warp of this tale. As with the lovely Claudette Colbert and her coca-cola - tidings, this is, in a manner, “the pause that refreshes.” And - so being, it is with memorable pleasure that I now salute the sumac! It - was my father’s salvation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back in the Wolfley timber, my father told the Indian - the owner did not permit hunting on his premises—that he, the - tanner, was not interested in the squirrel.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Me shoot ‘im,” said the Indian. The - long barrel of his rifle pointed upwards—a sharp crack, and the - squirrel fell the ground, shot through the head. The Indian picked up the - squirrel, and then holding it out to the frightened little boy, said, - “Take.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Without more ceremony the Indian rode away. He was - gone only a few minutes. When he returned he was holding in his hand a - branch of sumac. “Sequaw,” he said again. There were but a few - belated red leaves clinging to the stem. “Catchum ‘fore go - red,” he offered when he saw the leaves shattering in my father’s - hands.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Indian’s sharp eyes surveyed the black oak - again. He looked at the branch of sumac, saying “Makum buck-kin.” - He hesitated. Then said, “Maybe killum deer ‘fore Sun go way. - Maybe two suns. You seeum deer?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father told the Indian—whom he then and there - named Eagle Eye—that he had not seen the deer which those redmen - were trailing. Those Indians who had remained in the background were - trying to conceal a deer which one of them had swung across his pony as - they went into that huddle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The deer, more numerous in earlier days, had been - pretty well killed out by this time. Though, as late as 1880, I, myself, - shot a deer on that same run. Also I recall having seen one band of - antelope, that fleet-footed little animal of deer family which could - outrun the wind even in its then unhampered sweep across the prairies. I - was too young to identify the little ruminants, but my father said they - were antelope, and he was a hunter of the Daniel Boone type—in fact - had hunted in Dan’s old territory, and he knew his game.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here I will say the Indian, Na-che-seah, was the - leader of that hunting party. He was tall, lithe, and straight as an - arrow. In later years, with generous expansion of body, he was known as - Big Simon. He died May 27, 1934. As I looked upon the still form of this - good Indian, in his wigwam, on the day of the funeral, my mind drifted - back across the years to the time of our first meeting—but instead - of fear, it was now reverence that gripped me. Big Simon was a man of - authority among the Indians for a great many years—though, contrary - to newspaper reports, he was never chief. About his age, Big Simon would - say, “Hundred years, maybe. Don’t know.” With the - passing of Big Simon, Commodore Cat is the sole surviving member of the - old, old tribe. He too may have been one of those blanketed redmen back - there on that deer trail six decades ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The redman’s medicine was an invigorating tonic for - my father’s frayed spirits. It seemed like God had sent that Indian - just at the psychological moment</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">when my father’s depressed spirits needed bolstering - so very much, when an anodyne for his ills was to be had by the blending - of two agencies for making leather. Though he had never up to this time - regarded it as a commercial agency, my father knew of course that sumac - contained tannin. If the Indians could tan their deerskins with it, he - reasoned, why couldn’t he mix it with oak bark and tan his - calfskins? </span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall always believe that it was something more than - blind chance that brought the paths of white man and red man together at - that particular spot. Undoubtedly, the Great Spirit was in control. The - movements of the Indians up to that time were of course dark, but timed - just right. And praise be, there were Indians—amongst them an Indian - like Eagle Eye, who could make himself understood. The big break for my - father was in the sumac patch close at hand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After ten years absence from his old haunts and the - business he loved so well, the fire in my father’s blood had cooled. - Now he felt the old flame leap. The black oaks and the sumacs beckoned. - And to his eager nostrils rose the odor of a tanyard.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Almost at once after that meeting with the Indian, still - nosing a tannery, my father was hot on the trail. With the characteristics - of a thoroughbred, he doggedly followed his lead, picking up new hope as - he went at almost every jump, into the woods of three counties. In a - particularly fine stand of wood over in Jackson county, he “treed” - his quarry. Looking up into the trees, his senses all aflame with - eagerness, and I might say standing on his hind legs</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">upright anyhow</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">he barked, “Eureka!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then, having gone there on invitation of the owner to - view those fine black oaks, standing tall, with their big boles close - together, he said more rationally, but still with considerable enthusiasm, - “It</span> <span>’</span> <span class="c2 c0">s enough! By God - I’ll have that tannery now!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father had now declared quite emphatically, though - perhaps a bit inelegantly, that he would establish a tannery here in - Wetmore. It was not idle talk. He experimented, and in due time the - tannery was a going concern. Not immediately, however. Capital had to be - provided, and it took time to bring materials. The tannery was an “open” - yard in the bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now—a - sort of makeshift affair, operated only in the summer months. But in one - respect it was regular. It had the tanyard smell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The black oak-sumac mixture made a fine grade of - leather—much better than leather made with straight oak bark, and - superior to the present-day chemically tanned leather. My father tanned - only calfskins. His surplus stock was sold to L. Kipper & Sons, - wholesale dealers, Atchison, Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I want to say here that those inviting black oaks, - earlier mentioned, made it easy for my father to graciously accept his - friend’s apology, on the plea of forgetfulness—and when he - went to deal for the trees John Wolfley said, “Why, yes, of course - you may have them. You know, Bristow, much as I prize my trees, I couldn’t - refuse an old friend like you.” He glanced toward me, and now I’ll - swear there were mirthful crinkles playing about the man’s eyes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The black oaks were cut in the spring when the sap was - up, then the bark was spudded off the trunks of the trees. All available - black oaks within a radius of twenty-five miles of Wetmore were cleaned up - in three years. The last tan-bark came from the Wingo farm near Soldier, - twenty miles away—wagon haul. That was considered a long haul in - those days. The roads here then were no more than winding trails across - country, radiating in every direction from town, like the spokes in a - wagon-wheel. And there were almost no bridges. The creeks were forded.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The sumac</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">that - innocent little flaming bush, over which young and inexperienced writers - are wont to revel</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was cut - with corn-knives and left spread on the ground until dry. The leaves were - then stripped off the stems with a little corn-sheller, the kind that - fastened on the hand. The sumac stems were drawn through the closed - shelter and the leaves were caught upon a large canvas. Like harvesting - tanbark, that was work which had to be done in season—not too soon, - not too late.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The time to get busy was when the sumac began to show a - tinge of coloring late in the summer, after maturity. But, as the Indian - had said, when the big splash came</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">when the sumac thickets took on a blaze of coloring, that - dark crimson hue, as if Nature had spilled the life-blood of the waning - summer to glorify the last minute splendor of its passing—it was - then time to quit. The leaves would no longer remain on the stems to carry - through the drying process. Yes! That was it! “Catchum ‘fore - go red!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father made Eagle Eye a pair of boots with leather - tanned by the new process. He gave them to the Indian, Eagle Eye wanted to - pay for them. He had Government money and he had ponies. When money was - refused, he thought a pony would be about right. Maybe two, three or even - a herd of ponies would not be too much. But my father said, “No, - just bring me a deerskin sometime.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Indian brought him a green buffalo hide. At that time - all swell turnouts—horse and buggy conveyances</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">included a buffalo robe. When, in time, the hide had - been tanned and made up, my father found himself in the rather awkward - position of owning a buffalo robe without the turn-out. But even so it was - not a worthless treasure. On cold, stormy, winter nights—they were - bitter cold then—it served as an extra bed coverlet for a quarter of - a dozen of his boys, with, at times, an additional neighbor boy or two - thrown in for good measure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Buffalo were quite plentiful only a hundred miles or - so west of here then. But our Kickapoos did not often venture west of the - Blue River. Hostile Indians roamed that territory. The Pawnees were the - worst Indians the whites had to contend with on the old Overland Trail - between the Big Blue and Fort Kearney. Eagle Eye’s gift was all the - more appreciated because he had braved the hostile Pawnees to get a - suitable present for his “Paleface” friend.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The boots my father made for the Indian were of the - tongue pattern, with morocco tops and small high heels. The tops were - scalloped with half-moons over red sheepskin. A big red heart was - fashioned in the top front. Eagle Eye was very proud of his boots. They - were, I believe, the first boots to be worn on the reservation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But, in time, one of those boots ripped. The side seam - gaped near the ankle. The Indian had been walking through wet grass when - he came to the shop to get the rip sewed up. He tried to pull his boot - off. It stuck tight. My father did not have a bootjack. He always said he - did not like to have his perfectly fashioned boot-counters ruined by the - use of a boot-jack. He had a better way.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father turned his back to the Indian, and told - Eagle Eye to stick his boot between his—the shoemaker’s—legs - and push with the other foot. “Harder, push harder!” cried the - human boot-jack. When the boot finally came off, a first-class shoemaker - took a header into a pile of lasts and other rubbish in the corner of the - room. He came up with a skinned nose.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Indian—who had now come to call himself - Eagle Eye when in the presence of my father—did not, of course get - any kick out of hurting his “paleface” friend, but it was - plain to be seen that pleasant thoughts were engaging him. An Indian - laughs rarely, if ever—not the old Indians two generations back, - anyway. But he had his moments of extreme pleasure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the rip was repaired, the Indian had a hard time - getting his water-soaked boot back on. My older brother, Charley, said to - me, “Eagle Eye will have to sleep with his boots on tonight.” - The Indian heard. His copper-colored face again registered anticipated - pleasure. He actually smiled a bit as if he saw real humor in the thing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Huh!” he grunted, as he raised his foot - and thrust it to the fore with much vigor, “Pushum squaw maybe! Heap - fool squaw all time say Eagle Eye not smart!”</span> - </p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.ufc12tqc951h"> - <span class="c9 c0">A TWOTIMER</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We were having company for supper. Little Dorothy - Bristow. four year old daughter of my brother Frank and wife Cecile, told - August and Hulda Bleisener they need not be afraid of the silver, that she - and her aunt Myrtle had cleaned it that afternoon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But—hold your laugh.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My wife had put pickled cling peaches on the table. - Now, everyone knows how hard it is to get the meat off a pickled cling - peach. I shoved one into my mouth and was doing the best I could with it - when Myrtle, looking across the table, said with shocked overtone, “Did - you put that whole peach in your mouth?” She of course had not seen - August put one in his mouth—but, no matter, August shot his out onto - his plate right now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.vtl80d5o8xki"> - <span class="c8 c0">TEXAS CATTLE AND RATTLESNAKES</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When harvesting sumac, often barefooted and always - barehanded, we boys, sons of the tanner, had to keep a sharp lookout for - rattlesnakes—and Texas cattle. We were repeatedly so warned by our - parents. Also, it was generally understood that all children should - “watchout” for Indians. This, however, did not greatly disturb - us after we had made friends with Eagle Eye.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, one day, while cutting sumac for the tannery, - with my brother Charley, near a timbered ravine three miles out southeast, - close to the Oliver Logue farm, a long-horn steer, out of a large herd, - chased me up a tree early in the afternoon and held me prisoner in the - treetop until the riders, Abe Williams and John Taylor, came to round up - the herd for the night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I thought that steer would surely butt his horns off, - the way he rammed that six-inch tree. He would back off, paw the ground, - shake his slobbering head, and come snorting at the tree again and again. - After quieting down, he grazed fitfully and frightfully close to the tree—and - he came trotting in several times with something ugly on his bovine mind, - I’m sure. Even now I wonder is it possible for an enraged cowbrute - to have red eyes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The day herder, at ease, on a ridge a quarter mile to - the west—probably reading a Frank Merriwell baseball story—was - letting the herd feed north, and so long as the cattle did not attempt to - go over the rise to the east, out of sight, Wes Shuemaker would have no - occasion to ride down my way. And it would have been futile for me to have - tried to call him, with a south wind blowing forty-fifty mph.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My brother was safely on the other side of the ravine - close to trees, but he slipped out the back way and went home. I knew he - was doing the right thing. And I knew too that I would remain in the tree - until the arrival of the riders. Those Texas cattle behaved nicely for - mounted men, but they could not abide a person on foot.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I really had no business on that side of the ravine, - with those cattle feeding there—but I guess I was, as always, a - little too venturesome. I knew that herd had some bad actors in it. In - fact, I had been warned to never get off my horse when riding as relief - herder of that same herd, on several occasions. And one time while all - alone at the dinner hour my mount, in jumping a ditch, broke the saddle - girth and spilled me on a rattlesnake infested prairie, amongst those - longhorns—with not a tree in sight.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, nothing untoward happened. Had my luck been - running true to form, there should have been at least one rattlesnake - coiled on the margin of the shallow ditch into which I squeezed myself, - and waited in misery for the day herder to return. As I lay in the ditch I - just had to recall the time, a short while before, when a rattlesnake, - coiled by a cowpath, struck as I trotted past—barefoot, of course—and - got his fangs hooked in my trouser leg, requiring two wild jumps to - dislodge his snakeship.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The herd was owned by Than Morris and Abe Williams, the - latter a brother of Mrs. Jake Wolfley. Morris and Wolfley were - brothers-in-law. John Taylor, herder, was a son of Hebe Taylor, of - Atchison. John Taylor was later bailiff of the Nemaha county court, in - Seneca. And he was the father of Earl W. Taylor for whom the Seneca - American Legion Post was named. Hebe Taylor also, at one time, ran cattle - in the open country southwest of Wetmore</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">with Ed. Keggin.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley went straight to the Morris general store in - Wetmore and told Than of my predicament, and Morris immediately rounded up - two cowpunchers. John Taylor, working with a herd to the southwest, - chanced to be in town, and rode out with Abe Williams.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The herd had grazed on past my tree-perch. The unruly - steer did not follow, but if the critter was capable of the sound thinking - I was willing to credit him with, “I betcha” he always wished - he had. A good cowhand could play a tune with a cattlewhip on a critter’s - rump, under dead run. And John Taylor was good. He lashed his short-handled - 10-foot whip overhead to the steer’s rump, right and left, with - rhythmic timing, making the hair fly with each crack. The steer’s - hindparts, seemingly trying to outrun his foreparts, swung to the right - and swung to the left with clocklike regularity—and he thus wove - himself deep into the herd, bawling “bloody murder.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When told of John Taylor’s adroitness with the - whip, my father said, “I wouldn’t care to tan his hide”—meaning - the steer’s, of course. While father bought the hides from the lost - dead of all those big herds—sometimes the losses in the early spring - were heavy—he tanned only a few of them. He didn’t like to tan - a mutilated hide, nor the hide of a branded critter—and he wouldn’t - tan a grubby murrain hide.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thus it was, I herded the cattle that produced the - hides that made the leather which I helped make into shoes—all while - still in my teens. My apprenticeship as a shoemaker began by holding a - candle for my father to work by, at night. And if you could think it was - not a wearying task for a sleepy boy, you can think again. The light would - have to be shifted from side to side with each stitch as he sewed the - soles on shoes. By midnight he usually ran out of “endearing” - terms by which to bring me to attention—and he was willing to call - it a day. Sometimes my mother would relieve me of this chore, but too - often at such times she would be engaged in sewing up the side seams of a - new boot, with awl and waxed thread. While I did a lot of repair work - satisfactorily, I made out and out only three pairs of shoes. And though - always behind with his orders, my father very wisely demanded that I make - them all to my own measures.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might add that we boys, sons of the tanner, and other - rough and ready town boys—just to be doing something of our very own—tanned, - in the big leather vats, squirrel hides, coon skins, and, of all things, - two rattlesnake skins. Wes Shuemaker proudly wore the belt made of those - rattlesnake skins for a long time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dr. Holland was another Atchison man who, in - partnership with his brother-in-law, Mr. Prunty, of Soldier, ran a large - herd southwest of town. His corral, a 10-acre pine board enclosure, was in - the northwest corner of the Harry Cawood quarter. The land was then owned - by Billy Cline, of Soldier. Where there were no corrals, a night herder - would have to stay with the cattle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Bradford spring—now known as the Joe Pfrang - spring—gushing up from a hilltop, was the main attraction for those - early day cattlemen. Just how the free range was divided up to carry - several individual herds, without clashing, I do not know—but there - were no cattle feuds, and no gunplay.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">NOTE—The values in cattle, as with everything - else, ran low in the old days. An instance: In 1861, Bill Porter had a - hard time raising money to pay taxes on two quarters of land. Unable to - borrow $7.20, the troublesome amount, he walked and led a big fat cow to - Leavenworth, and sold her for $7.50. In marked contrast, Garrett Bartley - of Powhattan, son-in-law of Bill Porter, the second, reports a neighbor of - his recently sold a 2,000 pound cow on the St. Joseph market for $540.00. - I think the herds corralled here and grazed around the Bradford spring - were bought for as little as $5 to $8 per head. This year—1950—Joe - Pfrang, present owner of the Bradford spring and surrounding acres, - bought, in May, a bunch of 700-pound steers for approximately $160.00 each—and - after running them on pasture, the same wild grass, with some acres now - planted to tame grass, sold them in the fall off grass, for an average of - $270.00; a gain of about $110.00 per head. These steers were Texas-bred - cattle, too. But they were not “longhorns.” Herefords never - are. And likely the Pfrang 1,000-pound steers, out of the feed lot, with - 300 pounds added weight, would have sold for about $487.50 each. It was a - great year for the cattlemen. Beefsteak in the old days in Wetmore was ten - cents a pound for the best cuts.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There were, however, some angry threats between the - cattlemen and Old Morgan, an outsider, who had run in four thousand sheep - on them. I helped shepherd that flock, And I discovered early that by - looping a pebble in the cracker end of my cattle-whip, and sending it over - them a little to the outside of the straying sheep that I could bring them - back into the fold without effort. Also, the singing noise of the pebble - thrown over the flock would divide the sheep into two bunches. I really - became quite good at this thing, and played with the discovery a lot</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">until one day when the missile - did not sail true, and a sheep had to hobble home on three legs. We were - in the hills south of the creek. The poor little lamb got no help until - after the flock had passed over the bridge at the east end of town. Old - Morgan usually met us there. Luckily, he was tuned up properly and did all - the talking. He threatened to sue the township for permitting a hole to - remain open in the bridge. This, I like to think, was the one black mark - against my rather diversified career. A sheep herder in a cattle country - rated pretty low. Cattle would not graze after sheep. I quit Old Morgan - before the season was over.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The cattle herder’s main function was to keep - the herds from mixing, and to keep the cattle clear of the creek-bottom - farms and the few isolated prairie farms; and also to keep them out of - mischief in general, such as running down careless boys—and free of - dogs. A dog could always start a stampede. And a cattle stampede was - something to be dreaded, in the old days. When those Texas cattle and dogs - mixed there was sure to be loud bellowings and a great clashing of hoofs - and horns. I have a clear picture of my Uncle Nick’s herd of - longhorns, after running themselves down, milling about on the range - adjacent to his Wolfley creek farm—milling in a compact bunch, when - one could look out upon a sea of horns; nothing but horns.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was quite the thing for local men who had a little - cash, or backing, to take a hand in the cattle game. My Uncle Nick Bristow - and Roland Van Amburg contracted for a large herd of those longhorns from - Dr. W. L. Challis, cattle broker of Atchison. The cattle were fresh from - Texas—brought up over the famed Chisholm trail. Uncle Nick and Van - divided the herd, and after running the cattle on grass, tried to carry - them through a rather severe winter on prairie hay alone. Those fresh - longhorns would not eat corn. The cattle were so weakened by spring that - when turned out on grass they mired down in creeks and water holes all - over the range. They died in bunches, almost to the last head. And while - that cattle deal cost my Uncle his farm, Van said it cost him only his - “britches.” Roland Van Amburg was a grand old sport, with a - great capacity for seeing the “funny” side of life—and - up or down, financially, he was always the same cheery Van.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Other men got out of their Texas cattle speculations less - lucky. Dave Garvin, besides losing a lot of his hard-earned money, had to - take the “rest cure” for nearly a year. However, those who - confined their speculations, within their means, to native-bred cattle - made money. John Thornburrow, starting from scratch, amassed a small - fortune. Charley Hutchison, a mere boy, scion of a wealthy’ brewer - family, sent out here from Ohio to sober up, and put on a section of wild - land, made a pile of money from his herds</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and more, he became a teetotaler, a solid, honorable - citizen. Fred Achten, a fifteen dollar a month farm hand, built the - foundation for the Achten Empire, the largest land holdings in the - country, largely on cattle and free grass.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, John Rebensdorf, a German farm hand, after - marrying Christine Zabel and settling down, made plenty of money running - cattle on free grass. Rebensdorf was oddly a thrifty man. By no means an - inveterate tippler, he liked, occasionally, to pay for his own beer—and - drink it himself. Time and again I have seen him ride into town, tie his - horse at the rack in the middle of the street in front of the saloon, go - in, and, elbow himself a place at the bar, order three quart bottles of - beer—always three bottles. When he had leisurely emptied the third - bottle he was ready to pipe. “I’ze zee richest man in zee - whole country.” And, at that, the man was not far off in his - calculations.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">One time, John Rebensdorf and his brother-in-law, Albert - Zabel, of German parentage, were engaged in a spirited argument—on a - street corner, in my hearing</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">over something which had to do with cattle and free grass, - Albert, a fine Christian gentleman momentarily suffering a lapse of piety, - called Rebensdorf all the fighting names in the book—that is, all - the names that would rile an American, without perceptibly ruffling him. - Albert worked himself up Into a white heat, but he couldn’t bestir - John. Rebenstorf would say, “No, Albert, you iss wrong.” He - repeated this, meekly, several times. Finally, when Rebensdorf, wearied of - the argument, started to walk away, Albert yelled parting shot, “You - old sauerkraut, you know I’m right!” Then “zee richest - man in zee whole country” turned quickly, came blustering back, - shaking his big fat fist, and roared, “By gosh, you call me - sauerkraut! Now I fight!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, the residents would often—that is, in - season, cut hay off the prairie that had been more or less grazed. One - summer my brother Sam and I hauled into town $315.00 Worth, at $2.50 a - ton, measured in stack—and much of this was done at night, by - moonlight, owing to high winds making it impossible to handle the loose - hay by day. Owners of cows in town, as well as in the country, always - aimed to have enough hay stored to carry their stock through the winter, - but often the supply was found to be short, especially when the winters - were unusually severe. Then the speculators who had stored hay against - such eventualities, would have an inning—maybe get $3 or $3.50 a - ton, in stack. One especially energetic man in the Granada neighborhood, - with a couple of confederates, put up an unusual amount of this free hay - one season, inside fire breaks—then a prairie fire in the late - winter destroyed all the outstacked hay belonging to his neighbors. Then - bedlam broke loose among the natives. Still there were no killings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And, even with all that grazing and mowing there was - enough grass left on the south range to make spectacular prairie fires, - racing at times, all the way to town—and would even sometimes jump - the creek and menace the town.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here is one more of the many incidents attributable to - the free grass range. Without refrigeration in the early hot summers the - farmer’s wives had difficulty keeping butter made from grass-fed - cows fresh until it could be brought to market. On the whole the women - managed exceedingly well under trying conditions—it was before the - day of screens on the homes—but there were some that didn’t - know how, or just didn’t seem to care.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time I was clerking in Than Morris’ - store, along with Curt Shuemaker, George and Chuck Cawood. We had already - accumulated a full barrel of off-grade butter that would have to be sold - for soap-grease, when Morris told us all that should a certain woman bring - in butter again for us to reject it. It so happened that it fell to the - lot of the “cub” clerk to wait on her. Morris and the three - other clerks stood by, grinning. I carried her jar into the side room, and - without uncovering it, brought it back and told the woman we could not buy - it. She appealed to Than, saying, “Mr. Cawood here,” nodding - toward me, “took my butter away and got it all dirty, and now says - he won’t buy it.” Morris knew what to look for—and it - was there for all to see. He said, “Look!” pointing to the - uncovered jar, “ Cawood didn’t put those wigglers in your - butter. Don’t bring us any more of that stuff.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The woman insisted that “Mr. Cawood had dirtied - it up”—and Morris paid in full, gross weight. And she was - permitted to take the whole mess back home, along with her purchases. I - was thankful that Morris, in dealing with her, also called me Cawood—minus - the “Mister.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Still calling me “Mr. Cawood,” this woman - later told me she had rheumatism—that she had, unfortunately, - spilled her cooling bucket in the water well, and that her man would no - longer allow her to cool her butter in the customary way</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">suspended on a rope deep in the well. After she had - passed on, the second Mrs. L. made good butter—so good in fact that - the town customers called for it by name. But even this could not correct - the damage done to my delicate stomach during that summer in the Morris - store. I have never tasted raw butter since that time. And with me, after - that sheep herding experience, mutton is also taboo. Old Morgan’s - sheep were scabby.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Again, while clerking in the Morris store I was put to - the test—and though this has nothing whatsoever to do with the free - grass range, I am sure you will observe that it is neatly wrapped in fast - green. A Miss Sumerville, a relative of the Zabel’s, visiting in - Wetmore—I believe she was from Pennsylvania—asked for - variegated yarn. I told her we didn’t have that kind, but I would - show her what we had. I admit that I was not very bright on some matters</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but at that, I wasn’t as - dumb as one of the standbys that I could have named.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Morris said, “Show her what you have in that drawer - over there,” indicating the drawer holding the variegated yarn. - After I had made the sale, Morris complimented me for selling the little - lady a lot of something she didn’t want. He said, “When you - don’t have what they want, always try to sell them something else.” - He henkie-henkie-henkied in a manner which passed as a derisive laugh. - “Keep awake, young man,” he said, “and you’ll make - a salesman in time</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">maybe - as good as Cawood here,” indicating Chuck.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">With George Cox and his two sons, Bill and young George, - I helped build that Holland corral earlier mentioned</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and a small bunk house. And it was here where I mixed it - with the rattlesnake I had been admonished so often to keep a sharp eye - out for. Note Note how well young America obeyed the injunction. I saw the - rattlesnake coiled by the roadside as we were coming in after the day’s - work, with ox-team, piloted by a Mr. Green who had brought the outfit up - from Atchison to haul the lumber out from town. I jumped out of the wagon, - and hit the snake with a rock. It flopped, then lay still. I thought it - was dead but to make sure I prodded it with a stiff prairie weed—and - learned pronto that the stick was a mite too short on one end. That - rattler lashed out at me, overreaching by the fraction of an inch, with - its neck or body falling across my wrist. My hands were scratched and blood-stained from handling the rough pine - boards—fencing came in the rough in those days</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and Mr. Green insisted that he saw the snake bite me - “with my own eyes.” And to prove it, he spotted a snagged - place on my hand where he was sure the snake’s fangs had struck.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr. Green crowded those normally slow plodding oxen, and - we actually came to town by fits and spurts on the gallop. He wanted to - buy whisky for me, and seemed awfully distressed when I refused it. He was - so exercised over the matter that one easily could have believed that it - was he who was in need of a generous slug of the stuff</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and I’m not so sure that he didn’t get it. - Anyway, I was ready to go out on time the next morning. Mr. Green was not. - And you can bet your life I never again tried to poke a diamondback with a - stick too short on one end.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Incidentally, I may say there were other close calls - and near misses—not to overlook the one August day when a - seven-button, (seven-year-old) rattlesnake actually made a ten-strike on - my bare foot. And though always to me a bit hazy, I can now assure you - that this is no dream. Just why I would stand still by the side of the - hole into which I had poured water in the hope of drowning out a ground - squirrel, and watch that snake slither up through the grass, coil and - strike, before going down the hole, has always been something for me to - ponder.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was said in the old days that snakes would charm - their prey—mesmerize a bird so that it could not fly away. Well, - here for once was a “charmed” fledgling that did “fly” - away—too late. The charm was broken the moment the snake struck, and - though I was only six years old, my brother Charley said I let out a - terrific yell, and cleared a wagon road in one jump. Even now I wonder - does one ever get so frightened that both mind and body refuse to - function?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And here is a solemn truth you will likely find hard to - believe. For several years thereafter, come August and dogdays, my right - leg would become spotted like that rattlesnake. In a previous article I - told of this same rattlesnake encounter, and my Aunt Nancy Porter asked me - why didn’t I mention the fact of those recurrent spots? I told her - that I didn’t want to weaken the story with anything hard to - swallow, however true it might be. Then she said, “Well-I, could - tell them that it is true, that your mother—” her sister—”told - me that it was the gospel truth.” And there were no better Baptists - than that pair. Still, in this day of freedom of thought, you can doubt it - if you wish</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but you would - be wrong.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.deluom6dwjh4"> - <span class="c9 c0">WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Little Josephine Cole, not yet three years old, trying to - catch</span> <span>an</span> <span class="c2 c0">evasive cat in our home, - shocked her Aunt Myrtle by saying, “Damn that cat.” My wife - was telling Mrs. Morrison, our neighbor, about it, When Dick Morrison, the - husband, spoke up saying, “I said those very Words about our damned - old cat while the child was over here yesterday.” It has wisely been - said: “Out of the mouths of babies come Words we shouldn’t - have said in the first place.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.7841zls0tqyo"> - <span class="c8 c0">DONE IN CALIFORNIA</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1948.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As sequel to the foregoing old-time cattle riding - story-experienced in my younger days on the gently undulating plains of - Northeast Kansas, I here record a contrasting up-to-date cattle riding - experience I recently had on a far away mountain range. But in this last - ride I did not race my horse and crack my whip for the sheer fun of it—as - of yore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Until Sunday, April 18, 1948, I had not been on a horse - for fifty-five years—not since the opening of the Cherokee Strip, - September 16, 1893, at noon, when, with my brother Dave, and Dr. David H. - Fitzgerald, and Charley Rice, I rode sixteen miles in fifty-six minutes to - locate a claim on Turkey creek, seven miles southwest of the present city - of Enid, Oklahoma. In that race we were led—for a price</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">by “Ranaky Bill,” an Oklahoma outlaw.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While going up the mountain, the name of other - notorious outlaws—the Daltons—was mentioned by my nephew, Sam - Bristow, with whom I was riding. Sam owns “Dalton Mountain,” - some sixty miles east of Fresno, California, where it is said those - desperadoes were in hiding a long time ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Dalton gang of bank robbers—following in the - wake of the Jesse James gang whose hideout was in Missouri</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">operated mainly, I believe, in Kansas and the Indian - Territory, in the late ‘80’s. At any rate, the Dalton bank - robbers came to grief at Coffeyville in southern Kansas, with three of the - gang killed by a sharp-shooting local hardware merchant, and law - enforcement officers. Grat and Bob Dalton were killed. Emmett Dalton was - badly shot up</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was - captured, convicted, and given a life sentence. President Theodore - Roosevelt pardoned him. I have a faint recollection that sometime prior to - the Coffeyville raid, the news dispatches stated that the Daltons—under - assumed names—had shipped their horses to the Far west. And it is - not at all improbable that our old-time Kansas and Indian Territory band - of desperadoes rode their horses to the saddle-back near the top of my - nephew’s 3500 foot mountain, from which eminence they could have - guarded the approach in all directions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dalton Mountain is an attraction for patrons of a - large Dude Ranch close by, in the Kings river area—something to talk - about only. No dude could ride a horse up that mountain—particularly - none of the thirty New York “dude” girls who rode the canyon - trails thereabout for several weeks, recently.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, I recall the time when Jim Dalton, after killing - Sheriff Charley Batterson and escaping from the Marysville jail, was - captured by a posse led by Constable Charley Andrews, near the Buening - school, eight miles southwest of Wetmore—my home town. After serving - time, it was said, Jim Dalton went to Los Angeles and made an honorable - “killing” in the manufacture of ovens for bakeries. I do not - know if he was a member of the old gang. Probably not. But it has often - been considered that he was.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But we were not riding via a series of switchbacks to - the top of Dalton Mountain especially to view that historic spot. From the - saddle-back, looking to the north down a tree-studded canyon, and looking - back over the trail we had traveled, we could see at a glance much of Sam’s - 1480 acres, of mountain pasture land, trees and rocks. And from this - lookout we could locate nearly all of his ninety-eight head of cattle that - had wintered there during the worst winter drought that California has had - in eighty years, while other valley ranchmen were feeding $40 hay to $100 - cattle, or shipping their stock to pastures in other states—some to - the wheat fields of Western Kansas. The north slope of Dalton mountain, - shielded from the burning sun, is what saved the day for Sam. Campbell - mountain, almost in Sam’s dooryard, was picked bare. Sam bought - fifteen of the cattle taken off that range. In his pasture, those newly - purchased cattle did not graze with the other stock. And this is where the - trained McNabb shepherd dog, Spike, comes in. I shall give Spike a line, - later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Sam was saddling the horses before loading them - in the truck for the 35 mile drive up into the mountains, from his 80-acre - valley ranch, his wife—Anna—came out to the barnyard, and said - to me, “Don’t let Sam talk you into making that hard ride all - the way up to the top of the mountain. When you get tired, turn around and - come back.” Excellent advice—but that was the one thing I - couldn’t do. We were already coming down when I began to tire, and a - quick reflection on Anna’s injunction told me that to turn around - then would have availed me nothing. And though I had had it done to me - many times in my younger days, that hard four hours horseback ride up the - mountain and back did not produce the saddle-weary spots my relatives were - expecting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">For identification purposes, let’s say Sam’s - son Robert, 21-year-old ex-GI, an exemplary young man, and Sam’s - daughter Virginia Anne, 13 years old, each own a dog</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">Spike and Curley. When loading the horses into the - truck both dogs were “rearing” to go. Spike, the trained - cattle dog, told us by signs and in perfectly understandable dog language - that he wanted to ride in the cab. But he was forced in with the horses—and - after he had made the rounds of the pasture, he climbed in with the horses - without argument for the return trip. In the pasture, the dog would run - ahead and spot segregated bunches of cattle, then come back, point out the - stock, and stand “at attention’” awaiting orders. Sam - said should he tell Spike to “Go get ‘em,” the dog would - be off right now. He said it was almost impossible to get the cattle out - of the hills without a trained dog. Sam paid $50 for the pup, and trained - it himself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sam had said he would not take Virginia Anne’s - dog along with us, that Curley would likely pick up a deer trail and - follow it for hours, which might delay the return trip.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">He planned to drive back by the Kings river road through - the Dude Ranch to show me the place where the new irrigation ditch now - being put through past his valley ranch</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">to take San Joaquin river water from the lake formed by the - recently built Friant dam—goes under the Kings river, ninety feet - below, through a 27 foot circular cement tube nearly three-eights of a - mile in length. From the 100 foot bridge spanning the irrigation ditch one - could look down 90 feet to the bottom of the ditch, and up nearly a 100 - feet to the top of the ridge of dirt deposited by the big dragline. We had - seen the west approach to this siphon on coming out from Fresno the - evening before.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sam says he frequently sees deer in his pasture—particularly - one big buck—always before the hunting season opens, but never when - he is permitted to shoot them. With the advancing years, it seems the - deer, as well as man, are taking on wisdom. Hunters say that as soon as - the season in California opens the deer make a break for the National - Parks, where they are protected.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sam also said that we would call on Mrs. Bert Elwood, - who has lived in the canyon adjoining his pasture for a great many years—and - get the facts about the Daltons. But she was not at home when we stopped, - on our way out. I really wanted to obtain from her a firsthand report on - the early-day cattle business, and information about the cougar menace in - the low mountains years ago. I have been told that the cougars were - alarmingly destructive then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The cougars are now mostly in the high mountains, - though the Fresno Bee reported two killed in the Valley last winter. - Professional hunters have kept them down in recent years. It is said a - professional cougar hunter named Bruce—his surname—has a pack - of dogs that will track them down without fail, if the scent is not more - than 72 hours old. A grown cougar will take a toll of 50 deer in one - season.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Getting back to the wise deer in the parks. While - “doing” the Sequoia National Park five years ago with Major - Clement A. Tavares—he was in the service then, and that “Major” - handle was pretty firmly fixed, but “Doctor” takes precedent - now—who is the husband of my niece, Alice Bristow, I saw a deer - browsing about the ranger camp. The Major took a “movie” of it - while it was walking in front of a giant Sequoia tree. A Ranger told me it - was a “wild” deer that had never been in captivity. And I saw - deer at several places by the roadside so close that I could have almost - touched them. Also we saw two young bucks “sparring” almost - under the General Grant big tree. The Major turned his camera on them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Again, yesterday, we saw deer in the Yosemite Valley. - My brother Theodore shooed one away from a foot-path where it was - nonchalantly nibbling a mushroom. Deer are very tame in the valley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Yosemite Falls, seen at their best on Sunday, May 23, - 1948, with Yosemite creek in flood from melting snow, did not look to be - 2425 feet in height; not until we got up close enough to be sprayed</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">good. Even the foot-path through - the grove seemed to grow in length, as we walked toward the Falls.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Many, many years ago, I heard Eugene May lecture on - the beauty and immensity of Yosemite Valley at the Methodist Church in - Wetmore. When it came to describing the Falls, he got up on his toes, - reached for the sky—literally soaring up, up, up, in an unbelievable - manner. Now I find the Falls and other notable sights in the valley all - that May said they were—and then some. There are six separate falls - pouring into the valley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Nothing looks its size up in the High Country. The far - famed tunnel drive through the big Sequoia tree in the Mariposa Big Tree - Grove, is deceiving. It looked as if it would be a tight squeeze for the - car, but after passing through with room to spare, I could easily believe - a cattle truck might pass through it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While driving in the Grove, with the big trees - standing surprisingly close together, the Doctor said he had been pretty - much all over the world, and had seen nothing to compare with this - wonderful Grove. Just imagine a tree 33 foot through standing 300 feet - high.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When I first went up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains, - years ago—when automobiles were first coming into general use—trees - were hitched on behind the cars to hold them back while coming down the - mountain. And there was a sizable wood-yard at the foothills—product - of those drags.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Five years ago, I came down from the Sequoia National - Park with Major Tavares, when he put the machine in low gear and eased it - down ever so gently. But now, with everything in California moving along - in high gear, the tendency is to open ‘er up, and let ‘er drop - down at an alarming rate of speed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Last Sunday the Doctor—yes, it was the Doctor now</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">brought me safely down from the - Mariposa Big Tree Grove, at a fast clip—a drop of nearly 8,000 feet - in 65 miles of winding hairpin curves, done in less than that many - minutes, the speedometer showing 65 to 70 miles all the way. And I had - been told that his wife Alice was the best driver in the San Joaquin - valley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Park roads are really wonderful—built at the - right pitch for safety, at every turn.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Doctor, with Alice and their two children, Clemie, - eight, and Myrna, three, plan to fly in June to Honolulu—the Doctor’s - birthplace. He is not Hawaiian, however. Alice has invited me to accompany - them—but as I have always believed air travel unsafe, I declined, - with thanks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But now, after Sunday, I think I would not balk at - anything—let come what may.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.memcz9q6ubeq"> - <span class="c0">THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator January 3, 1936</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Other things may be submerged in the whirlpool of life - and forgotten, but memory of the old swimming hole, no matter where it - was, or in what generation, lives long.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Now comes a letter from one of the old “boys” - living in another state calling for elaboration of that tanyard gang’s - doings. Combining the old swimming hole with the tanyard and our circus - layout—they were closely connected</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">he mentions them as likely material for a story. A “funny” - story, he suggests.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Allright, Buddy. You shall have it. But I must warn - you, Old Pal, that you will, like as not, have the jitters instead of a - laugh. But you have asked for it. As the desired mirth-provoking story, - this one will likely be a flop. Buddy must know that while those old - escapades, incidents, or what-nots, always carry well with the ones who - have lived them, when transported in word-pictures across the years to a - new audience, by a limping artist, they very often fail to click.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Halfway convinced that I could still be murdered for - this thing, I have decided to write a few paragraphs about the old - swimming hole and the gang—and some girls. However, I do not falter. - Going on the theory that when the sweetness of life is over what comes - after cannot greatly matter, I assume the risk—deliberately court - danger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Regardless of the ever-present smell, that tanyard, - located in a bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now, - was made a sort of rendezvous for all the town boys. A dam was constructed - across the creek, and there was a Damsite Company, fully officered. The - pond</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">long, wide, and eight - feet deep made a fine swimming hole.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Michael Norton, a diminutive Irish boy, was our - life-saver. Shy of qualifications, he was given the post for no good - reason at all—unless it was that his willingness greatly exceeded - his size. Michael was a queer lad. He always crossed himself three times - before going into the water, and his lips would work in a funny little way - without saying anything. Furthermore, it was characteristic of the little - fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or - excitement spurred</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">with, - “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes - it would</span> <span></span> <span class="c0">characteristic of the - little fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness - or excitement spurred</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with, - “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes - it would be “You bet.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">E D Woodburn</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Lawyer</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">HOLTON, KANSAS</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">January 21 1936</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Dear John:--</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">This morning I took time to read “THE OLD* - SWIMMING HOLE” which you wrote for the Wetmore Spectator. As usual, - you are very interesting and your article will be enjoyed by all of the - citizens of Wetmore and community who lived there in the long ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">It is too bad, John, that you ever quit the paper - business. It seems to me that you naturally belong to that honorable - “tribe.’* I have laid away your articles as I will enjoy - reading them again and again. I have often heard it said that it is one of - the signs of old age when one begins to hark back to our childhood days. - Maybe so. I am not denying that age i3 probably creeping upon you, but I - still insist that I “am as young as I used to be.” We try to - keep in touch with the younger generation and to be and become interested - in the things of today but, in fairness and in strict honesty with - ourselves, we will have to admit that you and I and others of our age are - inclined “to cast our eyes, like a flashing meteor, forward into the - past.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Keep it up, John, and when you have anything to - write remember, I will appreciate a copy of the good old Wetmore Spectator - containing your article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Yours very truly,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">E. D. Woodburn</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time the deep slough south of the railroad - tracks, instead of turning abruptly at Kansas avenue and paralleling that - street to the creek as it does now, flowed straight across to a point - fifty yards down stream. The narrow strip of land between slough and creek - formed the north bank of the old swimming hole. Trees and bramble shut out - public gaze fairly well, but they did not make a dependable screen against - prying eyes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Ten yards farther down stream from the mouth of the - slough was the old ford. Still farther down stream there was then and is - now a mammoth elm tree that has budded and shed its leaves sixty times - since that day. Tramped firm by cow hoofs, and free of weeds, this bit of - ground marked the spot where our townspeople often went for a few hours - loll in the shade, and where in the surrounding grove even picnics were - sometimes held. It was here also where, on one Independence Day, a fine - English lady from the old Colony essayed to pet a horse on its nether end - and was kicked in the bread-basket. It was so phrased by our elders then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the old days there was in use in the church a - hymn-book containing a song entitled “Beautiful Gates Ajar.” - “Dutch” Charley Kumbash, with the jarring note of the horse’s - vengeance and the lady’s name fixed in mind, said: “It wass - now for her the Peu-ti-ful Kates Achar.” The lady was a Mrs. Gates, - daughter of John Radford—later, Mrs. “Paddy” Ryan.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Starting from the friendly shade of that great elm, - where they had gone to while away a little time, and stopping at the old - ford for a wade in the water, a bevy of girls, wandering aimlessly about, - fell upon the boys’ domain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Willie sent out a low whistle of warning. Eyes from - all parts of the pond swept the opening down stream. Girls coming—a - lot of them, too many to count. The boys ducked. Henry, who chanced to be - in the top of a small elm tree ready for a dive, found the bottom of the - pond with his proboscis in no time. One crafty little fellow, well - plastered with mud, was caught wholly unawares, taking his siesta on the - bank, cut off from the pond. As one having lost all sense of decency, he - darted this way and that way in front of the girls—and then, like an - ostrich, hid his head in the low forks of a tree, with back exposed to - company. Well now, maybe it is that the ostrich, when he sticks his head - in the sand, hopes that he might be taken for another bird. Shall I name - this ostrich imitator? Well—maybe later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Let them come!” yelled Henry Callahan, in - a braggadocio way. “Who cares! We used to swim with the Peters girls—and - that didn’t kill us.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Yeah,” drawled Timothy Doble, in his - usual draggy voice, “but remember, we had our pants on then—and - that made a lot of difference.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Timothy was so right about this. It certainly did make - a lot of difference. Incidentally, I may say I have not thought of this - boy for a long time. And Gaskel was his me—not Doble. But the boys - all called him Doble because he was at one time—a considerable time—in - a fair way to have Archibald Doble for a stepfather. However, Bill Kerr, - young school teacher, stepped in and married the widow Gaskel, who was - nearly twice his own age. That marriage did not endure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Before going on with the main show, let us go back - little—maybe a year, maybe two or three years. This tanyard pool - brought the swimming hole a mile and a quarter closer to town—and it - was hailed with delight by le barefoot boys. Prior to this, the town boys - did their swimming in the “prairie pools” out south. But the - pools had their bad features—hazards fraught with disturbing - elements.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In the first place, one-third of the distance to the - pools was across the big bottom south of Spring creek which skirts the - town. The bottom was covered with a rank growth of sloughgrass, and, in - the early summer months</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">the - natural time for swimming—after the grass had burned off, - needle-pointed stubs were very damaging bare, feet, and caused utterances - of many an “ouch” and not infrequently a “damnit”—and - this unholy language emanating from youngsters barely past the trundle-bed - stage. But the little sinners could swim—every one of them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The prairie pool patronized most, if it were not filled - with soil, as are all the other pools now, would be close to the public - road, on the Grant Dale forty acres—open territory then. Directly - north of this was the Barney Peters forty-acre isolated prairie farm. We - could always count being accompanied by one or more of the four Peters</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Bill, George, Jim, and John. And - on rare occasions two Peters girls, Bertha and Mary, would invade our - privacy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The pool was about 50 by 25 feet in dimensions with a - minimum depth of eight feet. It was edged with a sort of “greasewood” - growth of brush which grew in clusters at the water’s edge three - feet below the rim. Often water snakes could be seen sunning themselves on - branches which curved out over the water. It was a most disquieting - feeling to have one of those four-foot fellows slither across one’s - back. They were not poisonous. Still they were snakes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Peters girls did not often come upon the scene. But - when they did, it was more disturbing than to be raked over the back by - those snakes. The south side of the pool offered the best place for the - snakes to sun themselves</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - as soon as the water was agitated by the bathers coming in from the north - side, as they always did, the snakes would drop off into the water and - make, blindly, for the opposite side and disappear under the north bank. - Some of the snakes seemed to sleep more soundly than others, and, on a - good day, the snake parade to the north side, while not continuous was, - seemingly, never ended. Were it true, as claimed in the old days, that - those snakes passing over one’s back would make hair grow wherever - they touched the bare skin, I would have more hair on my back than I now - have on my head.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And occasionally a turtle would drop off those bushes - into the swimming hole. It was said by oldtimers that should a turtle nip - you that it would not let loose until sundown. Other oldsters said it - would hang on until it thundered. The adventurous youngsters—usually - ready to try anything—never, to my knowledge, tried to find out - which way was right. With brassy skies and prolonged summer droughts; with - thunder clouds few and far between, made it too risky. At that time - swim-suits were unknown here</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">maybe just not used—and always after a swim with the - Peters girls, we would have to walk home in our wet pants.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That chain of water holes along a three-mile treeless - water course, was said to have been “buffalo” holes. But this - I was inclined to doubt, after seeing the remains of true buffalo wallows - in Western Kansas. My Uncle Nick Bristow said there were no buffalo here - when he came, and that so far as he knew no one before him had seen any. - But in my time, the whole plains country west of the Blue river was - swarming with them. They were shamefully slaughtered by eastern outfitted - crews, for their hides. I believe that Zan Gray</span> <span>’</span> - <span class="c0">s novel, “The Thundering Herd,</span> <span>”</span> - <span class="c2 c0">was inspired by the big herds of buffalo in - Southwestern Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then there were the “second” pools, a - longer wash, one mile farther south, fed partly by the Bradford spring, - which we would patronize in dry times when the stream connecting the - “first” pools would stop running.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back at the tanyard pool: Those girls, full of high - spirits and gay chatter, scooped up our clothing, such as it was, and - stood on the bank laughing at us. Save for the one with head so nattily - ensconced in tree crotch, all were in water up to necks, and thinking some - rather ugly thoughts, we were, I can assure you, most miserable. - Miserable, however, does not fully define the plight of the featherless - bird on the bank.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, holding a yapping little dog to a bulging bosom, - a Good Samaritan came moving in. Her smiling face was framed in a lovely - orange bonnet. She interceded for the boys. The girls were adamant, - heartless. For her pains, the intermediary was called “Mother - Fuzzicks”—then, and there-after. She was in truth the mother - of the brave Indian fighter mentioned in an earlier article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In all fairness to those girls I should say that they - were, probably, possessed of the idea that their appearance in this manner - might cure a certain habitue of the water hole of being neglectful of his - duties at home, and maybe cause him to choose better company as well. They - could not be censured for that. They were nice girls, those intruders.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was our life-saver who undertook to solve the - problem for us—the little fellow of multiple peculiarities, the most - pronounced of which, as you have been informed, was displayed in his - crossing himself three times before going into the water.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I rather think that one, maybe two, of Michael’s - older sisters were among that hilarious lot. But as to that I cannot be - sure. Much water has gone over the dam since that day and on some points - things are a bit foggy. It is one of the tricks of memory—that parts - of a recalled incident will stand out clearly while other parts remain, - shadowy and tantalizingly, just outside the grasp of the mind.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">So, then, of those damsels I make no identifications</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">this on account of much fog. - Still, casting back through the mists of many years, I can sense enough of - the old thing to cause me to suspect that I could almost spit on one of - those erstwhile trim maidens, now grown stout, from where I write. Not, - however, that I would want to do so at this late date.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">With a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes, Michael - said: “Lave them to me boys. By-gorry I’ll show them a trick - with a hole in it; I will so I will!” Much stress was laid upon the - last phrase. It contained the true Irish accent. A trick with a hole in - it! An old saying, of course</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">much used then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Manifestly, Michael had decided, as any fine boy of - the period would, to deal modestly with the girls—or, at least, with - as much modesty as the exigencies of the situation would permit—but - he had reckoned without taking into account the destructive forces of Time - upon discarded tinware.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Someone, pointing to a stick on the bank, said, - “Take that and wallop ‘em good!” It was a portion from - the butt end of a well seasoned sumac.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Aye, I have it!” mouthed Michael. At the - same time he fished out of the mud at the edge of the pond an old - weather-beaten dishpan, one of many that had been used in the tannery for - various purposes. This he swung in front of him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, with surprising alacrity and apparent confidence - in himself and the implement of his veiling, he bounded up the bank, - pivoting at the top long enough to cast a reassuring look over his - shoulder to his buddies in the water. The gang beamed approvingly on their - savior.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Michael advanced on the intruders, shouting in a - rather thin voice, “Drop the rags, and scram!” He waved his - cudgel. No results. Michael didn’t like having his efforts go for - naught that way. The laughter went out of his eyes. His Irish was up. He - resisted an impulse at belligerence. Then, “Vamoose, I tell you, or - bygorry you’ll be knowing the feel of this shillelagh!” Now, - however, his belligerent interest was superseded by new elements.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The girls did not budge. Not then. They laughed - mightily. All but one. The Good Samaritan shook with suppressed laughter. - Her orange bonnet bobbed in fine harmony. The little doggie barked. With - deep concern and echoes of mortification trailing in her voice, the - laughless one, stepping forward—it was now observed that she held in - her hand a shillelagh of her own, once again of magic sumac origin—exclaimed, - “Holy horrors! Look Michael! Your manners! There do be a hole in - your shield!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">This he took to indicate her desire for him to depart</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">as, indeed, it did. And Michael, - our defender, “took water.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You must believe me now when I say to you that the - never-to-be-dispensed-with three-time act, peculiarly and persistently the - boy’s very own, was delayed somewhat.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“You bet!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.k84afdqtsr1t"> - <span class="c9 c0">MISS INTERPRETED</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother cautioned my sister Nannie when a very - little girl as she was going out to play, to look good for snakes. After - she had returned, Nannie told her mother that she had looked everywhere - and did not see “ary snake.” Asked what would she have done - had she found one, Nannie said, “I would of bringed it to you.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.mtcfjyr9g3m"> - <span class="c0">THE “CIRCUS” LAYOUT</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">January 10, 1936.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, I trust “Buddy” will be satisfied - with the foregoing narration of events at the old swimming hole. He really - should be. He is in it—figuring inversely, up to his neck.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Since the actual distance from the swimming hole to - the tanyard was but twenty steps—and I mean literally steps—there - should be no difficulty in making the switch over. Those twenty steps did, - however, at times, present physical hazards. They were dirt steps carved - out on a rather steeply inclined bank, up which the tanner’s sons - carried water in buckets from pond to tanvat. Barefooted, with pants - rolled up to our knees, we would dig in with our toes when going up with - the filled buckets, always spilling a little water on the way, until those - steps would become a veritable otter’s slide. As a boy’s bare - heels, in the old days, were poorly fashioned for digging in, the water - carriers would then have to use the longer rope-protected path provided - for making the descent with the empty buckets. One slippery slide on one’s - backside was a hint that it was time to make the switch.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But a rehash of the “circus layout” as my - Old Pal puts it, is maybe going to be disappointing, as I can now think of - nothing in this connection to pin on Buddy. However, I suppose it might - have been considered—for recreation purposes only—as a sort of - adjunct to the tannery. The trapeze, horizontal bars, and spring-board, - were only about fifty feet removed from the tanvats. And then, too, the - lot had the tanyard smell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Ringling Brothers wagon circus had recently made a - stand here, and the “fever” among the local youngsters was - running high. Activity about the lot was both spirited and awkward, with a - lively bunch willing to try anything—once.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The real trouble was, we had only one Star performer. - Charley Askren was, before he got injured in a fall, a trapeze and bar - performer with the Dan Rice circus. He was a welcome instructor. And - though he could still do some wonderful stunts, I think there are none I - want to mention here, except maybe the time he let me slip through his - hands in a rather daring act, the fall to the ground breaking my left arm.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This statement, without qualification, would hardly do - justice to my old team-mate. Had we made it, the act would have been a - honey. And had Charley not said, grandly, to a “skirted” - audience, “This is going to be good. Keep your eyes pinned on this - Johnny boy, the G-R-E-A-T and only—,” in real circus ballyhoo - fashion, it might not have been a flop. Charley used a lot of circus terms - in his work with us.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The trouble was, I “weakened”—just a - wee bit, to be sure—at the moment when I took the air, and after - making a complete turn came down also a wee bit tardy for Charley to get a - firm hold on me, in his head-down swinging position. Had he caught me by - the wrists, he would have tossed me, on the third swing, face about, back - to the bar from which I had made the takeoff.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In practice, another boy</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">usually George Foreman, brother of Mrs. L. C. McVay and - Mrs. R. A. DeForest</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">would - stand by to right me, in case of a slip. George was tall and very active. - Sometimes we would change positions in this act. I know now that this - would have been a grand time for me to have called out, in the usual way, - “Let George do it!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sure, we had a well-filled straw-tick which was always - placed under the weaklings—but who was there among us that would - have wanted to have it brought out in the presence of lady visitors? Of - the two lady spectators, one was a redhead. She fell in love with Charley—and - married him. Charley had done a lot of impressive flipping and flopping to - gain his position on the bar for the act. The redhead’s younger - black; haired sister (Anna) was the better looking, and near my age—but, - as of the moment, I did not shine as I hoped I might. And then, too, I had - that broken arm to think about. Dr. Thomas Milam “splinted” it - up drum-tight, according to ancient practice—but, by midnight, he - had to do it all over again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, my Dad came onto the lot, and without any - coaching whatsoever, did some pretty tall kicking. Not the circus kind, - however. The “circus” paraphernalia was then moved up town to - a vacant spot alongside Than Morris’ corn cribs on the lots west of - where the Dr. Lapham home now stands. But it was no go. The tannery was - the natural place for such things.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Charley Askren came to us, as a young man, in the early - 70’s. He was a carpenter. He married Lib Fleming. And - notwithstanding his serious injury caused by the collapse of a trapeze - under the Dan Rice bigtop, he lived to be quite an old man. He died at his - home in Atchison last year. Here’s hoping that his kid co-performer</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">the G-R-E-A-T and only”—may - live as long.</span> - </p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.qfbh4tmy4nwx"> - <span class="c0">Honesty</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c9 c0">The - Better Policy</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">NOTE—Some seventy-five years ago I accidentally - dropped a five-dollar gold piece into one of the big vats at our old - tanyard on the creek bank near the town bridge at the foot of Kansas - Avenue which gold piece was never recovered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The old bridge has now been removed, and a new one—156-foot - span—is being constructed over a newly dug creek channel sixty-five - yards south of the old one, on a grade ten feet above the old road. In - building up the grade between the old bridge site and the railroad, Albert - Tanking, of Seneca, operator of a County bulldozer, today—June 11, - 1949—moved the ground where the old tanvats were buried.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As he made the excavation I noticed no signs of the - old sunken vats—but it is none the less certain that my five-dollar - gold piece is now deposited somewhere along the west slope of the fill, or - in the “sunken garden” between the fill and the newly cut - drain-ditch paralleling it. After it rains on the works it is possible - that I might go down there and pick it up. But I think that I shall leave - this for the kids to exploit. It was a sort of kid’s keepsake, - anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That five-dollar gold piece was first given me some years - earlier, in change, by mistake for a nickel. I thought I had been cheated. - I took it back to Peter Shavey, who had a confectionery store in the old - part of the building now occupied by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik. He praised - me for being an honest boy—and he loaded me up with candy and - oranges. And then he said, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m - going to give you this gold piece for a keepsake, something to remind you - always that it pays to be honest.” And think of it</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">the old Frenchman was illegally selling whiskey and - unlawfully operating a poker game in the back room.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “Thank you, Mr. Shavey—but I still - have not got my nickel back.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He laughed, “Here, honest boy, here’s your - nickel.” And now I can’t be sure If Mr. Peter Shavey inspired - this noble trait of honesty in me—or if it just comes natural.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.g9kz1o1gdpr4"> - <span class="c9 c0">INNOCENT FALSEHOOD</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">About twenty years ago, I was going with “Dutch” - Roderick, in his car, to Kansas City, starting at four o’clock in - the morning—and Minnie Cawood, with her two and one-half year old - Ruthie, were going along as far as Leavenworth. We stopped at the H. P. - Cawood home, and “tooted.” Minnie came out, and Harry - followed, carrying Ruthie in his arms. She was fussy, and Harry said, - “Don’t cry—your partner is out here in the car.” - Ruthie said—well, had she not been such a sweet kid as to call me - her partner, I’d be tempted to say she told a “white” - lie, when she said, “I thought he would be there.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.tjlfcgzgj7a5"> - <span class="c8 c0">FATHER AND SONS</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">March 20, 1936</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span>T</span> <span class="c2 c0">his, then, is the continuation of the - story of my father’s tanyard; with related incidents—hoarded - memories of the old days back a half century, and more. They are solemn - reminders that “Time flies.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That tanyard was, I might say, a howling success while - it lasted. Besides the tanyard, my father owned a bunch of boys, and those - boys, semi-obedient and helpful, really did some commendable things, but - when encouraged and abetted by the other town boys of that happy, - care-free age, their doings were not always something to be commended.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Taken by the large—including, of course, the - English and the Irish and the “Dutch,” and a couple of Swedes</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">they were, I must admit, a - dare-devil bunch. And I might as well confess now that I was, perhaps, the - most devilish one of them all. Anyhow, I became a printer’s “devil” - at an early age.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father made good leather—and he knew how to - get the most out of it. Being a shoemaker, he made it up into good boots - and shoes and gave his boys a good leather dressing whenever they needed - it—that is, when their deviltry came within his notice. The Lord - knows there were hundreds of times when they escaped only by narrow - margins. And had my father been a little more vigilant, this day of which - I write promised to be the red-letter day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were two outstanding events that day, either of - which would have merited knee-strap activity. In case you don’t - know, the shoemaker’s knee-strap, besides being useful to hold a - shoe in place while the artisan works, is a persuasive instrument of - correction when applied with vim and vigor at the right time and place.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As already informed, in a previous article, the creek - had been dammed and there was a fully officered Damsite Company, with - Michael Norton as life-saver, whose actual services, as Jake Geyer now - recalls, never amounted to more than his crossing himself three times - before going into the water. A large wooden box, with metal bottom, used - for cooking the sumac-tanbark mixture, when not otherwise in use served as - a boat on that fine body of water.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jim Cardwell, a Kentuckian</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and brother-in-law of Andy Maxwell, the Indian fighter - mentioned in previous writings—who held a responsible position as - coal-heaver at the railroad chutes close to the tanyard, when not - otherwise engaged, helped the boys occasionally with the work of - maintaining the dam—and even helped my father sometimes. All this he - did out of the goodness of his heart, glad to be helpful. He was a grand - old sport, even with his one weakness. Jim loved his booze and seemed to - have a mania for sharing his bottle with others. He even gave Eagle Eye, - the Indian featured in a preceding story, a nip of his “firewater” - one day, and my father raised Ned about that. It was unlawful to give - liquor to an Indian.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having the distinction of being the only enterprise of - the kind in this part of the West, that tanyard was made a sort of - port-of-call for all comers—local and transient.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Lord” Perry graced the tannery with his - august presence one day. He was of the old English Colony folk and drunk - or sober, proclaimed himself a British peer. He was a “remittance” - man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On this occasion, after riding in from his Colony - home, Perry had stopped up town and was comfortably full when he reached - the tanyard. He slipped the reins over his horse’s head and asked me - to hold the animal while he held audience with Jim Cardwell. “Hand - if you let ‘er go,” he warned, “Hi’ll cut y’r - hears hoff.” I dropped the reins as soon as he was in “spirited” - conversation with Jim. The “Lord” soon forgot about me—and - the horse also.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">“Lord” Perry had the poise and the marks of - the gentleman he represented himself to be. Also he loved his drink, and - indulged himself freely. When he - had taken on about so much, he would invariably mount a chair, or anything - handy that he could climb upon, and attempt to make a speech, always - prefacing his harangue with “Hi’m a gentleman hand a scholar, - by-god-sir, by-gosh!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In this instance, Perry had climbed upon the tank-boat - which was standing on edge. After making his usual salutory and - puncturing it with his long arms waving hither and thither, he stood for - some moments groping for words which did not present themselves with what - might be called kaleidoscopic rapidity. Then one of the gang—designated - here as the one intrusted to ‘old the Nobleman’s ‘orse</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">casually leaned against the prop, - causing it to topple from under the distinguished Englishman.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">His Lordship then lost some of his aristocratic poise and - a modicum of his temper. A nervous person, with bombastic tendencies, he - literally exploded when he hit the well-tramped terrain about the tanvats. - To be accurate, he made a rather awkward display of himself in a furious - outburst of Anglo-American profanity, in which he branded, correctly, a - certain member of the gang as a “Blarsted,</span> <span>’</span> - <span class="c2 c0">artless hupstart!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Tut, tut, my Lord,” said Jim. “It - was an accident.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Haccident, my hye!” retorted Perry, - sharply. Jim Cardwell then felt it incumbent upon himself to offer - something to assuage his Lordship’s agony, to pour balm upon his - troubled soul. Good old Jim! How could we have managed without him. He - once move proffered his bottle. And another drink was directed with grace - down the Perry gullet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the tanyard there were six vats, each, four by six - feet, which were set three feet into the ground, with the tops about one - foot above ground.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A wild black cherry tree, at this time loaded with - ripe cherries, stood close to one of those vats. On account of its fruit - and its fine shade it was the delight of all the boys. Especially was it - inviting to my little brother Davey Cullom, who, though fourth in point of - spacings from being the baby or of the home, was still his mother’s - darling little curly-headed man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was an erroneous notion that black cherries - would make one tipsy—in a mild way. It was also claimed that choke - cherries, some of which grew in the next bend above oh small trees like - plum trees, were poisonous. That was erroneous, too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Davey Cullom attempted to walk around on the edge of - one of those tanvats, and fell in. The vat was filled with strong ooze, - leachings from the oakbark and sumac. With the process then employed by my - father it took four months to tan a calfskin—but Davey Cullom got - his hide tanned in about fifteen minutes. Not with the ooze, however. It - was because he could not walk, in a test, the twelve-foot length of a - ten-inch board without stepping off.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Davey told his father that he had eaten too many - cherries. But the gang knew he was fibbing. Davey Cullom was already - “pickled” when he fell into that tanvat. And had it been any - place other than the tanyard, my father could have had olfactory evidence - of his offspring’s condition—but in a tanyard, there is but - one smell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After it was all over but the shouting, Davey’s - father shrilled, “Howl, you pusillanimous little devil, howl! Maybe - you’ll now stay out of that cherry tree.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Just at that moment Jim Cardwell came staggering up - from the creek bank, flourishing his bottle. “Anybody want a drink?” - he queried. My father took the bottle and threw it into the creek. He - never drank. He was awfully peeved. He swore. And let me say now whatever - my father did, he did it well. “Jim,” he accused, “you’ve - been giving Davey whiskey from your rotten old bottle!”Davey Cullom - stopped his howling long enough to say, “No, daddy, it was the - cherries; honest it was.” He supplemented his little lie with the - further information that it was not the choke cherries, but the black - cherries, that he had eaten. Then my father said, “I’ll cut - that damned black cherry tree down tomorrow.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim Cardwell laughed, drunkenly, and inquired, “Got - a match, Bill?” My father didn’t smoke, and he didn’t - have a match. Then Jim mumbled, “Furnish my own whiskey, find my own - match.” He fumbled in his pockets and produced a match.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim walked over to the curly-headed boy who had lied - so cleverly, and said, “Now, Davey, we can show Bill that you didn’t - drink any of Jim’s old rot-gut.” Placing the match and a - dollar in Davey’s hands, he said, “Bet you that dollar you can’t - blow out the match.” Jim looked at us boys and grinned in a maudlin - way. “Light the match and then blow it out, Davey, and the dollar is - yours. John and all the boys here know you won’t take a dare; and I - dare you!” he taunted. It was then I wished that I could make little - crosses like Michael Norton to ward off impending disaster.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim staggered backwards a little as he continued. - “But don’t light the match, Davey, until I get away. I know my - old whiskey breath will burn like a house afire.” Davey Cullom - stared, looked foolish and finally said, “I don’t want your - dollar, Mr. Cardwell.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall now explain. Speaking for the gang as well as - myself, we thought Davey would put the stuff to his little lips, then, - with a wry face, push it away—perhaps spill it on the ground, which, - of course, would have tickled us immensely. But the little fellow, feeling - that he must make sure of winning the dare, took not one but two small - swigs of the raw stuff. Booze was booze then, and it took only a very - little of it to make a small boy wobble. If it will help any to put over - my alibi I will say now that the “pusillanimous little devil” - made that face.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now a bright idea struck one of the gang. I believe it - might have been Will Gill—now Dr. W. W. Gill, of Enid, Oklahoma. He - would know, of course. Anyway, someone had said, “Come Jim, let’s - get your bottle.” They managed somehow to get into the tank-boat and - they rowed out to deep water. And there, from some unexplained cause, the - boat capsized. Michael Norton crossed himself three times.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then the whole bunch—lifesaver, officers, and - all—plunged into the water without stopping to remove clothing, - which wouldn’t have been a very big job, at that. Jim was saved, of - course. And appreciably sobered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As intimated in the foregoing paragraph, the clothing - worn by the tanyard gang during the summer months was almost nil—negligible, - at any rate. Always there were rents and patches, and more rents. But the - gang did not care.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The next day after Davey’s debauch my father - came blustering into the house, and bellowed, “Now, who in hell has - taken my axe?” My mother said to him in her sweet, calm way, “Oh, - don’t be so fussy, William—Davey loaned your axe to Jim - Cardwell last night.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Attaching no significance to this fact, nor sensing - forebodings, my father laughingly said, “I wonder what Jim thought - he could do with an axe, in his pickled condition?” I should like to - tell you now that he found that out, to his dismay, all too soon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He was a good feeler, was my father, happy as a lark - when things went right—and not at all ugly even when he swore, not - counting of course the tempo of the sulphurous words of easement which he - sometimes released. Just habitual, understand. The indiscriminate use of - swearwords was as natural as long-whiskers to the old pioneer. He whistled - a lot, and sometimes tried to sing, but he was hot very good at that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having first boots to mend for a patron of his - shoe-shop, my father was late in reaching the tannery this day. The - ruffled condition which had broken forth with the axe inquiry now - relegated from his thoughts, he whistled while he worked, and this too in - bad taste in the presence of his patron.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It had fallen to my lot to remain at the house for a - while, the home and the shoeshop being one and the same place. A packing - case containing alum, tallow, neatsfoot oil, and lampblack, had been - received by express the day previous. I was to take from this packing box - some alum, powder it fine, then dissolve it in warm water. It was to be - used at the tannery in the day’s workout of the hides from one of - the vats. It was to firm them. A hide in the jelly stage is as slippery as - an eel, and it was always a chore to get them safely landed on the work - bench.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father would work the ooze out of the hides with a - slicker—a piece of plate glass ground smooth on the edge. Then he - would rub the alum in with the same devise, before returning them to the - vat which would be refilled with fresh ooze. Later, after the six vats - were worked out, the hides would again be put upon the bench, when tallow - and neats-foot oil would be worked into them with that same slicker. It - would come into play again when he polished the blackened leather. All - handlings at the bench called for vigorous rubbings. So vigorously did he - attack them that he would sweat. Oh, God, how that man did sweat! Being in - fine fettle, and late on the job this day, he would rush the work, and - whistle—and sweat all the more.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Consider now for a moment that cherished black cherry - tree—the tree which, in a spasm of idle talk, my father had - threatened to cut down. It was a large tree, as black cherry trees grow, - more than a foot through, and tall with good spread. Under this wild - cherry tree reposed my father’s work-bench. Also under this tree was - the ash-hopper in which lye was made from wood-ashes to remove the hair - from the hides. As a protector from the hot summer sun the tree was well - nigh indispensable.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The sun rose that July morning sixty years ago on a - rain-soaked world—a perfumed, growing world; sparkling; - invigorating. The brook at the tannery, slightly augmented by the early - morning shower, gave forth a soft, dreamy murmur as it poured over the - dam. Birds sang sweetly in the tree tops. Jim sang also, though rather - poorly, as he put the finishing touches on the job to which he had set - himself. Save for the depressing knowledge that later in the day things - would sizzle in steaming humidity, with old expansion of noisome tannery - fumes, all was fine and vely.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Came now my father, gayly whistling, to his beloved - tannery. Davey followed. The other boys were already there. With a puzzled - look on his face the daddy of that happy-go-lucky bunch stopped suddenly - in his tracks. He surveyed the surroundings in considerable disgust.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At first I thought my father was so overcome by the - shock that he was not going to say anything. Well, he didn’t—exactly. - Maybe he couldn’t. But it was none the less certain that a violent - change of mood had taken place. The thing he saw had stilled his gay - whistle—and whereas only a few moments before could his voice but - have taken up the glad song of his heart he would have sung beautifully, - now he cursed prodigiously!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And Davey howled some more.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That “damned” black cherry tree was gone—cut - down, trimmed, and neatly piled. Jim had mistaken Davey’s purpose in - bringing him the axe. He had done his work well. The morning sun flooded - the tanvats and the work-bench. By noon it would beat down upon them with - torrid intensity.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.kgq1g61eo22w"> - <span class="c9 c0">PLUGGING FOR HER DADDY</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Little Janet, four-year-old daughter of Dr. and Mrs. - Leland Latham, was at the home of J. E. (Dutch) Roderick. Thinking to get - a reaction from Janet, “Dutch” said in a sort of off-hand way - to no one in particular, “Wish I knew where to find a good - veterinarian?” The little Latham girl said, “My daddy is a vet’narian. - If you want to get spayed, he can do it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22" id="h.dw8umbyk1ll2"> - <span class="c8 c0">THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. HENRY, et al.</span> - </h1> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c2 c0">The last three preceding articles were done at the - request of one of the old tanyard-swimming hole gang whom I dubbed “Buddy.” - It really was a triple order. At the same time I was committed to still - another request. Went out to one of Buddy’s buddies to verify data - pertaining to Buddy’s written request and ran head-on into another - one—the one I’m going to tackle now, together with other - incidents.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is a dangerous operation, this thing of running in - unrelated episodes, and if in attempting it I should find myself up in the - air going around in circles with no place to land, I shall have to call on - Buddy’s buddy to “talk” me down. Though no longer in our - midst, Buddy’s octogenarian buddy still lives. And it will be a - pleasure to grant his request.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c2 c0">In reminiscing one incident calls up another, and that - one still another, and so on ad infinitum—and anything of the time - and place is considered fair game, if you can capture it without maiming - it, or without encumbering something else. In presenting the Strange Case - of Mr. Henry, I shall try to ease it in without a jarring note. But, to do - this, I must go back to the “circus” lot, grab onto one of my - co-performers, and work up to it through a chain of co-incidental events.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c2 c0">George Foreman was here at that time going to school, - and learning telegraphy with his brother-in-law, L. C. (Cass) McVay. - George was my closest boy friend. After graduating in telegraphy, he - worked for the railroad company out on the west end of the Central Branch—and - later blossomed out as a fullblown lawyer in a finely appointed Denver - office, all his own. When I called on him there he laughingly remarked, - “Here I am, a big lawyer in a big city—with no clients.” - In later years I saw him up at Blackhawk doing assay work for a Colorado - mining company. This time he aid, “I’ve found out that I am a - better assayer than I ever *was a lawyer.” He went from there to - Butte, Montana, still following the assay business. He never married.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c2 c0">His sister, Alice Foreman-McVay, with whom George made - his home, came here from a highly cultured community over by the river in - Doniphan county, as the bride of Cass McVay. And, being a refined lady - with a fine show of modesty, notably out-classing the common herd, got the - unearned name of being a “stuck-up.” But she lived that down - nicely, simply by carrying on in her own sweet way oblivious to it all. - Alice McVay had the happy faculty of attending strictly to her own - knitting—and letting the world go by. She was, in truth, the town’s - most gracious and beloved woman. And had she aspired to it, she could have - been nominated as the outstanding model of social perfection, displacing - one who had held that distinction from the town’s beginning.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c0">Up to this time, our people had not been what one might - call connoisseurs in the art of classifying the townfolk. In the old days, - social standing was largely measured by wealth</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">even make-believe wealth. For example, Eliza Morris, - (Mrs. Bill), as the leading merchant’s wife—and a big hearted - woman—was looked upon as the leader in society, one who set the - pattern. The fact that she said “bekase” for because, with - many another outmoded expression, did not disqualify her—but she - lost caste when she sallied forth to church wearing her new Easter bonnet - wrong-side-to. But, let it be remembered, she had a way with the - youngsters about town that was taking.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c23"> - <span class="c0">After her husband’s death, which occurred in the - eighth year after coming here, Alice McVay could have married, in later - years, Henry DeForest, the town’s top eligible bachelor, and while - she greatly admired him, as did everyone else, she simply would not - “desert” her three children</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">Harvey, Myrtle, and Louis. I was favored with this bit of - information for having “tended” store for Mr. Henry while he - accompanied the lady with her purchases to her home. Besides teaching me - double-entry book-keeping of evenings, Mr. Henry would sometimes get - confidential on other matters. He told me himself that Alice McVay’s - love for her children was the one thing which caused her to forego a - marriage with him. And then too, Mr. Henry was markedly devoted to his - aristocratic mother, which fact might have had some bearing on what to my - mind should have developed into a most charming romance. His mother spoke - of him always as Mr. Henry.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Alice McVay had ample means to rear her children</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and rear them she did right here - in Wetmore. Then the family moved to Whittier, California. Besides his - savings, Cass McVay and his brother Bill, had each inherited $7,000 from - the family estate shortly before Cass died. Alice was a step-sister, and - also shared in the cut.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Cass McVay was a thrifty man, a real gentleman. Aside - from his position as station agent at the C. B. U. P. depot—it was a - Union Pacific line then, and before that organized as the Atchison and - Pike’s Peak railroad—Cass owned a lumber yard, and operated a - small grain elevator, powered by a donkey. I know it was a donkey for when - I would sometimes whip him up in order to lift the grain faster so that I - might get off early to play, “one old cat” with the town boys, - he would bray just like a donkey. Cass McVay built the dwelling later - owned by Dr. Guy S. Graham. Close in now, it was considered “away - out in the cow country” then. In marked contrast, Bill McVay - squandered his inheritance, in drink. He had Spanish blood in his veins, - along with his other short comings. Bill McVay married Johnny Thomas’ - oldest sister, Jemima.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The DeForest-McVay romance was not Mr. Henry’s - first. That came earlier in life. The girl was the sister of Seth Handley, - who was Mr. Henry’s partner in the implement business on first - coming to Wetmore. Adherence to a family brand of religion</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">something like that which threatened the love of the King - of England and Wally</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was - said to have prevented marriage. She was reputedly a divorcee.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In reviewing this romance, I am uncovering no - skeletons, giving away no secrets. The story has been told and retold, in - whispers and snatches, with varying degrees of accuracy. Clean and - beautiful beyond compare, it was not a thing to be hidden under a bushel.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I did not get the divorce angle in the case of the - Handley girl from Mr. Henry, or any other member of his family. Had - understood all along that it was nothing more than family objections - occasioned by a doting mother’s idea of her son’s superior - breeding that was holding the romance in check. But John Thomas, one of - the few oldtimers left, tells me now that he got the impression of the - divorce from his brother-in-law, Moulton DeForest. So then, I think, much - as I dislike to, we shall have to accept it as authentic.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This causes me to speculate.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Henry Clay DeForest was 26 years old when he came here. - Seth Handley was about the same age. His sister was younger. This would - have afforded scant time for the girl to have married and become divorced - before the beginning of her romance with Mr. Henry. And moreover, I cannot - imagine Mr. Henry deliberately paying court to a divorced woman, knowing - the while the family feelings, the Church restrictions, and above all his - aristocratic mother’s set views on such matters. The romance dated - back to Madison, Wisconsin, beyond the time he came to Wetmore</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">likely back to school days. And - in that event, accepting the divorce angle, it very well could have been a - case where the man had “Loved and Lost,” with the old flame - carrying on after Reno.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The town people said the same thing about Augusta Ann - DeForest as was wrongfully said about Alice McVay</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and she lived up to it, nobly. I wouldn’t know - what, if anything, she had in her own right to justify this, but she had - the DeForest name to build on—and that was a million.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The DeForests were of French Huguenot stock. Joseph - DeForest, grandfather of Mr. Henry, was reputedly, at one time, a very - wealthy man. He made an endowment to Yale college—hence the - schooling there of Moulton and Mr. Henry.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Augusta Ann did not play the aristocracy game - offensively. With courteous dignity, she played it faultlessly. It was - well known that she had definite ideas about gentlemen in general marrying - beneath their station and, it was said, she saw to it that her hired girls—in - one long-lasting instance an extraordinarily pretty maiden</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">would have no chance, under her roof, to make google - eyes at her boys.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the process of making, Mr. Henry was not touched - with this better than thou idea—and it seems that father Isaac - Newton had none of it. In fact, Isaac was not at all times in complete - agreement with his spouse.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr. Henry was not Augusta Ann’s oldest, nor yet her - youngest. He was seventh in a family of eight boys. Even so, he displayed - no necromantic talent, despite the ancient superstition. But he sure had a - lot of the worthwhile kind of talent. Then, too, that run of seven might - have been broken by the birth of a girl. I never learned just where she - came in, did not even know of Mrs. John C. Kridler until she came here - from Denver with her three fine little girls</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">Lettie, Grace, and Blanche. Jane DeForest-Kridler was - now a divorcee—something more for the aristocratic Augusta Ann to - frown upon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Augusta Ann was a mite heavy on her feet, and on her - infrequent appearances in public leaned heavily upon her Mr. Henry. And - though not of a mind to recognize caste, our people paid her marked - respect, and were free in saying that it was mighty nice of Mr. Henry, - tall and stately, to give his mother, short and dumpy, his arm on all - occasions. It was truly a most beautiful mother-son attachment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It would, perhaps, be too much to say that in this - unusual show of attention Mr. Henry had hopes of bringing about a change - in his mother’s estimation of his girl. But never doubt he had - hopes, enduring hopes, that in riding the thing out something favorable - would turn up. The way I had it in mind, Mr. Henry did not want to break - with the family—nor did he have any intention of ever giving up his - girl. This awkward situation made it inadvisable for him to bring her - here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One time, after I had gotten myself rather too deeply - in the mining game for comfort, Mr. Henry told me that he also had, some - years earlier, taken a flyer in mining with his old partner, Seth Handley, - at Grass Valley, California. But when the conversation was terminated, I - was of the opinion that he had, in fact, only put his sweetheart on ice, - so to speak, for safe keeping against the time when the family winds might - blow less raw. And had the Aristocratic Augusta Ann have passed on before - the girl I think Mr. Henry, divorcee or no, would have cast his religion - to the winds—as did The King.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Somehow, I don’t like the divorce angle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Seth Handley’s sister died at the little mining - town of Grass Valley, in California, where her brother was a prospector. - Mr. Henry went to Omaha to meet the Union Pacific train bearing his old - partner, Seth, and the remains on the way back east for burial. On his - return home, Mr. Henry was visibly shaken. It was a sad day for him. Few - people here ever knew just who it was that held such a strangle hold on - Mr. Henry’s affections.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From my early association with Mr. Henry and Seth I - got the impression that there was more between them than just being - partners. Later, I had it from one or the other of them, maybe both, that - the girl in the case was Seth’s sister. Their implement house and - yard was just across the street from our home, down by the tracks, on - “Smoky Row.” And though less than half their age, my mother - said I was always under foot when they wanted to go about their work. The - year was 1872. But if I were not under foot at the moment when Seth wanted - to go hunting, he would come to the house and ask me to go along. He would - shoot anything that could fly. And Seth remembered, years later. He sent - his respects to me from Omaha by Mr. Henry. At that time I was “helping - out” in the DeForest general store.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I suspect there were some things the aristocratic - Augusta Ann did not know about her favorite son. While vacationing in - Colorado Mr. Henry, with the Handley girl—who was supposed to be in - California—rode horses on the trail to the top of Pike’s Peak. - Miss Handley rode a sidesaddle, the ancient kind where the lady puts her - left foot in the stirrup and throws her right leg over the left fork of - the split pommel—and holds on for dear life. That was at a time when - it was considered vulgar for a lady to straddle a horse. Also it was - before the cog-railroad mounted the Peak, even before the time of the - carriage road up the north side of the mountain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Henry’s eyes sparkled when he told me it was - a wonderful trip—one I should not miss—and though a little - difficult coming down, especially for the ladies, he said he enjoyed it - immensely. That was quite understandable. Love had come to Mr. Henry - wrapped in trouble. Here now for a day at least he was bound by no thongs. - Here, with the girl who was the most precious one in the world to him, his - spirits could soar—unhampered, up to the clouds.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Under Mr. Henry’s oral guidance, I also made - that trip all by my lonesome—that is, without my girl. Later, I went - to the top again with THE Girl, and I can tell you there was a difference. - We were in love, a maid and a man—intoxicated with the joy that only - the first love of the young knows. And the clouds came down to where one - could almost reach up and touch them—just as Mr. Henry had said they - would.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I have learned, as doubtless Mr. Henry had learned, - that the show spots in this old world of ours take on beauty and meaning - when you have someone along—preferably THE ONE—to help you - enjoy them. It’s truly a situation where two hearts can beat as one. - And it’s worth a million to see the shine come into her eyes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might say here that it was while on an editorial - junket to Colorado Springs—with THE Girl—that I made this - great discovery. It was her first trip to the mountains, and the shine was - in her eyes—big. I’m glad that memory holds the picture of the - girl, who, in all her radiant loveliness, walked by my side all through - that week with but one tiny shadow to flit across her faultless blue sky.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And while she had, with justification, came near - showing temper one morning, when, in following the crowd, I had innocently - led her away from the historic grave of Helen Hunt-Jackson, on the - mountain above the Seven Falls, down the gravel slide, thereby ruining a - pair of new shoes for her, she was still THE Girl that made all the - difference. Compared with some of the other women who took the plunge, her - squawk was mild indeed—and most ladylike. The well-dressed women in - that day wore high kid shoes and silk stockings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The gravel slide is—or was—about three - hundred feet downslope from the grave, along the mountain at a left turn, - where all join hands, stick feet in the gravel, stand erect, pulling first - one foot up and then the other to avoid being swamped, while the whole - mass slips away to the canyon several hundred feet below. And there you - were—right at the trail, with the laborious climb down the seven - flights of steps avoided.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The mutilation of those new shoes at a time like that - was truly a disconcerting thing to befall the “perfect 34” - girl—we had ‘em then—who had only the day before been - declared the neatest dressed and most attractive woman in the editorial - party. She had form, poise, personality—and a wonderfully good - dressmaker. However, before the day was done, she evened the score—and - gloried in it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Association members held their annual meeting in the - parlors of the Alamo Hotel that evening, and through the courtesy of my - good friend, Harvey Hyde, of the Holton Signal, I was nominated and - elected vice-president. This gesture cost me. Any one of the editorial - party could have testified that Mr. Harvey had joyously climbed down off - the “water wagon” on his first trip to Oldtown—Colorado - City</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">halfway between - Colorado Springs and Manitou. That I was paying for the whisky without - participating in the drinking thereof, I cannot deny. But if I should say - that he never gave me as much as a smell of the stuff, I would not be - telling the truth. By pre-arrangement, Harvey’s wife was sharing her - room with my girl, and I wars sharing my room with Harvey—and there - was nothing I could do about it. A bargain was a bargain—and neither - of us had the faintest notion of welshing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the speech-making was getting dangerously close - to the vice-president’s turn, I slipped out. Motivated by strictly - personal interest, Mr. Harvey followed. And though I did, later, get away - with the acknowledged best write-up of the outing, I couldn’t have - said one word in that meeting, with the Pike’s Peak Press Club in - attendance, for all of Cheyenne mountain, with the famous Seven Falls and - the gravel slide thrown in—and THE Girl knew this.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, as it turned out, my girl carried off the - acknowledged speech-making honors—following some very fuzzy ones. I - never could understand why relatively smart people would insist on pushing - the ill-equipped fellow out into the open. When the call came Major J. F. - Clough, of the Sabetha Republican, president elect—the old piker had - just delegated another to do his talking—said, “we must hear - from the vice-president; someone please fetch him back in.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Major, who, incidentally, in partnership with - Theodore J. Wolfley, established the Wetmore Spectator, in 1882, and - therefore was a sort of godfather to my paper, looked over to where THE - Girl was seated, with Mrs. Hyde and other women including his own - daughter, Miss Bay. Then THE Girl raised her 118 pounds up to her full 5-6 - height, in her scuffed shoes, saying, mirthfully, “He has gone out - with Mr. Hyde. You’ll not see HIM again tonight.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The applause, started by the ladies—all of whom - had scuffed shoes, and instantly taken up by the men, all of whom had - gotten from their women a neat and not a gentle telling off—was - enough to frighten THE Girl. The shine having already gotten back into her - eyes, THE Girl, in associating me as of the moment with Mr. Harvey, was - actually trying to cover up for me for running out on them. But the - inference, nevertheless, pointed toward Oldtown.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were some in the party who were not bona fide - editors—that had worked transportation through the newspapers. A - Wetmore shoe merchant had made a deal with a county paper. The outing was - a courtesy gesture of the railroad—principally the Rock Island.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might say here that the next year—1892—the - Association arranged with the Union Pacific for transportation to Salt - Lake City, concluding the outing again at Colorado Springs—and it - was almost a complete sell-out on the part of the newspapers. We were - short ticketed to Grand Island, there to meet the through train carrying a - Company representative who would ask us some questions about our papers, - and supply us with passes for the round trip. When he came to me, after - working pretty well through the cars carrying the “editors,” - he laughed and said, “You are the second newspaperman I have found, - so far.” I told him he should find at least one more who knew the - password. My partner had been coached. Though not present himself, Ewing - Herbert, of the Hiawatha World, was elected president. And though a mighty - good newspaperman, he did not seem to have’ influence with the - railroads. Our Association never got another complimentary outing. But, - personally, I remained in good standing with the railroads, and got - everything asked for—all told about 250,000 miles of free travel. In - addition THE Girl—Miss Myrtle Mercer—had a Missouri Pacific - pass, and Moulton DeForest, our proofreader, had one for nearly ten years. - Newspapers do not get them so easily now—if at all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, there were five girls in the Colorado Springs - editorial party. The secretary, Clyde McManigal, of the Horton Commercial, - had written the single editors telling them to bring their girls along—that - the Association had arranged to have a chaperon look after them. The - chaperon proved to be a grass widow, a newspaper owner in a nearby town—and - right off she found herself a man. The fact that he was a married man, a - shoe merchant from my home town, by the way, made no difference—not - until they got home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Henry had come to the Spectator office, bringing - copy for a change of his advertisement, and tarried a few minutes to - converse with me about our Colorado outing. I showed him the proof of my - write-up. He said he would not take time to read it just then, but he - marveled at the four fine wood cuts illustrating the Pike’s Peak - trip—and marveled some more when I told him they were engraved right - there in the office by my brother Sam.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might add that editor Clough said in his paper, the - Sabetha Republican, “The Wetmore Spectator has a genius in the - office in the person of the editor’s brother, a wood engraver. Last - week it published engravings of scenery about Pike’s Peak equal to - any we have ever seen. They are true to nature and finely executed.” - He said, further, “We also notice that nearly all the papers gave - the Spectator credit for having the best write-up of the excursion.” - Think maybe those engravings had influenced some of the decisions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might say that Sam became so good at it, that John - Stowell, former owner of the Spectator, sought to get him a job with the - Government in Washington—and he came very near doing it too. - Stowell, an impulsive little Englishman, had the happy thought that as he - was making his appeal for the boy direct to the Government, that a print - of a ten-dollar bill would be an impressive sample. It was a lifesize - masterpiece. Do I need tell you that Sammy’s Uncle Sam informed them - that if they didn’t destroy that cut and all prints immediately, - somebody would surely get a lasting job? Uncle Sam did, however, - compliment Sammy on his work—said it was good, in fact, too good.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr Henry also had a few words with Alex Hamel, who, - besides being the type-setter, was editor-in-chief during my absence. - Henry said, “Ecky, I’ll bet you helped John write that one.” - Alex—he was called Ecky by nearly everyone</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">said truthfully, “No—Myrtle did.” - But Ecky had slipped in a few sentences about the authoress of “Ramona,” - which bit of history had not appeared to the eye when I viewed the large - pile of pebbles marking her grave.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Being the smarter man, Ecky got the credit for writing - my best feature stories during our newspaper regime back in the 90’s. - But Ecky died in 1899, and I’ve not been able to find a dependable - ghost-writer to take his place. However, Ecky did write some really fine - feature stories for the Spectator, using the pseudonym, “Xela Lemah” - Alex Hamel spelled backwards. And Ecky was a poet, too. The following - eight lines appeared, unsigned, in my paper, Sept. 1, 1893. It is one of - many of Hamel’s poems that were widely copied by other papers and - credited to the Spectator. To fully appreciate it now, the reader would - have to know the then generally accepted panacea for bellyache. At that - time an epidemic of “summer complaint” was going the rounds. - Now, properly signed, this is the only injection of writings by another - than myself to appear in this volume.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">A Summer Idyl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jem. Aker Ginger is my name;</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c0">I have a way that’s takin’</span> <span>—</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">My seat in summer’s in the lap</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">Of dear Miss Belle A. Aiken.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">And Watt R. Melon is the chap</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">Who, by schemes of his own makin’,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">Secured for me the stand-in with</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">My darling Belle A. Aiken.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">—Xela Lemah.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As against Ecky’s classic eight lines, my own most - widely copied writing consisted of only nine simple little</span> <span></span> - <span class="c2 c0">words—words well put together, timely, and not - wholly my own: “It once rained for forty days and forty nights.” - It was a prolonged rainy spring, with farmers kept out of their fields so - long as to cause much uneasiness. West E. Wilkenson, of the Seneca - Courier, pronounced these nine words the best piece of writing coming from - any of his contemporaries in many a day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Brevity—saying a lot in few words—did it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I do not mean to brag about this, for the item was - largely a quotation, as any good Bible student would know. If I really - wanted to brag, I would tell about the four times in one year my writings - in the Spectator were selected and reprinted in Arthur Capper’s - Topeka Daily Capital—maybe it was J. K. Hudson’s Daily then—as - the best article of the week appearing in any of the four hundred - newspapers in Kansas. Selecting and reprinting a best article was a weekly - feature of the Capital for one year.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I “crowed” a little about it then, and P. - L. Burlingame, a school teacher—principal of the Wetmore schools in - the late 80’s and lawyer thereafter in partnership with his - brother-in-law, M. DeForest, in offices across the hall from the Spectator - office—said that I should have been content to let the other fellow - “toot my horn.” But the Capital’s readers were not my - readers—and I figured nothing was too good for the home folks. - Always I write for the home folks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Alex Hamel’s stories were more academically put - together than anything I could write. Ecky was a school teacher. Also he - was my very good friend. And it would be ungrateful of me not to - acknowledge his able assistance</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">though his technique was rather too highbrow for my - background, and I had to reject many of his literary buildups. Ecky’s - writings were clothed in rhetoric and spiced with learned quotations, - while I had to get along with bare limpy grammar. But then, in newspaper - writing, it is not always academic learning that counts. However, it doesn’t - hurt any—if one does not try to make it the whole show.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And moreover, one cannot get too much of it—if - one learns at the same time to “carry it like a gentleman.” - Firsthand knowledge of the matter one chooses to write about, when - presented in an interesting and readable manner, even though devoid of the - earmarks of higher education, always scores high.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">For example, the late Ed. Howe, “The Sage of - Potato Hill,” (his country estate), publisher of Atchison Daily - Globe, and writer of numerous magazine articles, and a highly acclaimed - novel, “The Story of a Country Town,” once told me that he had - never studied grammar a day in his life. Like Mark Twain and Damon Runyan - and Charles Dickens, Howe’s education really began when he entered - his father’s newspaper office at the age of thirteen years.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Now, since I have brought the name of this successful - author into this writing, I would like to tell you a little more about him—and - his. Ed. Howe was the father of three noted writers. Jim Howe, now living - on a ranch in California, was a top overseas correspondent throughout the - first World War. Gene Howe is publisher of the Amarillo (Texas) Daily - Globe—and a magazine writer. And Mateel Howe-Farnham wrote a book. - Before writing her story, “Rebellion,” Mateel’s father - advised her to select characters from real life. And this she did. It was - said in Atchison that Mateel made her father the main character in her - book; that she was a bit rough in her delineation—and that she - painted the picture so well that everyone in Atchison knew without further - telling. This may be true to a certain extent</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">but I hardly think a dutiful daughter would have gone - the limit in portraying her father uncharitably. Ed Howe was my friend—and - I don’t hold with those rumors. Doubtless, Mateel padded, and built - her rebellious character into a personage that did not exist. But her - “homey” line made the story. It was a big success. Mateel’s - “Rebellion” won the $10,000 Bok prize—and become a best - seller.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mateel was living in New York City, while her father - was in Atchison, Kansas—and thus widely separated they could not - compare notes. Ed Howe was asked by Mateel’s publishers to write a - foreword to the story. For this he got big pay—I believe the amount - he received was fifteen hundred dollars for an equal number of words. I - think also that the liberality of the publishers was influenced less by - the Sage’s fine wording of his contribution than it was by his - veiled admission that he had been flailed rather unmercifully by his - daughter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Here, I should maybe pick up a few hanging threads and - backstitch a little. My entry into the newspaper field was purely - accidental. Being a chum of the junior partner of Clough & Wolfley, - who were preparing to launch The Spectator, Theodore Wolfley invited me to - stick around</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">said I might - learn something. Mr. Clough, obviously recognizing my need for it, - observed “There’s nothing like a newspaper connection to - bolster your education.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Major Clough had brought along from Sabetha his - foreman, George Fabrick, to get out the first few issues. Then, after - Fabrick had gone back to Sabetha, a printer came over from Falls City—but - Will Allen played pool most of the time while here. Allen stayed ten - weeks, went home for a visit, and failed to come back. Then the “Devil” - took over. It was as simple—and raw—as that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Spectator passed through several ownerships</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Lawyer F. M. Jeffries, Don Perry, - John Stowell, Curt and Marie (Polly) Shuemaker. I worked for all the - separate owners—but there was a time between Jeffries and Perry that - publication was suspended for over a year. The newspaper business in small - towns was not very remunerative in those days. To keep going, the - publisher often had to take up side lines, but Jeffries rather overdid the - matter—and failed, even then. He made a pretense of keeping up his - law practice, taught the Hayden school, walked three miles out and back, - and, after a few week’s help from me, tried to do all the mechanical - work, with only the help of his inexperienced wife.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The ownership had reverted back to Wolfley, and so - remained, camouflaged, through the Perry regime, which also was of short - duration. Perry was a good newspaperman</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">when sober—having conducted the Seneca - Courier-Democrat for a number of years. Jake Cober, also of Seneca, was - his first printer here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">One evening Don Perry came rushing up to the office—-that - is, moving as swiftly as he could make the stairs, in his cups, otherwise - very drunk, saying, “They are after me</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">I want to make you safe.” I had drawn no wages, - and the amount due me was $127.00. He grabbed up a piece of yellow scratch - paper and penciled a due bill for the amount, and said, “There now, - my patient friend, you’re safe—that’s as good as gold,” - with emphasis. And the surprising thing is that, though he could not have - paid cash for another half-pint of booze, that yellow memento, regarded - worthless, was indeed good as gold. But the payment would have fallen on - my friend Wolfley—and that might have complicated matters between - us. I decided to forget it—and went to Centralia to work for Bill - Granger. And The Spectator went into suspension again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, after I had worked as compositor on the Seneca - Tribune, (with Wolfley again), the Centralia Journal, the Greenleaf - Sentinel, the Atchison Daily Globe, the Atchison Daily Times, and the - Kansas City Daily Journal—subbed for Harvey Hyde—I became - owner of the Wetmore Spectator, buying it from Polly Shuemaker after Curt - Shuemaker’s death, in December, 1890. And my education, so long - neglected and retarded by circumstances, had now begun. Let me say here - and now that I cherish the memory of Theodore J. Wolfley, from whom I - derived, at an impressionable age, the still unshakable conviction that a - newspaperman is a pretty good thing to be.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Not aiming to brag, I led the “pack” on - the Atchison Daily Times with more type set in given time than any other - printer. It was back in the 80’s when everything was handset. On - learning that a new daily newspaper was to be launched in Atchison, I - wrote to John N. Reynolds asking for a position as compositor. He replied - that all cases had been filled. He said he liked the tone of my letter, - and maybe there would be an opening later. I went down to Atchison anyway - the day before the first issue was to come out. Reynolds said he wished I - had applied earlier; that he had been told by a Globe printer—probably - Charley Gill or “Doc” Tennal—that I was a swift, printer’s - term for a fast type-setter. After a little more conversation, he said, - “Come back here tomorrow morning—if any one of the printers - fail to show up a 7 o’clock, you shall have his case.” A - printer who had the night before celebrated on the prospect of a new job, - came in five minutes after I had gone to work.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And while I made more money than ever before, setting - bravier type—(8-point now) at 30 cents a thousand ems, had I known - in advance the low character the Times proved to be, I think I should have - let that disappointed celebrant have his case. Conducting his paper on - something like iconoclastic order; not exactly image smashing, but - unquestionably an attacker of shams—I am now thinking of “Bran’s - Iconoclast,” published at Waco, Texas, about that time</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">Reynolds dug deeply into the private lives of Atchison’s - truly great.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A prominent Atchison banker was reportedly out gunning - for the editor. The Times office was in a large second floor room on the - south side of Commercial street. An open stairway, the only entrance to - the printing office, came up from below in the rear of the building. - Reynolds, facing the stairway, always with a six-shooter tucked in his - belt, worked at a flat-top desk halfway between the head of the stairs and - the printers’ cases against the windows in the front end. It was - watchful waiting for the eight printers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then one day it happened. When the banker’s head - showed above the level of the floor, every printer made a break for cover—that - is, got quickly out of range of possible feudal bullets. The banker did - not come up with his hands in the air. Nor did Reynolds lay aside his gun, - as he had done a few days before while discussing matters with a woman. - But then, it was said, the woman had no grievance with the editor. She - merely wanted to know how he had found out so much about her man and the - other woman</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">things that would - be helpful in the matter of obtaining a divorce. And so far as we—the - printers</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">were to know, the - banker might also have had no grievance with the editor. It was apparently - only a business discussion.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As an indication of the stakes Reynolds was playing - for, I cite this case. A tired, overworked, Commercial street business man—and - family man—was reportedly seen crossing the river bridge with - another man’s wife. The incident rated only five lines. Somehow the - tired merchant got hold of a first copy of the afternoon paper—and - it was said, paid $500 to have the objectionable five lines lifted before - the edition was printed. And I still think Reynolds had engineered matters - so that the overworked merchant could have a look-see in plenty of time to - act.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had set that five line item. But I balked, later, - when I got a “take” attacking one of Atchison’s foremost - professional men, involving a woman, who, of all women, in her most - respectable churchy connection, should have been above reproach. I gave - that “take” and my “string”—type set that - morning—to a printer whose case was next to mine; and called for my - time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Nannie Reynolds, the publisher’s pretty - 18-year-old daughter—she was really pretty—gave me a statement - of the amount due me. Ordinarily, it would have been the foreman’s - place to attend to this matter, but, unfortunately, he was in jail—said - to have been put there because of his position on the paper, but more - likely for a night’s celebration. Oldtime printers thought they had - to go on periodical “busts” to ward off lead poisoning caused - from handling so much type. And, incidentally, I had declined to take the - foreman’s place—that is, the foremanship of the Times, while - the ranking man was confined in the City bastile.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I took the statement Nannie had given me down stairs - to Scott Hall, who was to be the cashier of a new bank not yet formally - opened, in that building—but he had been paying the paper bills. - Scott said he had paid out all he was going to until more definite - arrangements could be made. I went back to Reynolds. He grabbed up a full - blank newspaper sheet and wrote in six-inch letters diagonally across from - corner to corner: “Pay this man $17.65.” Scott Hall - reluctantly went into the vault and brought out the money. He said, - “This IS THE LAST. You can count yourself lucky in getting away now.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I learned later that the tall Irishman who so bravely - took my “string,” did not profit by it. In fact, there were no - more payments. And, with the publisher in the penitentiary and a portion - of his printing plant in the Missouri river, the Times also was no more. - Atchison’s enraged “good” people did not overlook any - bets. Reynolds was caught in a Federal net, charged with irregularities - while president of a defunct Atchison Live Stock Insurance Company.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Reynold’s wife died a few months after he was - taken to Leavenworth. He was permitted to come home for the funeral, under - guard, of course. Nannie had neither brother nor sister. Thus, she was now - left entirely alone. It is always a very sad thing for a beautiful young - girl to be left out in a cold world alone.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While in the pen, Reynolds wrote a book, “The - Kansas Hell.” In fact, he wrote two books—the other one, - “Twin Hells.” He had been in the pen in another state—Iowa, - I believe. After his release from the Kansas penitentiary, John N. - Reynolds drove into Wetmore with four large gray horses hitched to a - spring wagon, carrying his books and four male gospel singers. He made a - stand in front of the old Wetmore House, and sold his books. He spotted me - in the crowd, nodded a greeting, and later gave me a hearty handshake—and - a copy of his Kansas Hell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Like Howe, and Runyan, and Twain—all good - newspapermen—my formal schooling was negligible. I did not work up - to the big school in Wetmore, on the hilltop. Also, I did not graduate. I - do do not know if I got as high as the eighth grade, or even far along in - the grammar school. The one-room, one-teacher school down town had no - grades. But I do know I wouldn’t study my grammar. And I now know - too that this was one regrettable mistake.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">If it had not been for the ravenous grasshoppers</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">1874</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and other calamitous visitations upon us in those - pioneer days it might not have been so, but the fact is, I quit school at - the age of fourteen to help my father earn money to take care of his - family while he himself was industriously engaged in bringing in new - recruits for the school. The tenth one was the only girl—and to be - brought up with a bunch of “roughneck” boys, she was a pretty - good kid. And smart too. She studied her grammar in the first school house - on the hilltop.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Nannie and my brother Theodore are, besides myself, all - there are left of the once big family. They are, and have been for - forty-five years, living in Fresno, California</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">now at 1005 Ferger avenue. Theodore was the seventh - son, but contrary to ancient superstition, he has displayed no - supernatural talent. He is now, and has been for forty years, in the - employ of the Southern Pacific railroad, at Fresno. Theodore was the last - born of twins. Willie, the first born—and sixth in line—died - when about a year old. And Joseph, my youngest brother, lived only nine - months.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Me, I was just a darned good printer—a “swift,” - if you please—trying, lamely, to fill an outsize editorial chair. - And it was Myrtle Mercer—later my wife—who, as compositor, - took the kinks out of my grammar. The hard and fast printer’s rule - to “follow copy if it goes out the window,” was something to - be ignored in my office. And though she has been dead now since 1925, that - ever helpful girl still is, in a manner, taking the kinks out of my - grammar—I hope. The pain of shop-acquired grammar is that one never - knows for sure just how faulty his English might be.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Getting back to the dominating character of this - story, during that morning call at The Spectator office, Mr. Henry stepped - over to where The Girl was setting type, saying, “I should know, - Miss Myrtle, without asking that you must have enjoyed the Peak trip.” - Their eyes sparkled as they talked it over. Though months and years had - passed since the day he made the trip with the Handley girl, Mr. Henry was - still feeling the exhilaration of it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Spectator office was over the W. H. Osborn shoe - store on a corner across the street from the DeForest mercantile corner. - Hardly had Mr. Henry gotten back to his store when Myrtle, looking out the - window, exclaimed, “My gosh—the chaperon! Look out below!” - Seeing the chaperon heading for the shoe store, caused Myrtle to say to - me, “It looks as if some of you brilliant fraters of Faber could - have foreseen the damage to be done by that foolhardy plunge down the - gravel slide.” She had picked up the term, “fraters of Faber,” - in the parlors of the Alamo hotel when the party was welcomed by Mayor - Sprague, the Chamber of Commerce, and the Pike’s Peak Press Club.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The shoe merchant’s wife had taken care of the - store during his absence, and was still on duty. Somehow, during the hour’s - visit, the merchant slipped a pair of new shoes to the chaperon—as - was quite proper, since he had led her down that gravel slide. But his - wife seemingly was not an understanding woman. She followed the chaperon - to the railroad station, and recovered the shoes. No blows, no hair - pulling—not at the depot, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Another time, while ostensibly vacationing in Colorado—Colorado - again, I’m sure it was—Mr. Henry had a couple of fine flannel - shirts washed by a Chinese laundry-man in Grass Valley, California, and - they had shrunk so badly that he put them back in stock in his store. I’m - positive he told me they were laundered in Grass Valley. Those fine shirts - were to be taken on another outing in Colorado, and one of them got up - Pike’s Peak, too—but those shirts did not find their way to - Grass Valley this time. I know. I wore them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Years after that sad trip to Omaha, and after he had - thrown his fortunes in with the younger set, Mr. Henry married a mighty - fine Wetmore girl, a school teacher—Miss Anna Gill. The marriage - license gave their ages as over 21, which was correct as far as it went. A - closer tab would have revealed his age as being somewhere around 54, and - hers a full decade above the stated figure. This romance also “hung - fire” for several years. In fact, it was hard to tell just when it - began.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">More than once have I walked with Mr. Henry the mile - to her country home, when I thought my friend Alex Hamel, or maybe Rodman - DeForest, or Johnny Thomas, or my brother Sam, was the top man there. We - were not, of course—Mr. Henry and I—walking out together of a - Sunday evening to see the same girl, but had I been pressed to make a - choice of the half dozen girls who congregated there, Miss Anna would have - been that one. It was not clear to all just who was going to see whom.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Alex Hamel’s most cherished memory of his suit - was the fact—so he told me—that while walking out in the night - with Mr. Henry and the girl, arms in arms, Alex on one side and the tall - stately highbred gentleman (Alex’s description) on the other side, - he had reached over and kissed Miss Anna. Alex did not say whether or not - she had inclined her head toward him for the reception of that kiss in the - dark.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was no comedown for the “highbred gentleman” - when he married the harness-maker’s daughter. Mr. Henry died, in - retirement, in 1917. His widow and son Carroll, later, moved to Boise, - Idaho. Augusta Ann DeForest died in 1895. Her husband, Isaac Newton - DeForest, had died ten years earlier.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">During a ten days stay in Los Angeles, following - Christmas (1947), at the home of my nephew, W. G. Bristow, and his wife - Ethel, and visiting the Weavers</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">Raymond, Nellie, and Miss Cloy—Tom DeForest called with a - new automobile and drove me to his home at Santa Anita, a restricted - residential section in the foothills, where I met his wife Hilda, his - daughter Mary, and his son Tommy. He also drove me over to the west side - to call on the Larzeleres</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Ed, - Mabel, Ella and her husband Lester Hatch, and their daughter Miss - Drusilla, who writes feature (society) articles for the Los Angeles Sunday - Times. Tom, son of Moulton and Mary (Thomas) DeForest, is in possession of - the original DeForest family bible. From those records, and from Tom - himself, I verified facts set forth in this article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Tom DeForest has a $50,000 home only a little way up - the canyon from the famous Santa Anita race track. After showing me - through the home and we were on our way out, Tom spied some freshly baked - pumpkin pies on a table. I imagine they were pies baked for a family - outing “below the border” in Old Mexico, where Tom said they - were going the following morning for a three-day fishing trip. He said, - “I think we ought to have a piece of pie and a glass of milk before - we go over to Larzelere’s.” While eating the pie, Tom - expounded glibly, as only a DeForest could, on his liking for pumpkin pies - in general and particularly the one we were eating—and his - detestation of the so-called pumpkin pies made from squash. As we were - going out the door, his wife whispered to me, “I made that pie out - of Tom’s despised squash which he grew himself here in the garden.” - Tom has an extra lot back of his residence where he digs in the good earth - to keep himself fit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">T. M. DeForest is a former Wetmore boy who made good. He - told me that when he landed in Los Angeles about 1908, Ed (Bogs) Graham, - another Wetmore boy, staked him to a meal ticket. As we were driving past - the business location</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">confectionery - store, I believe</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">of Ed’s - twin daughters, Marion and Maxine, very close to the Larzelere home, Tom - said he had a warm spot in his heart for the girls because of the lift he - had gotten from their father, long since dead, when things looked pretty - blue for him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Tom DeForest started his restaurant career with a - push-cart, peddling hamburgers and beans of evenings, while studying law - during the day</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">just to please - his father. The hamburger and bean business grew beyond all expectations—and - Tom soon forgot about his father’s wish that he study law. Tom did - not travel the streets with his push-cart. He stored it back of a bank - building in the daytime, and brought it out only of evenings</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">keeping late hours, and quite often “wee” - hours. When he housed the business at 2420 North Broadway, it became - “Ptomaine Tommy’s Place.” And it continued to grow. The - name made it famous. Tom told me he could sell the business for $100,000—but - he didn’t know what to do with the money. Then, too, I suspect, the - complicated income tax demands was also a deterrent. That’s what has - stopped Jim Leibig</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">another - Wetmore boy who has made good, at Santa Ana</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">from turning a big profit. I think Jim could clean up - with as much, or maybe more, than Tom.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Tom DeForest has leased the business to his former help - for a percentage of the profits. He goes to the place only once every day - now, (12 o’clock, noon), to check up</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and gather in the cash. Pretty soft, Tommy—pretty - soft.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, was there ever another man like Henry Clay - DeForest? Certainly not in Wetmore. Mr. Henry was my hero, had been so - since the time of his partnership here with Seth Handley, when I was - eleven years old, “under foot” much of the time in their - establishment. And I should have liked very much to have seen his romance - with Seth’s sister materialize. Although I had seen her but once, I - had come to think of her as an exceptionally desirable lady, a lovely - personage like her wonderful brother Seth. And though it came to naught, I - still think it was, in a way, the most beautiful romance that I have ever - known; with the lady waiting—waiting unto death for the clouds to - roll by.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And even with the handicap of being influenced by an - aristocratic mother</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">if it - really were a handicap</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">Mr. - Henry rose, in a community dead set against such holdings, to the heights - in popularity. He was the almost perfect man</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">a man after my own heart, and even now it pleases me - no little to remember that I had selected him as my hero early in life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.3i8gykido7kv"> - <span class="c0">SMALLPOX PESTILENCE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Don’t be frightened. On paper, smallpox is not - contagious. That is, usually it isn’t. But I shall cite one case - where it might have been. Had you been living here in Wetmore fifty years - ago, it would have been about a hundred to one chance that you would have - backed away from the mere mention of smallpox.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Some five hundred others did just that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was my first and only experience with the loathsome - disease. Also it was the first</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and - last</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">case of smallpox the - town ever had. There were among us, however, several sorry looking walking - testimonials of what that pestilence could do to one’s face. Elva - Kenoyer, in her twenties, unattached and so remaining to the end, was - horribly pitted. E. S. Frager, the furniture dealer, got his pits - elsewhere. Eli Swerdfeger, a retired farmer, had</span> <span>’</span> - <span class="c2 c0">em all over his face, and deep too. And though he was - at that time making his living by doing odd jobs about town, he wouldn’t - for love or money attend me. Said he had his family to consider.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And Eugene Dorcas, living in the country at the time</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">later in Wetmore—had - smallpox so badly that the soles of his feet had come off like a - rattlesnake sheds its skin. But, at that, he had nothing on me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dr. J. W. Graham, the old family physician, was called - in—and, as a mark of courtesy to me, or perhaps more correctly as a - beginning for launching his son just out of medical school on a like - career, brought Dr. Guy S. Graham along with him. And, in a manner, it was - Guy’s first professional case. They found that I was running a - temperature of 105, and mighty sick, but no signs or even thought of - smallpox—yet. The young doctor remained with me after the old doctor - had gone to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. He sat on the edge - of my bed, just visiting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At that time, there was a lot of smallpox in Kansas City, - and I had been there about ten days before with a mixed carload of hogs - and cattle</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">owned in - partnership with my brother Theodore—from my Bancroft farm. Also, I - had occupied a seat in the railroad coach coming home, with George Fundis. - He spoke of the prevalence of smallpox in Kansas City, and his fear of - contracting it—and then proceeded to have his attack almost at once - on getting back to his home in Centralia. He might have been a carrier. - George was a stockbuyer—but before this time, he owned and operated - a general store at Ontario.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On the following morning after the Drs. Graham had - visited me, I noticed red spots deep under the skin in the palms of my - hands. They worried me. I sent word to Dr. J. W. Graham appraising him of - my fears, and asked him to not come back. And the young doctor rushed out - immediately and buried his clothes. However, the old doctor was not - frightened</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">so he said. But he - called up the County Health Officer and scared the “puddin’</span> - <span>”</span> <span class="c2 c0">out of him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had Dr. Graham send for Dr. Charley Howe, of - Atchison, known as “The Smallpox Doctor,” on account of his - having stamped out an epidemic at Lenora with his vinegar treatment, or - rather his vinegar preventive.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dr. Howe first had a talk with Dr. Graham, and decided - I did not have it. He came to see me without putting on his rubber suit. - On first entering the room, however, he said, “You don’t need - to tell me anything, you’ve got it, I can smell it—but I - thought you were so scared of catching it, that you would never get it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">A few weeks before this I had met Dr. Howe at the depot - in Wetmore, while on his way to Centralia to see a man whom the local - doctor believed might be coming down with smallpox. I had known Charley - Howe for a long time</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">had - worked with him on his brother Ed’s Daily Globe in Atchison, and - worked for Charley on his Greenleaf newspaper before he was a doctor. When - he stepped off the train to tell me about his findings, I hung back a - little from the start, but when he said the fellow was broken out, I - backed still farther away from him before he had got around to saying it - was not smallpox. Dr. Howe laughed about this, and said, “Oh, you’ll - never get it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The doctor asked me if I had a shotgun? I told him Dad - had one in the kitchen. He said, “You better have it brought in - here. If the people try to force you away to a pest house, stand them off - with it. To move you now would mean almost sure death.” Dr. Howe - told my sister Nannie</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">she - had been attending me up to this time, and thought she was in for it too—that - she could continue waiting on me, without risk, if she would ring off my - bed with chairs”, come into the room as little as possible, not - touch dishes or anything else handled by me, without rubber gloves—and - take the vinegar preventive, she would be safe. He said the danger was not - so much with the first fever stage, as later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The doctor said I should eat no solids; nothing but soft - food for eight days—</span> <span>“</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - then,” he laughed, “you’ll not care to eat solids or - anything else, for awhile.” That’s when the smallpox patient - erupts internally. We settled on cream of wheat, and my sister, not - getting the short term well fixed in mind, kept me on that one diet for - forty-two days—long after I was well enough to get out. The County - Health Officer was afraid to come down from Seneca to release me. He took - plenty of time, and then without ever seeing me, issued an order for my - release, with a “guess so” attachment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My sister Nannie, at seventeen, was rather plump</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">not bulky fat—but after the - vinegar treatment she came out as slim as a race horse, and has been trim - ever since. An awful lot of cider</span> <span>vinegar</span> <span - class="c0">—it had to be cider vinegar</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">was consumed in Wetmore that winter. I believe the - vinegar produced an acid blood.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On the first afternoon when the fever was making me - pretty stupid, I had spent maybe a half hour sitting by the stove in Bud - Means’ store, below the printing office. Near by, there was a water - bucket, with dipper, for everybody’s use. I did not drink at the - public bucket that day</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - when it became known that I had a high fever at that very time, and was - now down with smallpox, it was but natural for Bud to imagine that I had - tried to cool my fever with several trips to his water bucket. And there - was no imagination about the quaff he himself had taken from that dipper, - after I had left. Bud told me after I had gotten out—not right away, - you can bet your life—that it almost made him sick.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With Elva’s and Eli’s pockmarked faces - constantly in mind, I laid awake nights to make sure that I would not, in - my sleep, scratch my face, or misplace the slipperyelm poultice, done in - cheesecloth, in which my face was swathed. And then, even then, it was - awful, a mass of apparently disfigurating open pustules, with face redder - than a spanked baby.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After my face had come back to somewhere near normal, I - sent my neighbor, Ed Reitzel, up to B.</span> <span>O.</span> <span - class="c2 c0"> Bass’ barber shop to buy—not borrow—a - razor and mug, aiming to use them only once. Then, before I had started on - that oh-so-awful looking face, I began to wonder if maybe Byron had not - sent me his “deadman’s” razor, and I had to send Ed back - to make sure about that. I knew that Byron, when telling one of his funny - barbershop stories, was liable to do and say things off key. One time he - poured nearly a whole bottle of hairoil on my head—which I had not - ordered, and didn’t want—while he was looking away from his - work, and laughing at his own funny story. Then I had to have a shampoo - before I could go to “protracted” meeting that night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fixed up with Byron’s razor, I looked a little - more like myself, and was now ready to hold an appointment with my girl, - who was also the manager of my newspaper business, with the alternate help - of Herb Wait and Jim Harvey Hyde, of the Centralia Journal. She had - secured for me from General Passenger Agent Barker in St. Louis a pass - over the MK&T railroad, to Galveston. George Cawood had sent me word - not to show up at his store for awhile after I would get out, and I knew - that all the town people were feeling the same way about me. Hence the - trip to the gulf.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As instructed, Myrtle met me at the front gate of her - home, handed me my credentials and the money she had gotten for me, stood - off a reasonable distance, also as per instructions, and said, “You - look like the devil.” The cold had enhanced the “splendor” - of the blemishes on my face. If she could have said further, “But I - still love you in the same old way,” it would have been a more - cheerful sendoff for the long journey ahead of me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But Myrtle was too busy trying to tell me how she had - managed my business. She didn’t know it, but she herself had, in - prospect, a substantial interest in the printery. Before leaving the - office on that dreadful day when my fever was at high pitch—I mean - actual temperature—I deposited in my desk a check written in her - favor, with no ifs or ands attached, for an amount which would have come - near bankrupting me as of the moment—even as I have now, since I am - no longer a family man, set aside the residue of my possessions, if any, - in favor of the sister who had so bravely, at the risk of her face and - figure, stood by me through that smallpox ordeal.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After getting settled in bed that first night, I told - my sister about the check in my desk, and also told her that I wanted her - to see that it be paid, if, and when, it would appear appropriate to do - so. I was remembering at the time the case of Myran Ash and Ella - Wolverton, south of town. Ella had waited on him in his last sickness, and - in the meantime picked up Myran’s check for $1,000. His relatives - tried, but failed, to prevent her from cashing the check.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When I boarded the train at Wetmore that same day, - Charley Fletcher, the conductor, coming down the aisle gathering tickets, - stopped stock-still, and backed up a few steps, when he saw me. He wouldn’t - touch my Mo. Pacific pass until I had explained that it had been in the - office all the time during my sickness.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After first calling on my doctor, I stopped in - Atchison long enough to buy a suit of clothes and other needed articles. I - had left home wearing an old suit, “borrowed” from Ed Murray. - On leaving the clothing store I met, or came near meeting, Mr. Redford, - bookkeeper at the Green-leaf-Baker grain elevator, whom I knew quite well, - having shipped grain to the firm. Taking to the street, he shied around - me, but he had the decency to laugh about it—and told me that I - would see Frank Crowell, of the firm, at Galveston, if I were going that - way. The Kansas Grain Dealers Association was to hold a meeting in - Galveston two days hence.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On my way to a barbershop down the street, I had a - chat with my doctor again. He was standing on the sidewalk at the bottom - of the steps leading up to his office, grinning. He said, “Well, - your conductor came along while I was standing here, and I asked him what - did he mean by bringing that smallpox patient down from Wetmore?” - Dr. Howe laughed, and said, “You know, I thought that poor fellow - was going to collapse on the sidewalk, and I had to tell him quickly that - you couldn’t give it to anyone if you would try.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was one small spot on my jaw that had not - properly healed, and I had asked the doctor earlier, in the office, if he - thought it might cause the barber to ask questions? He said, “No, no—just - go in and say nothing.” But after we had talked awhile on the - sidewalk, he said, “You better hunt a fire before you go to the - barbershop. Your face is as spotted as a leopard.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At Galveston, I met Mrs. Poynter—she was our - Bancroft correspondent—with several of the grainmen’s wives. - Usually very sociable, she acted as if she were looking for a chance to - run, and I backed out of a rather embarrassing position. Evidently not - knowing of my smallpox siege, Secretary E. J. Smiley gave me a cordial - ham, even laughed as if he were remembering the illegal grain contract - which he and my local competitor had virtually forced upon me, “for - benefit of the Association”</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">a similar one of like illegality, which had, reputedly, - within a few weeks therefrom, got someone a 30-day jail sentence at - Salina. Other acquaintances in the grain dealers party acted as if they - could get along very well without me—and I troubled them no more.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back home, the people gradually stopped their shying, - and in the week I waited for the County Health Officer’s - instructions for fumigating the house, I talked matters over with the - family. For the peace of mind of our town people, it was decided that - everything in the smallpox house should be burned—and my parents and - my sister would go to Fresno, California, where my brothers Dave and Frank - were in business.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My Aunt Nancy, with her husband, Bill Porter, drove in - from their Wolfley creek home, and had dinner with the folks the day I was - to start the fires. Bill Porter said it would be rank foolishness for us - to burn the stuff. I said, “All right, Bill; drive by this afternoon - and I’ll load your wagon.” He said, quickly, “Don’t - want any of the things</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">on - account of our neighbors.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Several years later, the Porter family all had smallpox—and - Bill, the elder, died of it. And Bill, the second</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">there is a third Bill Porter, and a fourth Bill Porter - now</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">tells me that not for - six months thereafter did they have callers. Had I loaded his wagon that - day of my fire, the loss of my uncle would have made it regrettable—but - I don’t think that I would have allowed him to cart away anything, - even had he accepted my offer.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jessie Bryant’s three-months old daughter, Violet, - was first in the Porter family to have it, and she was thought to have - contracted the disease in a rather peculiar way. Jessie was holding the - baby on her lap as she read a letter from her husband, Lon Bryant, who was - working in</span> <span></span> <span class="c0">Nebraska, saying he would - have to move from the place he was staying, on account of the people</span> - <span>in</span> <span class="c2 c0">the home having smallpox.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The burning of the things was mostly done that - afternoon, but the fumigation would carry over into the next day. To avoid - an extra scrubbing of myself, with change of clothing twice, I planned to - stay that night in the house, and held back one bed and some bedding. It - was in the same room I had occupied, and was first to be fumigated. It - would get another dose of brimstone the next day, after the room would be - cleared. I opened all windows and one outer door, but the room did not air - out readily. The brimstone had penetrated the bed covers so as to make - them squeak under touch, and I could hardly get my breath in the room. It - was almost dark, and quite cold. I could not sit by an open window, - through the night. Then I thought of a roll of linoleum in the kitchen. I - put one end of the rolled linoleum in the bed and stuck the other end out - the window. With the coat I had worn that day wrapped around my neck, I - got in bed, covered up head and foot, stuck my face in the funnel, chinked - around with the old coat, and got through the night very well—with - little sleep, however.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our close neighbors did not show undue fright. In - fact, they volunteered assistance while the home was under quarantine—but - they had the good sense to limit their visits to the middle of the road in - front of the house. My brother Sam got out before the red flag was posted, - and took refuge in his mobile photo gallery. My father got caught, with my - mother, in the kitchen—and remained there and in a connecting - bedroom until permitted by the proper authorities to go to his shoeshop. - And there, save for one lone kid, he had no callers, for the duration—but, - with the help of this boy runner he kept the supply line open to the - quarantined house. Louie Gibbons, half-brother of “Spike” - Wilson, our old Spectator’s celebrated “Devil,” after - spending forty years in Minneapolis, Minnesota, got the urge to see what - Wetmore and Holton looks like now—and, after flying to Kansas City, - dropped in here for a day recently. When he found out who I was, and I - learned who he was, he said, “You know, I used to carry groceries - over to your home in the east part of town when you had smallpox.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Oldtimers who have often heard the expression, applied to - persons of dubious ways and stupendous blunders, should not miss the - climax in this last paragraph. After I had cleaned myself up with doubly - strong solution of corrosive sublimate</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">which, by the way, salivated me</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">I called on our neighbors, Don and Cass Rising. Don had - been choreboy for the folks while holed up. My face was not pitted, and - Don said that I must have had smallpox very lightly, or maybe not at all. - I told him I had protected my face because I figured that it would be - about all I would have left after the expense of the thing—but if he - would send his wife out of the room, I would show him. My hips, and even - farther back all the way round, were badly pitted</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">still very red, almost raw. When I showed him, Don - yelled, “Cass, Cass—come in here!” I started to pull my - pants up, but he grabbed hold of my garment, saying, “No, no</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">don’t!” Then he - shoved my trousers down even farther than I had dropped them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And the lady came in.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.ll8wzb5or0mx"> - <span class="c0 c9">CORRECT VISION</span> - </h2> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Little Donna Cole was whimpering in my wife’s - arms as Myrtle was carrying her niece to the child’s home after - nightfall, with a half-full moon lighting the way. Myrtle said, “Oh, - Donna, you must not cry—don’t you see the pretty moon?” - Donna stopped her whimpering and after a moment, said, “I can see - half of it, Aunt Myrtle.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.v0qu7q54o4ny"> - <span class="c0">GRAPES</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">RIPENED - ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the preceding article I mentioned an illegal - contract literally shoved down my throat. The purpose of this article is - to shed further light on that incident—and to show how it got me - pulled into court, as star witness. And then too, as a whole, the article - gives a “bird’s eye” view of a small town pulling for - the good of the town—according to selfish individual tastes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There is no malice in this writing, no sore spots. But - there are some blunt facts. To leave them out, or gloss over the - bluntness, would destroy the comedy</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">then the writing would have no point. There are some “humdinger” - situations in it—and I don’t aim to lose them. But, believe - me, there is no chip on my shoulder. When one approaches the cross-roads - where he can go no farther, when his interests are all centered around the - stark grim business of clinging to life, he wants nothing so much as - tranquil waters on which to drift leisurely down the remaining days of his - existence. I repeat, this article is not meant to be critical.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Starting out with the grain trade in Wetmore, I will - say Michael Worthy had been a shipper before I got into the business. He - owned and operated a small grain elevator connected with the flour mill - originally built by Merritt & Gettys, and later owned by Doug Bailey, - G. A. Russell, and Littleton M. Wells, on the south side of the railroad. - After the mill and elevator were destroyed by fire in the eighties, Mr. - Worthy built a small combined crib and grain house, with a long high - driveway, on the location of the present Continental Grain Company’s - elevator, west of the depot, north of the tracks. There had been a minor - accident on that high driveway, and Mr. Worthy had abandoned use of it. - This reduced him to the status of a track buyer.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the meantime I had bought the Grant Means corn crib—capacity - ten thousand bushels—on the north side of the tracks, east of the - depot, and filled it with ear-corn, for speculation. When I moved that - corn, I saved some money by shipping it myself. And that’s how I got - into the grain business, as a side line, in competition with Mr. Worthy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">About this time, the Kansas Grain Dealers Association - was born. The Association did not recognize track buyers. In fact, its - members fought them whenever they came in competition with the elevators. - Just how my competitor, with his inoperative dump, got into the - Association in the first place was, of course, his own business. I didn’t - care to join the Association—probably couldn’t have got in - anyway, as I had no blind dump.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But I was shipping to a house in Atchison that had - been forced into the Association to hold its business. I think Mr. Baker - had come in only on one foot, however. Anyway, he was sending me sealed - bids, and buying my corn against an Association rule which said he must - not do that. It took Mr. Worthy nigh onto two years to find this out. And - then, of course, it was his duty to report the matter to the Association.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had a friend in the Mo. Pacific Agent, and whenever - I would bill out a car of corn, Ed Murray would give me the waybill which - ordinarily would have been placed in a box by the door on the outside of - the depot for the trainman to pick up along with the car. I watched for - trains, and in event the car had not been taken out, I would put the - waybill in the box after I was sure Michael would not snoop.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr. Worthy was a devout Methodist, a religiously just man - who would not knowingly do a wrong—a wrong according to his lights. - He attended prayer meeting every Thursday night. His home was a half mile - south of town. On a Thursday I had two loaded cars on track. That Michael - had something unusual on his mind this day there could be no doubt. He had - stopped by to chat a bit with me while the cars were being loaded. He - handled coal in connection with his lumber business, owned coal-bins close - by, and had the grace to putter around them a bit before leaving the - scene. I hung around on the fringe of the depot that night</span> <span>until Mr. Worthy drove by, as always, in his one-horse - buggy, with lantern hanging on the dashboard. I allowed time for him to - drive to his home, and a little extra—then dropped my waybills in - the box. And that was the night when I should have stood vigil until the - wee hours.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Michael snooped. Two A. M.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the fifth morning after that shipment I got a - telegram from Atchison telling me, much as a friend might ask a criminal - to come in and give himself up, to go to the Josephine hotel in Holton - that day and join the Grain Dealers Association.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, there was a circus billed for Holton that day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I found Michael Worthy and Secretary E. J. Smiley at - the hotel waiting for me. There was much stir about the hotel, as if a - general meeting was in progress. Mr. Smiley told me that he and Mr. Worthy - had a tentative contract drafted, and that I might take my girl to the - circus—then I was to drop by the hotel and sign up for membership in - the Association, which would cost me $12 a year, in quarterly payments. I - was going to take my girl to the circus anyway. Harvey Lynn and Anna - Bates, and Myrtle Mercer, were in the hotel parlor waiting for me. We had - planned this even before I got that telegram. I had complimentary tickets, - and we could not afford to miss the circus to parley over a contract. We - four circus lovers had gone to Holton with a livery team, in an open - spring wagon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After the circus, Mr. Smiley asked me if I had any - objections to the contract? I told him that inasmuch as I was being pushed - in with scant knowledge of what it was all about, and that in deference to - my friends in Atchison who were urging me to get in PDQ, that I would sign - on the dotted line—and trust to luck. It seemed to be Mr. Worthy’s - field day, and he would have had his own way, anyhow. It looked as if it - might rain, and I did not want to waste time quibbling over the matter. If - need be, I would gladly forego shipping altogether for the life of the - contract—which was six months, with renewal privilege</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">rather than get my friends in trouble.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When I had signed the paper, Mr. Smiley shook his - head, negatively, grinned, and said in undertone so that Michael couldn’t - hear, “He’ll not want to renew it.” I pondered this for - many days, and don’t know that I ever did hit upon the right - solution. There certainly was nothing in the contract to alert me on that - point. Had Mr. Smiley known what I had decided to do in the matter before - I got home that day, he would have been justified in making that - prediction.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, it rained. It rained “pitchforks.” - And, in that open wagon, there were two mighty sloppy girls, and as many - sloppy boys—and, to make matters worse, the creek was over the - Netawaka bridge. Held up here, I took the opportunity to scrutinize the - $3.00 package I had so recently purchased, practically “sight - unseen,” and see what they had really done to me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The contract gave Mr. Worthy two-thirds of the - business, and I was to have the other third. If either of us got more than - the allotted proportion, he must pay the other one cent a bushel for the - excess. We would buy now at a price supplied us from day to day by an - anonymous somebody having no permanent address. No matter where located, - any member receiving house that we might choose, would confirm our sales. - It was September, and the old corn was about all gone. Mr. Worthy had 1200 - bushels contracted from Herb Wessel, and I had 3000 bushels coming in from - Charley Hannah. By agreement, these lots were not to be counted on the - contract.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Harvey Lynn was Assistant Cashier of the Wetmore State - Bank, and should have been able to decipher any funny business—but - he could see no just reason why Mr. Worthy should be given twice as much - as me. Certainly not on account of that old dump.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Anna Bates said, “Why, that old dump, nobody - would risk their horses on that rickety high driveway. I’ve heard - lots of farmers say they wouldn’t.” Mr. and Mrs. O. Bates were - operating the north side restaurant, and as waitress Anna had a good - opportunity to hear the corn haulers express themselves.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle Mercer said, “I know what I’d do. - You could let Mr. Worthy have it all, and then go down to his lumber - office once a month, and collect. That would give you a third interest in - his grain business—just for grapes. That ought to hold him.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Harvey said, “John, I believe Myrtle’s got - something there. You can’t fight with your hands tied.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“But,” I said, “that clause saying I - must buy everything offered, at a designated price, will keep my hands - tied.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle said, “Think, think, think! Let’s - pray that there shall be a way around that. It’s not fair to let Mr. - Worthy do all the thinking. It’s only for corn shipped. And you - always fill your cribs every winter anyway.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">She was all for the grapes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As of the moment, Myrtle’s estimate of one-third - was correct</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but, like a - struggling corporation doubling its capital with the induction of new - blood, our new set-up raised the buyer’s margin from one cent to two - cents a bushel; thus reducing the little man’s share to one-sixth of - the gross, with all the expense of handling and shipper’s losses - falling on the promoter. And the losses—mostly on account of wet - snow-ridden corn being carelessly scooped off the ground into the sheller—were - unusually heavy that winter. But Michael, being the man he was, took his - medicine without a whimper.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Happily, there was a way around it. An honorable way. - Michael said as much himself. Actually, I did not ship one car of corn in - the whole six months. But I did spring the market on nearly all the 10,000 - bushels of ear-corn cribbed that winter. My crib was 16-foot tall on the - high side, with doors or openings well up toward the top, and it took more - to get the farmers to bring it to me in the ear. The extra money paid for - the shoveling was very generously interpreted by Mr. Worthy as no - violation of our contract.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Though I was the loser, a funny incident fits in here. I - was bothered some by petty stealing, but never a loss of any consequence. - John Irving, commonly called “Nigger John,” head of the only - colored family ever living in Wet-more—and, except John, a right - good colored family it was</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">thought - it a huge joke on me. He laughed “fit to kill” when he told me - that he had climbed up to one of those high doors one night about 10 o’clock, - and then dropped down on the inside to the corn, and was filling his sack, - “when I gets me some company.” He said a white man, (naming - him) with sack in readiness, had dropped down on top of him. He laughed, - “That white man, he was sure scared most to def.” Nigger John - also told me that he and our deputy town marshal had bumped heads in my - corn crib one dark night. “But that’s eber time,” he - lied. And John was not what you might call a really bad Nigger. Other men - who helped themselves to my corn were not “white” enough to - tell me about it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, someone had whittled out a hand-opening, - enlarged the crack between two boards on the back side of the crib—with - a loss of two or three bushels of corn. When I went down one evening about - dusk to close the crib, I saw a very fine old lady—a grandmother—filling - her apron with my corn. I sneaked away, praying that she had not seen me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And again, I had given permission to a crippled man to - gather up some shattered corn around the sheller after the day’s - run. When I went down late in the evening to close the crib, I saw the man - and his wife putting ear-corn in a sack. I didn’t want to</span> - <span>humiliate</span> <span class="c2 c0">them, so I walked unobserved - around to the opposite side of the crib, and made a lot of racket. The - sacks contained no ear-corn when I got around to the sheller—and I - knew then that they would always be my friends.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Eighty-three dollars was the largest monthly check - paid me on that lop-sided contract. With the sixth and last month’s - collection in hand, I asked Mr. Worthy if he wished to renew the contract?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Lord no,” he said, throwing up his hands. - “The nice thing about this track buying is, when a fellow knows he’s - licked, he can shoulder his scoop-shovel, go home and sleep soundly.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But it was not so tough on Mr. Worthy as one might think. - We had been buying on a one-cent margin. Now we</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">or more properly he</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">were working on a two-cent margin, and, barring shipping - expenses and losses, he would still be making a cent profit on the third - on which he would have to pay me one cent a bushel. It was just galling - him</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">that’s all. He - had the old-fashioned notion that one should labor for his money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Worthy told me later that he had made the - discovery of my billing at two o’clock that night after he had gone - home from church. He laughed, saying he had made several futile nocturnal - visits to that box before this time. It was luck more than perseverance - that had rewarded him at that late hour. A freight train that would have - picked up the loads, had it not already been loaded to capacity, passed - through at 11 o’clock. Also, he said he had believed for awhile that - I was selling my corn on the Kansas City market—and that when I - would get enough of this that I would quit. Except on a sustained rising - market, the dealer shipping to Kansas City could not compete successfully - with the dealer who sold to the receiving houses, on advance bids. And - that is how the Association was eliminating the track buyers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I could not realize at first what tremendous advantage - this lop-sided contract would give me. On the face of the contract—no. - Decidedly the opposite. Nor was it out in the open for Michael to see. In - fact, it was by way of developments mothered by that contract. The - Association maintained a weighmaster at all member receiving houses, who - would check on member-shipper’s receipts, at 35 cents a car, if - desired; but it was not obligatory. Having had some rather unsatisfactory - treatment from other houses, I had now found a place where I could depend - on getting honest weights. I wrote F. M. Baker, telling him that while I - hardly knew yet why the urgency, I had paid for a membership in the - Association; and, as I had always had satisfactory weights from his firm, - I desired him to disregard the Association weighmaster.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He wrote me, saying he deeply appreciated my statement - of confidence in him; that he had been accused of all manner of - uncomplimentary things—stated much stronger—and that if he - could ever do me a favor, he would do it gladly. Thus was laid the - foundation for a real helpful friendship—but, handicapped by that - lop-sided contract, it did not come into being for another six months.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the q~t, we belonged to the same poker club.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When I got a free hand, I also got the corn. We - received bids from the purchasing houses every morning, good until 9:30 - a.m. Corn bought after this time would be subject to the fluctuations of - the day’s market, with a new bid the next morning. Though I hardly - know how it got started, it became a fixed routine for the firm’s - telegraph operator and buyer, George Wolf—now Executive Vice - President of the Exchange National Bank, in Atchison—to call me up - after the close of the market. If I had bought corn that day on the basis - of the morning bid, and it had dropped a cent, or any amount, he would - book it at the morning bid. And if it had gone up he would tell me to hold - it for developments the next day. Sometimes the market would go up day - after day, and I would not sell until there was a break; and then I would - get the last top bid.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That was grapes—ripened on friendship’s - vine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I spent a pleasant hour with George Wolf in his - private corner of the Exchange National, three years ago. We discussed old - times. I believe George would now vouch for all I am saying here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I went down to Atchison one afternoon, when corn had - dropped a half cent. I had 3,000 bushels that I had bought from Jim Smith, - and 10,000 bushels of the Ham Lynn corn which I had agreed to ship for his - account, at $5 a car. The corn was several years old, and a portion of the - big crib had been unroofed for one whole summer. The grade was doubtful. I - did not want to buy it outright. There was a car shortage, too, and I - wanted the shipment to take care of the grades as well as penalties, if - any, in case the shipment was not completed within the 10-day time limit. - Mr. Baker said he would take my 3,000 bushels at the morning bid, and Mr. - Lynn’s 10,000 bushels at the present market (one-half cent less) if - he would let it go at that. And in that case he would give me credit for - the half cent, amounting to $50. He said, rather gruffly, “We don’t - owe the farmer anything. There’s the phone. See what you can do with - him.” Mr. Lynn accepted the new offer. And he was mighty glad that - he did. By the time I got around to telling him all about the deal, corn - had dropped several cents. If it had gone up, I don’t believe I - would have ever told him. The Lynn shipment totaled 13,000 bushels, with - only one car off grade.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I used to take an occasional flyer on the Board of - Trade—mostly, I believe, before my good Christian friend, Albert - Zabel, told me that it was gambling. I had 7,000 bushels of corn cribbed, - and Albert had 3,000 bushels cribbed on the same lots, which he wanted me - to sell. Corn was cheap then, and getting lower as the new crop promised a - good yield. A good general rain the night before had spurred our desire to - sell at once. My top bid that morning was 17 cents.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Ed Murray, agent at the depot, showed me a wire from - the Orthwine people in East St. Louis, bidding Mike Worthy 18% cents. I - had shipped some corn to the Orthwines. I wired them, offering 10,000 - bushels at 18 3/4 cents, same as their bid to Mr. Worthy. Their reply was - slow in coming, and I may say that when it did come, the market was off - nearly five cents.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had told Albert that evidently the Orthwine people - were waiting for the market to open—and that I was going to sell - mine on the Board, and asked him if I should include his in my sale? He - studied a moment, then said, “That would be gambling, wouldn’t - it?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “No—not when we have the corn to - fill the contract. This will be protection against further loss. We - gambled, Albert, when we bought the corn at the ridiculously low price of - eleven to sixteen cents a bushel.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Albert said, “I don’t know about that. If - it wasn’t for them weevil in the corn, I would hold it over until - next year.” We had previously discussed this, and decided that it - would not be advisable to hold it over. He finally said, “No, I’ll - not go in with you. I never gamble.” And just think of it, the - fellow was buying and shipping hogs—continuing in the business until - his finances were “not what they used to be.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I sold 10,000 bushels anyway, on the Chicago Board</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and cleaned up three cents a - bushel by the time we sold our cribbed corn at 14 cents a bushel. “Them” - weevil had us scared. But the damage was not enough to lower the grade - beyond the number three contracted.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the old days, many of the farmers would shuck their - corn early, pile it out in the open on a grass patch or rocky knoll, and - then haul it to market after it had taken rains and snows—the more, - seemingly, the better. More than once have I gone out to the country, and - shoveled drifted snow away for lots bought on contract. It was such corn - as this that brought the weevil, which worked mostly in the damp spots. - Another trick of the old farmer was to wait for a freeze before shelling - and marketing his ground “cribbed” corn. One such car of mine, - billed for “export,” and passed by the Greenleaf-Baker firm—that - is, not unloaded in Atchison, was reported steaming when it arrived in - Galveston. It had passed inspection in Atchison.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Think I should say here—well, really it should - be apparent without saying—that our reputable farmers were not - guilty of this practice. It was usually floater-tenants, irresponsible - farmers making a short stay in the community, who devoted much time to - figuring out a way to skin someone. A fellow by the name of Groves, - farming the old Adam Swerdfeger place eight miles northwest of Wetmore, - contracted to deliver to me 800 bushels of “Number Three, or better” - corn at 32 cents a bushel. When the wagons began coming, in the afternoon, - I saw the corn was not up to grade, and I held up the haulers waiting for - the arrival of the seller. In the meantime I learned from the haulers that - it was corn that had been frosted, gathered while immature, shelled while - frozen, and stored in a bin on the farm. The fellow had sent word by the - last hauler in, that there would be two more loads to follow. When they - did not show up at the proper interval, I dumped the loads (in waiting) - and let the impatient farmers go home. I knew now from the way the fellow - was holding back that I would have a tough customer to deal with—but - I would take a chance on him. I felt that I couldn’t afford to keep - the haulers, who were my friends, waiting longer. The seller came in with - the two loads between sundown and dark. I told him the corn was not up to - grade. He said,”Well, you’ve dumped it, haven’t you?” - I said, “Yes, for a fact, I have dumped thirteen loads of it—but - here’s two loads I’m not going to dump.” But I did - finally dump them, on agreement with the fellow to ship the lot separately - and give him full returns. The shipment was reported “no grade” - and the price was cut six cents a bushel. I paid the man 26 cents a - bushel, on the basis of our weight—and was glad to be rid of him. - Then, the next day I received an amended report on the car. It was found - to be in such bad condition that the receiving house had called for a - re-inspection—and the price was cut another eight cents a bushel. - And this was mine—all mine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It seemed to me that nearly everything, in the old - days was, in a sense, touched with that horrible word—gamble. And I - know that I really did gamble in an attempt to grow a crop of corn on my - expensively tiled bottom seed-corn farm down the creek a mile from town, - one very dry year.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I hired all the work done, paid out $500 in good money—and - got nothing but fodder.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Another time I filled my cribs with 25 cent corn and - held it for the summer market. When I was bid 49% cents a bushel, I - jokingly told Mr. Worthy that I couldn’t figure fractions very well, - and that I would wait for even money. Fifty cents was considered a high - price for corn then—but usually when it would reach near that - figure, the holders would begin to talk one dollar corn. It was a year - when the corn speculators just didn’t know what to do, after the - price began to slip.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Alpheus Kempton, over north of Netawaka near the - Indian reservation, had 5,000 bushels stored on the farm. He told me he - had been watching my cribs, and thought that maybe I had inside - information of a come-back in prospect. I too had been watching some - cribs, with similar thoughts. The Greenleaf-Baker firm had 20,000 bushels - stored in two long cribs at Farmington. As I frequently traveled the - railroad—on a pass—and noticed the corn had not been moved - out, I thought that maybe, after all, I had not erred in letting the high - bids get away from me. I told Mr. Baker that I had been watching his - Farmington cribs for a reminder as to when it would be time for me to sell - mine. He laughed, saying, “I’ve sold it (on the Board) and - bought it back probably twenty times.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, Alpheus and I—we held our corn over - another year—and then sold it for 301/2 cents a bushel. May I say - that by this time I had brushed up on my arithmetic. And Christian or no, - who is there to say I did not gamble that time? I still maintain that I - gambled when I bought the corn. However, there were times when I sold - 25-cent corn for 70 cents—and most of it went back to the country - here. The only advantage that I could see in storing corn instead of - buying it on the Board, was the possibility of striking a local market.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And again, I bought 5,000 bushels of wheat on the - Chicago Board, at 61 cents a bushel, and margined it with $100. As the - market advanced, I bought seven more five thousand bushel lots with the - profits, making 40,000 bushels in all. It was a very dry time in Kansas, - and wheat was jumping three to five cents a day—and had reached a - fraction under $1.00 on the Thursday before Memorial Day, which of course - would be a holiday, with no market.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My profit on the single $100 investment was now nearly - $4,000.00. I had planned to get out before the close of the market on - Thursday, because I did not want to run the risk of carrying the deal over - the holiday. But the weather map, just in from Kansas City, indicated - clear skies for Kansas over the week-end. This, coupled with the exuberant - spirits of the excited dealers on the Atchison Board, caused me to change - my mind. One more day of dry weather would likely double my earnings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The weather man was wrong; horribly wrong.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It began raining in Wetmore about 10 o’clock - that night. You’ve probably been lulled to sleep by rain patter on - the roof. Believe me, there was no lullaby sleep in the constant rain - patter on the roof over me that night. It rained off and on here all day - Friday. Everyone I met on the street here exclaimed, “Fine rain, - John!” I would say, “Yep”—and think something - else. It was truly a $4,000.00 rain, in reverse—so far as I was - concerned.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On Saturday morning, the speculators were back on the - Atchison Board of Trade floor—to a man. The rain had washed their - faces clean of all animation. Mr. Roper, working with telegraph - instrument, rose and faced the weary-laden boys. “Gentlemen,” - he said, “I’ve got good news</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">for nobody.” The death-like quiet for a fraction of a - moment, as if we were standing in the Salt Lake Mormon tabernacle waiting - for the usual pin-dropping demonstration, gave way to a concerted sigh. It - had rained everywhere.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I sold 50,000 bushels at the opening. My profits were - wiped out clean. The extra 10,000 bushels short sale made me $63.75 in - about three minutes. And this, added to the return of my $100—and - relief from liability—made me feel rich.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Though little or no wheat was grown here at that time, - the Kansas wheat farmer was considered the biggest gambler of them all. - Even so, having just got out of a big wheat deal, by “the skin of my - teeth,” would it not be good business for me to take a “flyer” - in some wheat land, and try growing the stuff?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Land in the wheat country was going begging at $300 a - quarter—the same land that is now selling up to $200 an acre. Land - agents were actually fighting over prospective buyers. Bill Talley, born - in Indiana and reared here, was at this time operating a drink emporium in - Wetmore, but had lived, and dealt in land, at Cimarron, in Gray County. At - the depot, the day I started for the west, Bill told me to go to his - friend, Johnny Harper. When I got off the train at Cimarron at 2 o’clock - at night, Johnny was there to meet me. We by-passed the leading hotel—a - rival agent, F. M. Luther, lived at the hotel—and Johnny took me to - a restaurant three blocks away. The next morning Johnny and his partner, - Mr. Emery, ate breakfast with me at the restaurant. Mr. Emery was to drive - me across the river to look at land. Every parcel of land shown was priced - at $300 a quarter. And at every booster stop we visited, the farmer would - reply to Mr. Emery’s inquiry: “I would not take $25 an acre - for mine.” A few sandhill plums, a dilapidated barn, and - weather-beaten three-room house—made the difference. We got back to - Cimarron about four o’clock in the afternoon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As if he were sure I had seen a plenty to interest me - on the side of a quick purchase, Johnny produced a map, saying, “Now, - which piece have you decided on?” I had made no decision. Mr. Emery - then thought I might like to see a big alfalfa field four miles up the - river—not that it was for sale, but just to show me how good it was. - In truth, it was just to get me out of town. The alfalfa looked good, but - you know my mind was fixed on wheat, and this big field did not interest - me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had company again for supper, and either Mr. Emery - or Mr. Harper stayed by me until bedtime. It was Saturday. I needed a - shave. Mr. Emery took me through the main business part of the town to a - barbershop on the south side of the tracks. And here I came as near - getting a skinning as I ever did in a business deal. There were, of - course, better shops in town—but competitive real estate agents didn’t - go across the tracks for their shaves. In the meantime Mr. Luther had - dropped in at the restaurant. He was introduced by Mr. Harper. I asked Mr. - Luther if he were engaged in business in Cimarron? He replied, “Yes, - the real estate business.” Right away I had a notion that I should - like to have a private talk with Mr. Luther. Likewise, Mr. Luther. And don’t - think that Johnny didn’t catch on, too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Luther bid us “good night,” and - stepped outside. Mr. Harper bid me “good night,” and started - on his way out—and I went up to my room. We were to start right - after breakfast on a drive to Dodge City, thirty miles down the river, - where I would get a train for home. I did not go to bed immediately. I - went back downstairs for something, I don’t remember what now. Maybe - to pick up a little disinterested information from the restaurant man. Mr. - Luther came back in at the front door. Mr. Harper followed immediately. I - went back up to my room.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The following morning three real estate men ate - breakfast with me. Mr. Harper, Mr. Emery, and I started for the livery - stable a block away, while Mr. Luther lingered awhile over his coffee. - Bill Talley’s friends owned their driving team, and did their own - stable work. When they got their fractious horses partly hitched, I made - an excuse to run back to the restaurant. Mr. Luther said, “You were - over in the neighborhood of the Kelly school house yesterday, I believe. I - can sell you three quarters in the same section as the Kelly school house - for $200 a quarter, or $600 for the three quarters.” I promised to - write him—or see him later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Emery drove me to Dodge City, showing me a big - 30-acre cottonwood planting on the way, which purportedly was the reason - for the drive. It did not interest me. We had cottonwoods at home. Mr. - Emery stabled his foaming horses at a livery barn on the south side of the - tracks, near the river, a good quarter of a mile from the Santa Fe depot. - We ate our dinner at a restaurant close by the depot. It was Sunday. Mr. - Emery showed me the town. We visited “Boot Hill” Cemetery, the - only visible reminder now that Dodge City was once the wildest and - toughest spot in the Old West, and other semi-interesting and some - non-interesting places. After walking our legs off, we were now near the - depot again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Emery wished to look in on his erstwhile steaming - horses. Yes, I would go along with him. On passing the depot I dropped out - of the line of march on the pretense of wanting to get a line on the - through train I was to take that evening. This done, I hiked back to the - restaurant, inquired for a real estate office, and was told the Painter - Brothers in office above the restaurant were the men I should see. A poker - game was in full swing, but one of the brothers—I couldn’t for - the life of me remember which one now—took time out to tell me that - he could sell me land as good as the best for $200 a quarter. He gave me - some literature. We planned to meet again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I rushed back to the depot in time to meet Mr. Emery - on his return from the stable. We walked some more. A local train from the - west was due at 3 o’clock. Johnny Harper got off this train—and - took over. Mr. Emery bid me “good-by” saying he would now - drive his team back to Cimarron. Johnny proposed a walk. We took in the - town again—always by our lonesome. He saw me off on the train. I did - not learn how Johnny planned to get back to Cimarron. And I didn’t - care.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bill Talley was at the depot when I got back home. He - said, “Well, did you see Johnny Harper? Fine fellow, isn’t he?” - And, “Did you find anything to suit you?” Yes, I had seen - Johnny; fine fellow, too. No, I had not bought anything—yet. But I - planned to buy three quarters in the same section as the Kelly school - house, from F. M. Luther, for $600. Bill popped his fist in the palm of - his left hand, and bellowed, “Damn Luther!”—with - shocking prefix.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is only fair for me to say that ordinarily Bill was - not given to the use of such language. But the exigencies of the situation - were very much out of the ordinary. With prospect of a cut in commission—and - his fear that I might run afoul of Mr. Luther—Bill had gambled the - price of a telegram to Johnny Harper. I did not learn the why of this - explosion for a little over one year. My brother Frank was considering a - trade for a quarter of irrigated land south of the river, two miles from - Lakin, and had written from Fresno, California, asking me to look it over, - and report to him. On going through on the train, I stepped off at - Cimarron, and inquired for Johnny Harper. A by-stander said Johnny was not - among the people on the station platform—but, he said, “Here’s - his brother.” Johnny’s brother stepped forward, saying he was - going west on the train. On the train, he said, “You were out here - last year driving with Johnny. Why didn’t you buy, then?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I told Johnny’s brother that they had “herded” - me so closely as to make me suspicious. He said they had to do that to - keep their competitors from blocking their sales. He said the competitors - would quote a low price on tracts in the neighborhood of the places - visited by Johnny’s prospects—and then, if the prospect - decided to buy, the competitor would discover that his partner had just - sold it to another—but he always had other bargains to show him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Johnny’s brother also told me that our friend - Talley had gotten into an altercation with Mr. Luther, and that the - Cimarron man had knocked the whey out of our Wetmore boy—all while - the latter was connected in the realty business with brother Johnny.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">If I could have gone out there wholly on my own—that - is, without any helpful interference from Mr. Talley, and maybe got lost - on the big flat beyond the sandhills just south of the river for a week, I - could have made a potful of money. I had planned to buy two sections. But, - instead, I bought 80 acres of rather swampy bottom land here for the same - money, $2400</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and then - spent $1800 more to install five miles of drain tile.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This tiling was a gamble that paid big dividends.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Michael Worthy, my late semi-partner in the grain - business, had better luck than I. He bought Gray County wheat land in the - neighborhood of the Kelly school house</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">which was to be passed down as a huge profit-making legacy—even - to the third generation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Oscar Porter was a track buyer at Bancroft until Jim - Wilcox, elevator owner, crowded him out. Being a track shipper, Oscar was - not eligible to come into the Association</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">nor was I, but somehow I had been roped in. Porter - wanted to know how I did it, that he might do likewise. I could give him - no helpful information. His next step was to start legal action to compel - me to divulge the secret. I was subpoenaed to appear in court—supposed - to be the star witness—in a complaint lodged by Mr. Porter against - the Association.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">County Attorney S. K. Woodworth called me aside, said he - knew I had the information to smash the Association, if I would just give. - He said I could tell the truth—he added, “and I know you will,” - without fear of having it used against me. I asked him if he were thinking - of the time when I had slightly stretched the truth—but I really had - not done this</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">in behalf of - his candidacy, in my newspaper? He laughed at that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I told Sam that he could depend on me to answer his - questions truthfully, as always—he laughed again—but that I - would not make a statement. He said he would not ask me to do that. I was - not particularly in sympathy with the Association, but I did not want to - volunteer information against it—and then, too, my Atchison friends - and my partner Michael were entitled to some consideration.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I answered the County Attorney’s questions - truthfully, and I believe satisfactorily—but still they did not get - what they wanted. I had the information, of course, but Sam and Oscar knew - too little about the business in hand to formulate the right questions. I - believe they did not know about that illegal contract.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">If they could have had Michael and our illegal - contract, written in violation of the Sherman Act, brought into court, - they would have had a case. But then it was I, a lowly track buyer - comparable to the complainant, who had by some hook or crook, aided by a - swift kick in the pants, bolted through the barrier that was keeping Oscar - out of the Association.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.9r1jv2u9y5pr"> - <span class="c8 c0">LOCAL “BOARD OF TRADE”</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This, a continuation of the preceding article, brings - us up to the second phase of my grain dealing experience. The businessmen, - and some who were not so businesslike, organized what they called a Board - of Trade, purportedly for the enhancement of the town’s interest—but, - in reality, as events proved, to locate an outside man in the grain - business here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Goff had two merchants advertising in my newspaper</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">one a particularly live - businessman—quoting prices, and drawing trade away from this - territory. Even people living right here in town would go up on the noon - train, and come back at four o’clock, loaded with purchases.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There had been discussions as to whether or not it was - morally legitimate for the local paper to accept outside advertising when - in competition with the home merchants—and the publishers all around - had decided that it was quite legitimate, especially when the home - merchants did not make liberal use of the paper’s space. Yet, I - doubted if it was wise for me to do so. However, I do not think I was - violating the code of loyalty when I prayed for a live merchant like Mr. - Abbott.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Board of Trade had come to life in Moulton De-Forest’s - office across the hall from my printing office, on a Thursday night. My - name, mentioned for possible membership—I was told, later—was - discussed at length. I was the culprit, at least it was I who owned the - vehicle carrying the price-smashing ads which were making them unhappy. - And though I was at the time publishing The Spectator, doing job printing, - buying and shipping grain, writing fire insurance, selling real estate, - and making more farm loans than both the other assembled loan agents, - there was doubt if I should be classed as a businessman, in</span> <span>the - true</span> <span class="c2 c0">sense. Stupid as this may seem, it is a - fact. The reason for it is not apparent—yet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were in this organization men who had been at - odds, even fighting mad, over other activities. It seemed as though - something nasty was always brewing then. The man who had not so long - before been petitioned to leave town, and the fellow who had borne the - liberally signed document to the printing office for public exposure, were - now working together in an effort to push me around, simply because I had - been so indiscreet as to accept outside advertisements.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The leading Prohibitionist had been especially active - in trying to clean up the town. It had provoked the imbibers and the - “blind-tiger” boys. They got up a petition asking the Prohib - to leave town, and brought it to the Wolfley printing office, where I was - in charge during the editor’s absence. I refused to print it. They - berated me plenty. But they got handbills printed elsewhere—now - signed “Committee.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Prohib did not choose to leave town.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One of the “boys” got gloriously drunk—and - bragged a little. The Prohib and the Drunk met in the middle of the main - town square. There were a lot of people on the street. Ed Cawood, quite - young then, is the only one now living that I recall. The Drunk struck at - the Prohib, missed, and fell flat in the street. He had to have help to - get up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Years later, I heard a brother of the Drunk, a highly - respected, and ordinarily very truthful man, in telling the story, say - that his brother (called by name) beat the Prohib up scandalously. You can’t - rely on what the old fellows tell you. You’ve got to know it—or - let someone who does know it, tell it. Hearsay, after it passes through a - generation is not reliable.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here I wish to say that, except the grain business, - the sidelines enumerated herein were acquired from the long established - agency of S. C. Shuemaker, at the same time I bought the newspaper after - his death, and that I was not butting in on anyone’s prior rights. - Also, I want to say that the ones having those unreasonable notions, had - axes to grind.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, a committee came over to my office, and asked - me to join them in Moulton’s office. I gave them $1.00 membership - fee, and noted the freshly written by-laws calling for an additional dime - for each and every time I might be absent from the regular Thursday night - meeting. Keep this in mind.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The members who had no axes to grind were pretty - decent. They felt the need of something to counteract the inroads the Goff - merchants were making on the local merchants’ business, and decided - that a full front-page write-up in The Spectator was desirable. It was - promised for the second week ahead. Nothing was said about paying for this - service—and no payment was expected.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Henry DeForest told those dominating members that they - were acting like spoiled children, or worse—imbeciles. It is really - surprising to what absurd lengths some fairly just people will sometimes - go in trying to force their will upon others.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Now, Thursday night was always a busy night with us</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but it was doubly so the next - Thursday night. The Board fellows decided that they could not wait two - weeks for the write-up, and asked me to advance it one week. I told them - that we would accommodate them it we could get Mr. Abbott to reduce his - space, or forgo the advertisement altogether. Mr. Abbott would oblige. And - this was the straw that ultimately broke the spinal column of the Board of - Trade.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our full office force burned the midnight oil that - Thursday night—and then some. The Board members trudging up to - Moulton’s office could have looked in on us and seen that we were - having no picnic. But, by golly, we were a little proud of our - accomplishments, hoping it would please. And it did. The thing that caused - me to lose faith in the Board was that paltry dime assessed against me for - missing the meeting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The prime purpose of the Board was to locate an - outside man in the grain business here, backed up by a stronger purpose of - one of its members to sell an old canning factory building to be converted - into an elevator:—plus one up-and-coming young doctor who was crying - for an opposition paper, with political slant. The business was delegated - to a committee of four—the canning factory owner, a relatively new - doctor, and two other men.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At this time doctors, after petty politicians, were - the bane of the local papers. It was considered by the profession - unethical for them to advertise—yet, too often, they craved top - newspaper recognition when only minor mention or none at all was due. The - case in hand was the third, with as many different doctors, with which I - had to contend—in every instance for what the paper failed to say - about them, or what it did say about some other doctor. But I want to say - that our old reliables, Dr. J. W. Graham, and Dr. Thomas Milam, did not - fall into this category.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">However, the cases I had</span> <span>t</span> <span - class="c0">o deal with were really mild</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">mild indeed to the one which threatened to do mayhem, or - worse, to the whole office force, when I was printer on T. J. Wolfley’s - Spectator. A doctor who had come down from Granada and located in Wetmore, - sent word that he was going to pay us a visit at 10 o’clock of a - Saturday morning for the express purpose of cleaning out the whole office. - The offending item was a week old, and the demanded retraction in Friday’s - paper had, as viewed by the Doctor, added “insult to injury.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Theodore Wolf ley really enjoyed a scrap—and - managed to have something on tap nearly all the time. He represented one - faction of the local Republicans, and Moulton DeForest, when not a - pronounced Prohibitionist, essayed to control another faction. The Doctor, - a husky farm-bred boy in the Granada neighborhood, now on honored citizen - of Wetmore, was a rantankerous Republican allied with the De-Forest - faction—until he switched to the Populist party without losing any - part of his rantankerous attributes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Anticipating in advance the proposed call from the - Doctor, Wolfley procured a revolver, and he and I practiced shooting the - thing in the office, from a distance of ten feet, with target pinned on - the leg of the imposing stone. He never hit the target once, but he broke - a window pane all of two feet above the stone. He always shut his eyes and - flinched before pulling the trigger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I was supposed to be stationed at the imposing stone, - in pretense of performing my regular duties, with iron side-stick—a - lethal weapon when expertly wielded—in readiness for my part of the - defense, if, and when, the Doctor might extend his belligerence thus far.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The printing office at that time was over the old - Morris store on the north side of the main street. A stairway went up on - the outside, with turnback to the front porch above. At the appointed - hour, heavy feet pounded on the stairs. I had all of one minute in which - to visualize my precarious position. With each step on the stairs my - nervousness mounted. The irate intruder would of necessity be stationed - somewhere between the editor and his foreman. The thing that worried me - was my boss’ unpredictable marksmanship.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But it was not the Doctor’s heavy feet on the - stairway. He had sent his understudy, Joe Eyman, who also was a husky - bigfooted farm-bred boy from up in the Granada neighborhood. Joe fixed - matters so that the Doctor and the Editor could talk it out between - themselves. And in good time Joe became eligible to write MD after his own - name. He then married Hattie Smarr, and they went to Sundance, Wyoming, to - hang out his shingle. She was known in later years, in Wetmore, as Mrs. - Stalder.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I am not sure if the belligerent Doctor’s - grievance was professional or political. Probably the latter—but I - do know that he was touchy in a professional way, for he later accounted - for one-third of my unfavorable experience with doctors, as earlier - mentioned in this writing. His successor in the Granada field had sent in - by our Granada correspondent, a dollar’s worth of advertising, in - the form of a personal, which had piqued the Old Doctor, causing him to do - a bit of rantankerous snorting at me. But I did not rush out and buy a - gun. I used the weapon I already had. The paper ignored him—and that - whipped him into line in about one year. And he was ever after that my - friend—with full ‘appreciation of the silent power of the - press. He was a good doctor, and a good fellow—when he was good.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As Populist crusader, the Doctor was a success. His - advertised meetings drew big crowds. He always brought in a principal - speaker. One time he had two billed for the same night—”Sockless” - Jerry Simpson and “Peruna” Jerry Botkin—but he got Mary - Ellen Lease, instead. The Doctor and his two very fine little girls, - Bertha and Belle, led the singing. The Doctor himself was not a noted - vocalist—but he bore down heavily on the refrain of his favorite - Populist song, “Turn The Rascals Out.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, let me add that any time the editor of a local - paper lets the politicians handle him, he is going to be woefully out of - luck. Politics was dirty then. If an editor was a Republican, he was - expected to engage in mud-slinging, shying the muck at all and sundry - Democrats, regardless of their standing as citizens. The mere favorable - mention of Republican candidates was not enough. And if he were true blue, - he must keep up a barrage against editors of Democratic papers, and vice - versa, a sort of nonsensical exchange of blasts. I steadfastly refused to - be drawn into their political scraps. They called me a “mugwump.” - But Gov. E. N. Morrell said—put it in writing—that inasmuch as - I had succeeded in keeping my political skirts clean that I was a - high-minded Republican. My hardest task was to hold down a brilliant and - goshawful sarcastic local politician who wanted to engage in muck-raking, - over the assumed name “Samantha” in my paper.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Politics was something to be shunned by me—that - is, from a business standpoint in connection with the publication of the - newspaper. I once went over to Edgerton, in the Missouri hills beyond - Rushville, to investigate an offer of $1,000 bonus for the establishment - of a newspaper. I struck the town at a time when a teachers’ - convention was being held there. The banker, who was on the committee - welcoming the teachers, was also on the committee pulling for the paper, - and he had arranged the appointment with me. Mistaking me for a professor, - he gave me a hearty handshake, and welcomed me along with the teachers - getting off the same train. When I got up town, I called at his bank—and - was “welcomed” again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“What’s your politics?” he asked.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Republican,” said I.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Your train leaves in one hour,” said he.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I did not know Missourians as well then as I do now. - The banker laughingly said, “Stick around awhile—I will talk - the matter over with you when I get a moment’s time.” He told - me that there were only two Republicans in the township; that I could run - the paper as an Independent until election time, and then I would be - expected to be a good Democrat—a real old “Missouri Mossback” - and no foolin’, I think the order would have been. I judged they did - not want a newspaper. They wanted a political “organ.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On invitation of the banker, I attended a meeting in the - school house, which was set in a natural oak grove</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and met many sociable and interesting people. In the - gathering, there were a lot of pretty girls—and all in all, it - looked to me as if it would be a swell place for a young fellow to settle - down. But—while I wouldn’t know why I was a Republican, I - couldn’t pretend to be something that I was not.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A young doctor from Goff had come here to make his - professional start. He first took his old schoolmate, Ecky Hamel, to task - for calling him by his given name, demanding that he be addressed as - “Doctor.” Ecky had gravitated from country school teacher to - printer and reporter, and thought he himself was some pumpkins, too. But I - don’t think this was held against the Doctor when Ecky wrote the - five-line item that touched off the explosion—caused the Doctor to - whoop-it-up for a competing paper.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The offending item merely said that “Dr. Jermane of - Holton, who had operated on Lyman Harvey here last week for appendicitis, - had died of a like operation at Holton this week.” A Philadelphia - lawyer could have found no fault with this—but the local doctor - thought it was a reflection on his professional ability. Knowing that he - had brought the Holton doctor here to do the job, and knowing also that - the local doctor had been duly recognized in the item reporting the Harvey - operation, I thought he had no kick coming</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and let it go at that. And anyway, Mr. Harvey had also - died of his operation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The complaining doctor was a hustler, socially a good - fellow, very much on the way up in his profession, when a catastrophic - repercussion reduced him to the level of the ice-man. As attending - physician, he had brought into the world an illegitimate child whose birth - was a great embarrassment for its little mother and the maternal - grandparents. And on a subsequent call at the country home he discovered - the child was missing. I am not familiar with the details at this stage of - the affair, but rumor had it that the doctor turned sleuth and dug up the - fact that the child was buried in the back yard.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The home folks, older members of the family, contended - that it had died of natural causes—pneumonia, I believe. The doctor - was wholly within his rights when he reported the matter to the - authorities—but he did not prove an apt witness in court. Two older - doctors from the north part of the county, combined and “proved” - in effect, on the witness stand that the young doctor did not know enough - about such matters to make a case.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the ice business in a southern Kansas town the - fellow made good. And though the “injured” doctor had kept on - whooping-it-up for a competing paper until he did, with the help of some - disgruntled politicians, put me out of the newspaper business, I’m - glad to say he was not one to carry a grudge beyond the time of its actual - usefulness to him. Just for old friendship’s sake, he wrote me from - the office of his artificial ice plant—owned jointly with his - brother—complimenting me on one of my articles in W. F. Turrentine’s - Spectator. This note on the background of the doctor is given here for - reasons which will appear later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">J. W. Coleman, publisher of the Effingham New Leaf, - having conceived the idea that a string of local papers along the Central - Branch, would be the motive power to land him in a fat political job, came - here to negotiate with me for the Spectator. My paper was not for sale. - The doctor and the political boys combined to</span> <span>persuade</span> - <span class="c0">Mr. Coleman that a second paper would be preferable. It - would seem the MD and PB’s did not want to crush me on the spot—or - maybe it was their idea of one huge joke to let me die a slower death. In - either event, it was the wedge that pried me loose from The Spectator. I - sold to Coleman. I did not permit this to cause me to break with the - Doctor and my political friends</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">as there was the outside chance that they might have been - misquoted by the over-anxious purchaser. And then, too, it was not long - before I really liked it. It afforded me time to give my full attention to - other more congenial matters</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">for getting married, for instance. The wife said it was a - great stroke of good luck for me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had weathered one brief, and I may say clean siege - of competition, which had proved that the town was not large enough to - support two papers. P. L. Briney, with his two daughters, Bertha and - Olive, wholly on their own—that is, without MD’s or PB’s - moral support—established and published the Enterprise for about one - year. Unable to make a go of it, Mr. Briney sold the whole outfit—exclusive - of the girls, of course—to me for $125, his first asking price.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Coleman did not last long enough here to do the - political boys any good. He got off on the wrong foot in an early issue. - He attended a recital given by Edith McConwell’s music pupils—and - ridiculed it. Our people did not like to have their kiddies ridiculed—nor - their music teacher either, who was once a kiddie here herself. However, - after a few issues by Coleman, Art Sells, also of Effingham, took charge, - and gave the people—not the politicians—a very satisfactory - paper. Coleman gave up his political aspirations, sold his two papers, and - took the job of City Editor for the Atchison Daily Globe. However, Coleman’s - successor, W. F. Turrentine, held forth twenty years longer than the - fourteen years that I had published the Spectator before giving up the - ghost about five years ago. The idle plant is still in Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">To give a clear picture of the grain situation I - should explain that Mr. Baker, of the Greenleaf-Baker grain firm, of - Atchison, had asked me why would it not be a good idea for me to build an - elevator here? I told him that I did not think there would be business - enough, from year to year, to justify me in so doing—which, I might - say, was a fact fully demonstrated in later years. I pointed out that with - the large feeding interests here; and in the north territory, particularly - at Granada, where the Achtens sometimes bought as much as one hundred - thousand bushels of corn for feeding cattle and hogs; that practically all - the south territory was in pasture land; and with two elevators at Goff - and- two at Netawaka, we could hardly expect to draw trade away from them - without making costly inducements, as we were now doing in our track - buying.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Baker said, “Well, then, I’ll build - one for you. It will save you paying a premium to get the corn, and make - it more convenient for you to handle it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I think the Board members did not know this at the - time of organizing. But the committee, composed of the man who had a - canning factory building to sell, and the doctor who wanted a competing - newspaper with political slant, both uncompromisingly for the Goff man, - and two other men who had a tendency to view things in their proper light, - met with a representative of the Greenleaf-Baker firm in ‘the opera - house here. The spokesman for the committee told Frank Crowell, Mr. Baker’s - brother-in-law, and member of the firm, that they preferred to locate - their man Reckeway, because it would bring another family to town and - consequently make a bit more business for the local merchants. Mr. Crowell - told them that we would like to have their friendship and co-operation—but, - regardless of whether or not they located Mr. Reckeway, that his firm - positively would build the elevator as planned. The two silent members on - the committee packed power enough only to delay action.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As it is now all water over the dam, with not even a - trickle of cankerous aftermath, it is not my purpose to show up the old - Board of Trade boys in a critical light—but it was evident that they - were not being guided by the Golden Rule. They knew the Greenleaf-Baker - people were going to build an elevator, when they located their man. They - knew also that in normal crop years there would hardly be business enough - here to sustain one elevator. As a sort of excuse for them pulling for the - Goff man, the spokesman said to me, “You know, if we don’t get - our man located this year, we may never get an elevator. We have never had - a corn crop like this before, and we may never have another one.” It - was not strictly a Christian act—and I suspect they never had any - regrets for having turned the trick. It was apparently their way of - building up the town—and, incidentally, securing a buyer for an old - canning factory building.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Canning Company, a local organization, having - failed to bring in the expected returns, and having accumulated debts in - excess of its ability to pay, had liquidated, the building going to the - highest bidder, one Theodore Wolfley by name—uncle of Editor - Theodore Wolfley. Then, later, it was planned by the holders of the - worthless canning factory stock—and others—to try to recoup - their losses by the establishment of a cheese factory, with an eye on the - old building as a prospective site. It was then that the present owner - hopped out and bought the old canning factory building, hoping to turn a - neat profit. But the cheese factory promotion fell by the wayside. It was - then patent to the purchaser that he had over-played his hand. Knowing - these facts, one can better understand his sudden anxiety for an elevator—for - the good of the town.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Their prospect, W. M. Reckeway, who had been operating - the Denton elevator at Goff, likely misunderstanding the Committee, gave - out an interview in the Goff Advance, saying that they had bargained for - the Worthy dump, and that it was his intention to build a modern - up-to-date elevator in Wetmore, but J. T. Bristow had slipped in and - bought it away from them—the inference being that the good people of - Wetmore who had longed for an elevator for lo these many years, would now - have to take what they could get—something less than would have been - the case had Bristow behaved himself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Had this been true—the way I look upon such matters</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">it would have been both shrewd - and legitimate business on my part, though it would have left an ominous - smirch on Mr. Worthy. But it was far from the truth. The Board Committee - had not bargained for the Worthy dump.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As has been pointed out, the Greenleaf-Baker Grain - Company had already planned to build an elevator here for my convenience, - as a shipper—but of course the company was not in the market for the - old canning factory building. My Company, as well as their prospect—not - the Committee</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">wanted a - better location. Mr. Baker instructed me to buy the Worthy dump, solely - for the location.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not - even suspect that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter - of fact, the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, - at any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, - “I’ve given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for - $200, good until noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. - Now don’t wait until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee - went to Mr. Worthy after one o’clock, asking for an extension of the - option. That old canning factory was still in the way. And the owner did - not exactly pat me on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he - learned that I had bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s - reaction to this—but I do know that, though we continued on friendly - terms—we never had any clashes</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, - with political slant.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, - converted the old canning factory building into an elevator in time for - the fall business. The people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an - erroneous notion that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than - the track buyer, and while the reverse is true, they had located their man - with this belief. Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in - fact he put me completely out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I - could get for it. How come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old - canning factory. They were wrong of course.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It may be a little early to bring this in—but - Mr. Reckeway was making some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he - had brought in, but he could not count on a repeater in this line, for he - had already been told by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour - in his general store at substantially higher prices—to cut it out. - It was made plain to the fellow that he had not been brought here to - compete With the home merchants.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and - why Mr. Heckeway bid up the price on corn—but this seems the - opportune time to slip in a line about the entry of a business which led - all competition. And lo, the man was from Goff, the town which had - furnished me a competitor in the grain business, and a politically minded - doctor who wanted a competing paper—and ironically enough, the town - whose advertising merchants, C. C. Abbott, John Wendell, and George - Bickel, were the thorns that had been pricking the Board of Trade boys’ - sensitive hides.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man - whose advertisements in my paper had given so much concern at the Board of - Trade’s first meeting, and was the cause for that elaborate - write-up, had moved in on them with a complete new stock of general - merchandise, locating in the old Stowell brick building, the present - Catholic recreation hall.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, let ‘em kick!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The energetic efforts of the dominating member of the - Board Committee to close a deal for the sale of that old canning factory - building had, unwittingly of course, also paved the way for the entry of - some live competition for himself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Abbott became my best advertiser. Legitimate, too. - He paid, in trade, three to five cents a bushel premium for ear-corn, and - turned it to me at the market price. Also, there was a general come-down - of prices in the other stores. Now was I, or was I not, working for the - best interests of the town?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Evidently Mr. Reckeway had a threefold purpose in - bidding up the price of corn. He wanted to build up a reputation, wanted - to crush competition, and at the same time discourage the Greenleaf-Baker - people in their plans to build an elevator here. The word got around that - I was going to try to operate the Worthy dump “as is.” It - would have not been fruitful for them to let Reckeway know the truth at - this stage of their dickerings—hence the circulated report that I - had bought the Worthy dump, aiming to operate it myself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Nor did Mr. Reckeway know that the order for the - lumber in special lengths had been given to a mill in Arkansas the day - after I had bought the Worthy dump, when he betook himself to Atchison in - an effort to dissuade the Greenleaf-Baker firm from building, pointing out - that he had the grain business corralled here; that I was now a “dead - duck,” without standing in my own community. Mr. Baker was not - impressed by Mr. R.’s pleadings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr. Reckeway had been shrewd enough</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">or lucky enough—to sell, in early fall, a - sizable quantity of December corn at a price above the settled market. He - had been sloughing off his profits to the farmers to create atmosphere—and - to stop me. Many of his old Goff customers were now bringing their corn to - him in Wetmore, a high testimonial of his popularity—and a welcome - morsel for the aggressive half of the BT Committee to peddle in support of - their earlier expressed contention that an elevator man could actually pay - more for corn—even, so to speak, pull rabbits out of a hat.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Had Mr. Reckeway made it win, it would have been good - business. As it was, I’m not shrewd enough to say whether it was - good business or bad business. The one certainty is that he did not make - the goal he was shooting for.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Owing to delay in getting the lumber, the Baker - elevator did not open for business until January 5. Reckeway had now quit - playing for atmosphere. Then, we both got more corn than we could - conveniently handle, as a car shortage had developed, which slowed down - shipments.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had a little bad luck the very first day the Baker - elevator was opened for business. We were getting corn from three - shelters, about 4,000 bushels that day—and some of the wagons came - in after dark. Elmer Brockman, the builder, was looking after the elevator - end of the first day’s run. I weighed a wagon, told the driver to - wait for Elmer to signal him in with his lantern.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Something had gone wrong, and Elmer had taken his - lantern and stepped out of the driveway. Mr. farmer, after pulling up and - stopping, decided that he didn’t need a lantern to guide him—and - he drove on in and got one horse part way in the open dump. The horse lost - patches of hair in two or three places, but was not otherwise injured. The - next day the fellow came back and wanted to sell me the horse for $100. - The old plug was worth only about $40. I didn’t want to buy the - horse at any price, and I didn’t want the man to go away - dissatisfied. And I suspicioned—correctly—that some of my - competitor’s supporters might be back of the fellow. I suggested - that I send Milt Cole, the liveryman, out to the farm to examine the horse—and - that I would pay him whatever amount that the two of them might decide - would be just. Mr. Cole said $40 would be a big plenty—and I paid - it. Then, about a week later the farmer, pleased with his high-handed - stroke of luck, had the nerve to tell me that I was an easy mark, that the - horse was as good as ever, and that I had virtually thrown away forty - dollars.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, this man was on a farm owned by an Illinois man—a - Mr. Smith, who had entrusted me with the rental of the place. The farmer - had contracted to pay cash rent, with a clause in the contract stating - that in case of drought, or for any cause lowering the normal yield, that - a substantial reduction would be allowed. Mr. Smith was a firm believer in - the old principle of “live and let live.” But he soon found - out that it wouldn’t work so well here. And anyway, it was mostly - his sister’s idea—she having an interest in the land.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The tenant had asked for a reduction. Well, Mr. Smith - came to my printing office one day, borrowed my shotgun, pulled on new - overalls, and went out to his farm to hunt a bit. He found the tenant at - the house, asked for and received permission to hunt. Mr. Smith said - truthfully he had just got in from Minnesota, and casually asked about - crops in general here. The tenant said they had been good, and he bragged - a little about how well he himself had done that year. Mr. Smith’s - sister lived in Minneapolis, and he had gone around that way to get her to - yield a point on that stiff “live and let live” idea of hers—and - to discuss plans for selling the farm. I sold it for them, later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might say here that another tenant the previous year - had asked for, and received a reduction. The man had sold his corn. He - patted his pants pocket, and told me, “I’ve got the money all - in here. They’ll have to settle my way, or not at all.” He was - entitled to a reduction and I was sure Mr. Smith would do the right thing. - And he did. I said to the tenant, “If you should lose that money we - would have no chance to collect anything. Put your money back in the bank - where it will be safe. If anything comes up, I’ll notify you in time - for you to get it out before attempting to force a collection.” He - said, “On your word, I’ll do that. Can’t sleep very well - with the money in my britches, anyway.” This man was Albert W. - Dixon. Don’t care to name the other fellow.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This rather unusual incident got “noised” - around, and the tenant:—the farmer with the “crippled” - horse—being what he was, thought he might just as well do a little - more gouging. Mr. Smith said to me, “Make that fellow pay in full—and - get rid of him.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Still Mr. Reckeway was not satisfied. Having failed in - his efforts to block the building of the west elevator, he now began a - play to get control of it. And, finally, he did get it. During a grain - dealers meeting at the Byram hotel in Atchison, Frank Crowell told me that - my competitor was still after my “goat”—that Mr. - Reckeway had just renewed his offer to give them all his shipments, if he - could get control of the west elevator.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “For heaven’s sake, let him have - it—if it means anything to you?” Please note that Mr. Crowell - and Mr. Baker were my sponsors. They would not let me down.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Reckeway closed the west elevator.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the new crop began to come in, I resumed track - buying. I could have forgiven Mr. Reckeway for trying to squeeze me out—but - now I would have to show him how badly he had been misled by his - promoters, when he told the Greenleaf-Baker people that I was a “dead - duck.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">We now had a new man in the depot. Agent Larkin was a - fine Christian gentleman, an active church man. Also, he had a wife, and a - pretty daughter who was a popular elocutionist—and a flock of 200 - chickens. He did not impress me as a man who could be influenced or bought - for a few kernels of corn. However, when he asked permission to scrape up - the waste around the car we had just loaded, it gave me an idea. I was not - expecting any favors from this agent</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but I wanted to forestall the efforts of my competitor in - demanding a division of cars on a comparable basis of his grand-elegant - physical representation. When the boys would spill too little corn while - loading the cars, I often climbed into the car and kicked out an extra - bushel, sometimes more, before reporting the car ready for sealing—and - of course I wouldn’t object to Agent Larkin gathering up the spilled - corn, for his 200 chickens. I was getting an equal division of cars, and - that was all I could reasonably expect—more, in fact, than seemed - equitable to my competitor, with his investment in an owned elevator and - his shrewdly acquired control of the Greenleaf-Baker elevator.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The idea that an elevator operator could pay more for - corn than the track buyer was all wrong. An elevator is a convenience to - the shipper, and helpful to a community</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but don’t forget for one moment that the grain - producer must pay for it all. When track buying, I usually kept two men at - the car, one inside the car and one to help the haulers shovel off their - loads. I paid them 15 cents an hour. Tom and Juber Gibbons were horses to - work then—but don’t look at ‘em now! And in long hauls, - I would take the drivers to dinner at the Wetmore hotel, and feed their - teams at Cole’s livery barn. The haulers, who were the seller’s - neighbors, would complain about having to shovel the corn—but they, - in turn, would bring me their corn for these extra helps, and extra money. - One farmer who sold me 3,000 bushels said, “My neighbors will kick - like the devil about having to shovel off their loads—but I reckon I - kicked too when I shoveled off my loads when I was hauling for them.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On the basis of those magnificent holdings, Mr. Reckeway - took his troubles to the higher-ups. Agent Larkin called me to the depot. - Reckeway was there with a special representative of the railroad</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">the “trouble shooter.” - Reckeway told his side of the story—very correctly, I must say. He - owned outright an elevator, and he had control of the Greenleaf-Baker - elevator as well</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and that - firm was getting all his shipments. And, as a clincher, he said, “You - know the Greenleaf-Baker people are heavy shippers over your railroad. - They have elevators all along the Central Branch.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The special agent then asked me: “Have you any - storage for grain?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Yes,” I replied, “a bin with - capacity for two car loads of shelled corn.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">His next question: “Did you ever have to pay - demurrage for holding a car over-time while loading?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Again I replied, “Never.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The special agent’s final question, the one I - was hoping he would ask me: “Where do you ship your corn?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in - Atchison, as always.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not - real anger. The agents both laughed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: - “Has he told the truth in all three instances?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner - friend.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Then, give him every other car,” said my - newly found friend.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And Mr. Reckeway stalked out mumbling in jumbled - English and German, of which I could catch only, “A man with two - elevators—.” My reputation was now redeemed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The so-called “Board of Trade” had long - since passed out. It was never a Board of Trade, anyway. Its operations - were limited to the sale of one old canning factory building, and the - location of Mr. Reckeway—that is, if we do not choose to count the - location of Mr. Abbott. You know, I was a member of the Board, with dues - and absentee penalties paid in full.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, let’s get this straight. I wouldn’t - have been so resentful as to induce a live merchant like Mr. Abbott to - move in on the homefolk. I just told him of the behavior of some of the - Board members, and that I might have to deny him space in my paper. - “Oh,” he said, “I don’t believe you will want to - do that to me.” He winked. Well, I didn’t—really.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Abbott had been thinking things over ever since - the time I had asked him to surrender his space in the interests of that - elaborate write-up. Said he figured it would now be OK for him to bring me - copy for a half-page advertisement announcing his location in Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There were, however, many proposals advanced</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">but always they met with opposition from some member - or members of the Board. In general, they kicked like the proverbial - “bay steer” whenever something was advanced which might be - helpful to one and detrimental to another. I think Mr. Worthy and I were - the only ones who did not protest their proposals—such as bringing - in Mr. Reckeway. And, frankly, until it had come to a showdown, I was not - favored with too much information as to what Michael had up his sleeve.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I don’t know where they could have found a - better man than Mr. Reckeway for the place—but he was no miracle - man. Handicapped as he was, he found the going rather tough. And having - found out also that the Board Committee’s prophesy was only a myth—that - an elevator alone could not make two bushels grow where only one bushel - grew before—after a few rather lean years, he departed for greener - pastures. I believe Mr. Reckeway made good in the flour milling business - at Girard, Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Board of Trade sponsored (Reckeway) elevator, - after years of idleness, has been torn down. Goff and Netawaka, like - Wetmore, each now have only one elevator. And still the grain does not - roll into Wetmore as was anticipated by the Board of Trade enthusiasts. - Perhaps the old town may someday be favored with another set of - progressives—who do not know their onions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I reiterate, there is no lingering malice in this - writing. Collectively, year in and year out, the oldtime Wetmore people, - despite all differences, were the best people I ever knew—and I - lived in relative harmony with them for a long, long time. I’ve - lived a lot of living in the old home town.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And, thankfully, I’m still here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.ppld0c1w9o2f"> - <span class="c8 c0">FAMILY AFFAIR</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c12 c0 c14">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the foregoing article I made reference to Theodore - Wolfley’s poor marksmanship, with a revolver. When possible, I like - to back up my assertions with proof. I now quote from a letter dated at - St. Louis, April 5, 1941, written by T. J. Wolfley to his sister May - Purcell, commenting on my writings in The Spectator, in which I likened a - Belgrade story to a hot Wolfley editorial. It was at a time when a Hitler - delegation was in Belgrade endeavoring to put pressure on the Yugoslavs to - force them into the war on the Hitler side. The quote:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“I received the copy of the Wetmore Spectator, - which you so kindly sent me. Thank you for it. I was interested in the - story from Yugoslavia; and flattered to be even remotely connected with - the incident by my friend John Bristow, who professes to think that if I - wasn’t in St. Louis, I might be running a newspaper in Yugoslavia. . - . . Just as in the political wars he mentioned, I was sometimes more - friendly with the men I opposed than with the ones I favored. But the - people liked it and it was then the accepted slogan to give the people the - kind of news they wanted. . . . John was a good newspaper man and a good - squirrel hunter, so we thought a little expert shooting might lend realism - to the picture. But I wasn’t a good shot. I couldn’t even hit - the imposing stone when it stood on the side against the wall. But I - remember John could hit a penny when it laid on the floor at the leg of - the imposing stone. So we depended upon John’s ability as a shooter - to keep the enemy away. . . . Show this to John. A good many things - happened in the Spectator office even after I quit, similar to the way - they happen in Yugoslavia. He may remember some more.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, yes—I do remember one more. Always one - more. But first I want to say that Theodore verifies the point I made in - the preceding article—that he could not even hit the leg of the - imposing stone, in his gun-practice. To those who are not familiar with - the mechanics of the print-shop, the imposing stone is a heavy slab of - marble mounted on a stand about waist-high, on which the forms of the - newspaper are made up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the Spectator was in its first year, I helped - Theodore Wolfley carry out one of his “bright” ideas which - gave him some sleepless nights. His sister Mary, still too young to carry - on a flirtation with a grown man, had embarked on a whirlwind romance with - a Central Branch railroad engineer. The heavy grade at the John Wolfley - farmstead five miles west of Wetmore, made it possible for the engineer - and the girl to exchange notes. And when they might desire a few moments - time together, it was said, he would drop off at the crossing near her - home, and then grab onto the caboose—and the fireman would take the - long freight train into Goff.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Theodore told me that, as her older and wiser brother, - he intended to break it up. He said it had got to a point when a talking - to would do no good—and the girl was too big to spank. We printed a - ten-line item in the Spectator, branding Mary’s Romeo as an all - round bad character, even had him arrested and jailed for drunkenness—and - credited the item to one of Atchison’s daily newspapers. After - printing one copy for the Wolfley family perusal, I lifted the spurious - item before running the regular edition.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Theodore commuted on horseback between farm and town - at that time. He took the “doctored” paper home with him. He - watched Mary read the item. He said she wrinkled up her nose, shook her - head as if she meant to get even with someone. When he came back to the - office the next day, he said, “I guess that will hold her.” - But it didn’t.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the following day Theodore discovered the item had - been cut out of the Spectator—and he rightly suspicioned it had been - turned over to Mr. Romeo. He came to the office in agitated confusion. He - asked me, “What paper did we credit that darned item to?” He - had maligned an Atchison man and credited the item to one of the three - Atchison daily papers—the Champion, the Patriot, or the Globe—which - made him liable to attack from two angles. But luck was with Wolfley. John - Reynolds, the engineer, came back promptly with his daily exchange saying - the item referred to another John Reynolds living in Atchison—and - the romance went merrily on.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Theodore would have felt a lot easier had he known - there actually was another John Reynolds living in Atchison. And though - the second Mr. Reynolds had a shady record, he was never guilty of the - things the item charged the engineer with. I have penned a line on this - John N. Reynolds in another article. John A. Reynolds, the engineer, was - really an honorable man, with high standing in Atchison. I came to know - him well in later years.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I shall carry on from here</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">after this paragraph</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">without Mr. Wolfley. But I’m not forgetting the Romeo - engineer. And I should say here that Mary’s romance terminated - without hitting the rocks, and that Theodore never had any complaints from - Atchison. And I might say further, as a last tribute to my old friend, - that Theodore Wolfley went from here to Phoenix, Arizona, and became - editor of the Daily Republican, owned by ex-Governor Wolfley, of Arizona, - (no relation), where he played up Republican politics to his heart’s - content. From there he went to the St. Joseph (Mo.) Daily Gazette, where I - imagine he would have been a loyal Democrat. And from St. Joe he went to - the St. Louis Globe-Democrat as Financial editor. While in St. Joe - Theodore wrote me that he was holding open for me a place on the Gazette - paying four and one-half times the ten dollar weekly salary I was getting - here. That was considered “big money” then. But I had promised - Curt and Polly Shuemaker that I would remain on the job here when they - bought the Spectator from John Stowell. Curt Shuemaker was blind—lost - his eyesight from close bookwork in the Morris store and as the first - cashier of the Wetmore State Bank. I could not quit them cold—but I - was trying to find them a reliable printer when Curt sickened and died - suddenly, leaving The Spectator in need of an editor as well. The quickest - way to help out Polly was for me to buy The Spectator—at my own - price. Not an unfair price, however. When Theodore was back home a short - time before he died, having just read my manuscript of the Green Campbell - story, he proposed that we buy The Spectator from the Turrentines—just - to show the people what we could do. From past experience, I knew he could - have shown them plenty—and I was afraid he might insist on doing it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Some years after Mary’s romance, I was walking - past the depot in Wetmore with the girl who afterwards became my wife. Her - home was on the south side of the tracks, near the watertank. The noon - passenger train was at the tank. As we came abreast the engine the - engineer hopped down from the cab, pulled off a leather gauntlet glove, - and met the girl with a hearty handshake—and some hurried palaver. - She introduced him as Mr. Reynolds.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But you know, passenger trains must move on time</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and when alone with the girl, I - said, “Let me see your hand.” She said, “Oh, you’d - never get a speck of dirt from shaking hands with Johnny Reynolds; he’s - really quite particular about keeping himself clean of engine grime.” - I learned later that she had told the truth in this particular—but - how the devil did it come she knew so much about him? I said, “I - think I know something about him that you do not know.” Then I told - her about his exchange of notes with the Wolfley girl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">She laughed and said, “Were you expecting to see - a note in my hand? You don’t need to be afraid of Johnny Reynolds. - He is engaged to a Miss Spelty, in Atchison.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Johnny” Reynolds had roomed at their home - in Effingham before the family came to Wetmore, when Myrtle Mercer was - eight years old. Being a very courteous man, he “made over” - all members of the Mercer family whenever and wherever he might chance to - meet them. And he had gotten lunches from their home in Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After her husband’s death in 1888, Myrtle’s - mother had rather a hard time providing for her family of five girls, - ranging in age from two to sixteen years. She was advised to open a - boarding house for trainmen</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - others—but it settled down mostly to providing lunches for the two - local freight train crews which passed through here about the noon hour. I - think it was not very helpful. She was an excellent cook, and her - twenty-five cent lunches were too elaborate to make money, even in those - days. The passenger trains had stopped here for dinner before this. The - hotel charged trainmen 25 cents—as was customary at all stops—while - passengers paid 35 or 50 cents. Hence a 25 cent precedent for trainmen.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The pinch was lifted, however, some years later, when - Mrs. Mercer was granted a Government pension—for herself and the two - younger children—with several years back pay. Though only 39 years - old when he died, John Mercer was an “honorably” discharged - soldier. He had enlisted in 1864, when only 15 years old. How he managed - to get in at that age, is presumed to be the same as other under-age boys - got in.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One time when I was riding the local freight to - Atchison, I saw Tom Haverty, the conductor, an Irish Catholic, open his - lunch basket. It contained a big porterhouse steak cooked just right—it - was a steak that would cost at least $2.50 now, with very few trimmings. I - know that steak was cooked just right, for my wife had learned the art - from her mother, and she had cooked many a one to the same turn for me. - Well, Tom Haverty picked up that steak, held it as though he thought it - might bite, walked to the opposite side of the caboose and chucked it out - an open window.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was Friday.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After selling my newspaper, I found time to “putter - about” on my farm one mile down the creek from town. I actually did - a lot of worthwhile work, cleaning up the bottom land of brush, trimming - hedge, and cutting cockle burrs with a “Nigger” hoe. I usually - stuck a sandwich in my pocket for lunch—but sometimes Myrtle would - prepare a real dinner, even steaks like I’ve been describing, carry - it in a basket, sit down on the ground with me in the shade of hedge or - tree, fight flies and gnats while eating, and pretend to enjoy it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One morning she said I need not take a lunch—that - she was going to cook a real dinner, bring it down to the farm, and eat it - with me. I told her I would come for dinner, and save her that long walk. - She insisted that she “loved the walk, loved to get out in the open,” - and I told her where to meet me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But she caught a ride most of the way. Green Goodwin, - conductor of the local freight, told her to come aboard the caboose, that - he would stop the train out near the farm and let her off. He had gotten - lunches from her mother’s home. She said, “Mr. Goodwin said my - lunch basket smelled good</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">like - old times. He told a passenger in the caboose that he could always be sure - of getting a good lunch at our home. I sure appreciated the ride, and I - offered to give him my part of the lunch, but he wouldn’t take it. I’ll - bet that traveling man who peeped in the basket wouldn’t have turned - it down. But Mr. Goodwin did eat two of the cream-puffs: he said they were - as good as the ones mamma used to put in his lunches. That leaves four - cream-puffs for you—if I don’t eat any myself.” What - manner of man would have eaten four cream-puffs—just then?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle felt pretty chesty about getting this ride—to - think Green would stop his train on a steep grade, to save her the walk. - Well, it was a pretty steep grade—and it was kind of Green to give - her this lift. It recalled the time when, on several occasions, freight - trains had stopped at that same place to let me off. And when the train - had started to move again I could easily have beaten the engine to the top - of the grade, in a running walk. But that would not Tiave been what I had - been taken on the engine for, in town. I walked, or trotted slowly, ahead - of the train pretty close to the creeping engine, shooing grasshoppers off - the rails. After the 1874 invasion of grasshoppers freight trains could - not make that grade until the rails were cleared of hoppers—and I - had to stay close to the engine so that the hoppers would not fly around - me and settle on the rails again. I was always “Johnny on the spot” - to catch those rides. To ride the engine was a thrilling experience for a - twelve-year-old boy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While eating our lunch that day, a covey of half-grown - quail came out from between the rows at the end of a cornfield. Myrtle - said they were so cute that it was a shame to kill them. “And if you - shoot any more of them,” she declared, “I will not cook them - for you.” I said that I guessed I could cook them myself—that - I had roasted them suspended on a stick over a fire in the woods.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Well,” she said, “I’ll cook - them, of course—but I promise you that I will never eat any more of - them.” I tried her out on six birds. She cooked them, of course—and - kept her promise. And then, in due time, I also thought they were too cute - to be killed. But I continued carrying feed to the quail, in snowy times.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While Wolfley said I was a good squirrel hunter, quail - was really my game. I trapped them in my younger days, and shot them when - old enough to be trusted with a gun. I “potted” them. In the - old days quail sold for 5-cents each and no one would think of wasting a - charge of ammunition on a single bird, especially while on the wing; - though I did once shoot a lone quail sitting on top my figure-four - cornstalk trap, under which were twenty live birds. We made our traps then - with any old thing we could pick up and bind together. The twenty trapped - quail had followed a tramped out path in deep snow, baited with a thin - scattering of shelled corn, with a more generous supply of kernels under - the trap—thus to engage the lead birds while the others were coming - up, lest an impatient bird might go after the nubbin on the treadle and - spring the trap too soon. I think trapping and “potting” were - legal then. I winged them in later years, same as other sportsmen were - wont to do.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One time while coming home from the farm on a Sunday - morning about eleven o’clock, three teen-age boys caught up with me. - They said they were from Fresno, California. I questioned them a little - about Fresno, and decided they were telling me the truth. Also, I knew - they were not professional tramps—and that they were hungry. I took - them to the Wetmore hotel, and told Bill Cordon to give them their - dinners, fill them up with double orders. One of the boys had about worn - out his shoes—the sole of the left shoe was dragging, making it hard - for the boy to keep up with his pals. While they were waiting in the hotel - for the dinner call, I went to my home and hunted up a pair of shoes—almost - new shoes, which pinched my feet—and took them, with a pair of clean - socks, to the little fellow, and started them on their way back to Fresno, - walking of course. On parting, the boy wearing my shoes, asked me why had - I taken so much interest in them? I told them that I might be tramping - myself someday, maybe even get as far away from home as Fresno, and in - that event I hoped to meet them all again. This is what I told the boys. - For the correct answer—it is enough to know that my people live in - Fresno. One of the older boys said, “Never doubt, we’ll be - there—if we ever do get back home.” And though I have been in - Fresno a number of times since, I never had the pleasure of meeting any of - them. I lost their names.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now—the $64 question!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A real honest-to-goodness professional tramp had - hurriedly passed me by before the boys had caught up with me. I had a - couple pork sandwiches in my pocket. My first thought was to offer them to - this fellow—then thought that maybe he was not a tramp. A tractor - had been running on a farm east of my place, and this fellow was just - about smeary enough to have been the driver. I let him pass—and - later saw him go into the depot. The wife and I were preparing to eat the - sandwiches which were on the table still wrapped in oil paper. Then, this - professional tramp showed up at our kitchen door, asking for a handout. - Taking the two wrapped sandwiches off the table, I said, “Here you - are, my man—I’ve been saving them for you.” I told him - that had he not passed me by in such hurry on the railroad tracks, that I - would have offered them to him then. He said he had been sick, and was - hurrying to get in out of the weather. It had been “spitting” - snow—which, I imagine, had caused my dinner guests at the hotel to - wonder why did they leave their homes in sunny California. My home was two - blocks away from the depot—and this was the tramp’s first - call. Now—had this fellow “read my number” in passing on - the railroad track? Or, did he read the sign at my home? It was said in - the old days that tramps had a way of marking the favorable houses. My - wife never let an applicant go away without something, little or much, to - allay his hunger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I shall drop back a few years now and expand a bit on the - trials and tribulations of my wife’s family—before she was my - wife, understand. Married at the age of sixteen, and left a widow at the - age of thirty-three, with little more than the home and a houseful of kids—all - girls, at that</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Kate Mercer - found herself in a highly discouraging predicament. Deprived of the - bread-winner, the almost new five-room house on an acre of ground down by - the creek, on the “wrong side of the tracks,” could now hardly - be called a home. It had been ideally situated for the husband and father, - who had been section foreman here for eight years.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was no county welfare aid here then, as there is - now. There was, however, in practice at that time the “good neighbor - helping hand.” It consisted of raising a temporary fund by the - circulation of a subscription paper. But when such a course was proposed - by sympathetic neighbors, Mrs. Mercer, strongly backed up by her oldest - daughter, declined to permit that. They would try somehow to get along - without charity. They would go out and work. Thus, an up-hill drag was in - store for them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle finished her schooling in May—though she - said that with the readjustment problem confronting the family, and - consequent worries, she feared she had made a rather poor job of it. Then - she went out to work as domestic, or maid—just plain “hired - girl” it was termed then. She worked two weeks in the home of the - aristocratic Augusta Ann DeForest during the illness of Miss Mary Randall, - the regular long-time maid. Myrtle said she could not have wished for a - more congenial place to work. She dined with the family, notwithstanding - the traditional rumors which said that such breaches of table etiquette - were not tolerated in that home. And she said Mr. Henry, whom gossip - claimed never even got to see the other cooks, was especially considerate, - and told her not to try to overdo. That would be Mr. Henry, all right.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle worked for the eccentric Mrs. Draper, who was - the mother-in-law of Charley DeForest. And she worked for Mrs. R. A. - DeForest—and as chambermaid at the Wetmore hotel while her mother - was the cook there. Of all her domestic “positions” Myrtle - said she felt more at ease, and liked best to work for Linnie (Mrs. R. A.) - DeForest. Linnie was the sister of the gracious Alice McVay, mentioned in - another article. And Linnie was the mother of Harold DeForest, now living - on a farm two miles northeast of Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle worked five weeks that first year for a young - married couple who had come down from Granada to set up housekeeping in - Wetmore with scarcely more than their love to go on. She quit them before - the man had accumulated the money to pay her. The loss was only ten - dollars, she said—but ten dollars would have been something toward - keeping the family together. Myrtle said, “There ought to be a law - preventing people from marrying before they are financially prepared for - it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That was a statement worthy of a philosopher.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the early winter of that first year the family went - back to Illinois, the home of Mrs. Mercer’s people. Again Myrtle - worked out at her enforced occupation as “hired girl.” Jennie, - the second girl, went temporarily to an aunt, Mrs. Esther Noble—her - father’s sister—in Bloomington. Georgia stayed with her aunt, - Mrs. Henry Ham, in Bureau Junction. Kathy and Jessie remained with their - mother in the home of Mrs. Mercer’s father, John Leonard, in Bureau—which - railroad town was the home of the Mercers before they came to Kansas. They - were all back in Wetmore within a few years.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">James F. Noyes, a well-to-do retired farmer, living in - Wetmore, adopted Georgia. He and his wife Jennie could</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and did</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">give - her a good home. But after the novelty of the new life for the child had - worn off, Georgia would “run away”—and go back home. The - several occasions when she did this, made sorrowful times for the family. - When matters became really serious, Georgia’s foster parents took - her on an extended trip to visit Mrs. Noyes’ brother, George Scott, - in Oregon, hoping to cure her of her homesickness. Georgia married Don - Cole and reared a family of two boys and three girls in the Noyes home. - She never lost contact with all members of her mother’s family.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then there was an opportunity to have another of the - girls adopted into a childless home. I don’t think the matter was - considered seriously</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">not - favorably, anyhow</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - Myrtle said she “Threw a fit.” No more adoptions, if she could - help it. She’d just “bedarned” if anyone could have - Jessie, the baby. So it came to pass that she got the care of Jessie - herself—after her mother had married John Hall, and gone to live on - a farm one mile west of Powhattan.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Hall’s first wife, and mother of his four - children, had stayed several months in Mrs. Mercer’s home while - taking treatments of Dr. Haigh for the chronic ailment which caused her - death. He had come over weekly to pay the bills. And he therefore knew - just where to find himself another wife—provided.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Graduate Wetmore Public Schools—Class 1899.</span> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image8.jpg" alt="image8" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image8.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">No, Girls—It’s not her Graduation Dress.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Artist’s Idea—1904.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mother of Virginia, Ruth, John, and Betty.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The deliberating period was another trying time for the - girls</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but after thorough - consideration, mother and daughters were in complete agreement. It would - perhaps be best for all of them, especially for the overburdened mother. - And it was really good for all of them—the Halls included.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Mercer girls all finished their schooling in - Wetmore. The two younger girls could have gone with their mother—it - was so arranged—but they preferred to remain in Wetmore, most of the - time. Jennie was offered the chance to work for her keep in Conductor - Carlin’s home in Atchison, while taking a course in the Atchison - Business College. She soon switched to the home of her uncle Stewart - Mercer (a tailor) and his wife Mina, to act as baby sitter for little - Esther, their first born. The Spectator, by virtue of some timely - solicitation by Jennie’s older sister, and an advertising contract, - contributed the tuition fee. Then Jennie went to work for a grain - commission company in the Kansas City Board of Trade building. She worked - in that one building as secretary and bookkeeper for different grain firms - for the remainder of her life—more than thirty-five years. She never - married.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Not that Jennie never had the chance. She turned down - Danny Cromwell, a Kansas City boy, after he had secured the license. His - sister Kate, a true friend and a very sensible girl, told Jennie that he - had nothing, that he was sickly, without prospects—and that she - would do well to sack him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then, too, Jennie had prospects of marrying her boss. - But, after years of happy anticipation</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">you could see it written all over both their faces when they - spent a vacation week with her relatives in Wetmore—it developed - that this romance also was fraught with intolerable aspects. Her Romeo - lived with, and was the sole support of an aristocratic mother who was - allergic to working girls. Oh, those aristocratic mothers! A wise - Nineteenth Century girl needed no advice. What think you a Twentieth - Century girl would have done?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jennie was helpful in securing positions in Kansas City - for her younger sisters. Kathy worked as cashier and bookkeeper for the B. - F. Coombs Produce Company down by the market, at Fifth and Main. She - married Luther P. Hyre</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - reared a family of three girls and one boy, in Kansas City.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I think Kathy was the only one of the girls to inherit - in a high degree her mother’s Irish wit. I don’t care if she - was my mother-in-law, Kate Leonard - Mercer - Hall was a witty woman. And - what’s more, I never could understand the why of so much criticism - of the mother-in-law.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, little Virginia Hyre, Kathy’s first born, - was a bright kid. Note this. Percy Worthy had gone to the farm with me to - get a load of posts. Little Virginia, my wife’s short three-year-old - niece, tiny and talkative, was taken along. The posts were in a small - depression on the edge of a cornfield. I lifted the little girl out of the - wagon and stood her on higher ground. She remained quiet while we loaded - the posts. When Percy started to pull out, the front wheels of the wagon - hit soft ground, sinking to the hubs, stalling his big bay team. He lashed - the horses—mildly of course—and yelled fearsome notes of - encouragement. Virginia set up a howl—screamed as if the lashes and - frightening words were falling on her little tender person. Percy climbed - down off the wagon to investigate. Virginia stopped her howling and said - with broken sobs, puncturing each word with her little right hand swinging - up and down, “I know what’s the matter, Uncle John. - You-just-got-too-many-posts!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And again, nearly a year earlier, after the child had - spent a month in our home, Virginia’s mother had come out from - Kansas City to take her baby home. At the last minute, when they were - seated in the passenger coach, Virginia decided she did not want to leave - us, and she tearfully argued the matter with her mother—to no avail. - As the train started to move the little girl, tiny and tearful, standing - up in the seat, thrust her head and outstretched arms out an open window, - and sobbed, “Uncle John, don’t you want me?” That did - something to me. The fact was, we did want her. And I could have made the - flying catch</span> <span></span> <span class="c0">all right—but her - wardrobe would have gone on to Kansas City. Virginia came back to our - home, later, and started to school here, but she “fell out” - with her teacher—and was carted back to Kansas City again. “I - just don’t like Miss</span> <span class="c2 c0">Peters” is all - we could get her to say. Miss Myra Peters was the primary teacher who had - for many years been adored by the little tots.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After a brief spell as Kathy’s assistant with - the Coombs Company, Jessie came back to try country life again. She - married Will Hall, her step-father’s son. One time when Myrtle and I - were visiting the Halls they took us to a Masonic program and supper in - Powhattan. I was sitting with Mr. Hall when a friend of his from Hiawatha - asked, “Who is that pretty girl in red over there with your son?” - Mr. Hall said, drolly—he was a slow talker when he wanted to be - impressive—”Well, she is my wife’s daughter; and my son’s - wife.” The friend looked puzzled for a few seconds, then said, - “I get it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall now have to drop back once more. At this time - Myrtle Mercer was working in my printing office, and she and Jessie were - living in the home place down by the creek. My brother Theodore and his - wife Mattie, living on my Bancroft farm, had given Myrtle a Great Dane - puppy. It grew into a very large dog. With Vic as protector, the girls - felt secure in their rather isolated home between the timber and the - tracks. Hoboes were numerous along the railroad in those days. The girls - were not bothered by tramps, with Vic around.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Historically noted, the pup’s mother, aided by a - visiting male dog of like breed from over near Hiawatha, had got herself - in bad repute by taking down a stray cow that had come into the front yard - where the tender spring grass made better pickings than were obtainable on - the roadside. After being poorly wintered, roadside pickings were the cow’s - only chance for sustenance. The cow was the property of a roving family - consisting of father, mother, and five kids, that had wintered in the Jake - Brian farm house a half mile away. The cow was trespassing, of course—but - there were the kids to be considered. My brother paid the man for the cow. - He already had possession of her. She was still down in his front yard. - But in time, she got up—and was driven with other stock six miles to - Uncle Bill Porter’s pasture for a summer’s outing. She never - got back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the pup was brought to town, the record of the - old dogs followed—and as he grew to be a monstrous dog he was feared - by some people who knew him only by his breeding. Then the town got a - mad-dog scare. Vic was reportedly seen fighting with the suspected mad-dog - down in the lower part of town—on “Smoky Row.” The - informer recanted later—but that did not help matters after Vic had - been killed by order of the City Marshal. I think the dog’s - overly-advertised ancestry had marked him for annihilation. Thus, “the - sins of the parents were visited upon the son” to the extent of - needless distrust.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Vic was a good dog.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle said she couldn’t believe her dog was - seen fighting with another dog on the town-side of the tracks, as he was - never known to leave the home alone. But she felt that it was best to be - on the safe side. And then too an order was an order. She wished that it - had come a week earlier, so as to have saved her the dollar tax she had - paid the City Marshal for the privilege of keeping Vic another year. It - was a tragedy that the girls’ watchdog was to be killed because of - that false alarm.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here I will put in a word on my own hook. I knew Ed - Lazelere had stuck the pup headfirst into a rubber boot and given him a - treatment designed to keep the dog at home. It really worked. In his - mature years Vic was never known to leave the premises alone, and seldom - with either of the girls. His one mistake in his puppy days was when he - followed Myrtle, unbidden, to the Lazelere home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Frosty Shuemaker was detailed to do the shooting. I went - along to help get the dog away from the house. Vic was in the back yard in - the shade of an apple tree. He wouldn’t budge for us. Myrtle came to - the back door, and said she would have Jessie lead him over to the creek - bank west of the house. Frosty and I went around to the front</span> - <span></span> <span class="c2 c0">of the house, and then west on the - outside of the yard fence to where there was an opening in the enclosure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jessie and the dog came running. Vic stopped broadside - opposite the opening, and was knocked down with a single charge from - Frosty’s double-barreled shotgun—when Jessie was halfway back - to the house. She did not look back. She held in until the booming report - of the shotgun</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">then let - out a terrific squawk. We dragged the dead dog outside the yard fence and - left it in a weed patch. Vic was now the City’s dog. The Marshal - would get a dollar for burying him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back at the house Myrtle, red-eyed and sorrowful, - asked me what had become of Jessie? I found the kid in a patch of - marijuana over by the east line of the grounds, lying face down—crying - her heart out. And I think I dropped a few tears, too. You know, there are - times when you can’t fight them back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.s9fp15acgy7j"> - <span class="c8 c0">COMPLIMENTARY TO THE “KIDS”</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c12 c0">Here, I wish to pay my respects to the &#8220 - Kids”all “Kids.” And especially the childrenborn of - parents living in my home—separate apartment—with whom I have - had close</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">and pleasant association.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Complimentary to MY LITTLE PAL</span> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image1.jpg" alt="image1" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image1.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span>Also, I was brought up with kids—ten in my father’s - family; eight of them younger than me; all boys but the last one. And - then, too, after my marriage, the wife’s nieces, Josephine, Donna, - and Lucile Cole; Virginia, Ruth, and Betty Hyre; and Mary Jane Hall, were - in turn very much in our home—which, altogether, has instilled in me - a profound respect for the kids. Girls preferred.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Cloy spent the first five years of her life in my home—separate - apartment. When she was about one year old, I often carried her down town - and got her an ice cream cone. She was just beginning to walk, that - awkward period when a child has to spraddle and step fast to hold its - equilibrium. At times when she would be with her mother on the settee at - the north end of the 22-foot front porch when I might choose to come - around from my apartment to the south end, she would make known to her - mother her desire to be put down on the floor, and she would come cooing - with outstretched arms for me to pick her up. And while she could not - talk, her mind was, I’m sure, on a cone somewhere down town. I never - aimed to disappoint her</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - one time when I had been working in my Rose Garden and was plenty tired, I - tried to talk her out of it, put her off. She could not understand all I - was saying, of course—but she caught the general idea all right. - Never again did she come a-cooing to me with outstretched arms. This is - not to say we did not get more cones.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Cloy was about four years old, she had a line-up - for me to participate in a social activity of the family. I said, “No, - Cloy, I couldn’t do that—I don’t belong. She said, - “Well, gee—you’re one of us, ain’t you?”</span> - </p> - - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image5.jpg" alt="image5" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image5.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">When hardly five years old, Cloy found me, at night, - standing on the old National Bank corner. She asked me if I would give her - a nickel—said she had one nickel, and wanted to buy a 10-cent - lipstick at the Wells store for her mother. I said, “Cloy, your - mother does not use lipstick.” “Oh yes she does,” said - Cloy, “the kind that don’t show.” I did not have a - nickel, and offered to go with her to the Wells store. She said, “Can’t - you get the change at the drugstore?” I said, “Come along, I’ll - get it for you,” and headed for the restaurant operated by her - father and mother and her aunt Genevieve Weaver. As we were passing the - drugstore, she said, “Get it in here.” I said, “No, let’s - go to the restaurant.” She said, “Well, bring it to me here”—and - she sat down on a bench. When I gave her the nickel, she skipped across - the street to the Wells store—and I went back to the restaurant. In - a little while she came in with her purchase, grinning. She opened it, and - proceeded at once to paint her fingernails right before her parents, still - grinning. Nellie said Cloy had “deviled” them for that extra - nickel to get the nail polish</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and that they had turned her down. It was plain then why she - had said to me, “I knowed durn shore if I’d find you, I’d - get it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span>I could keep on writing about this kid until the “cows come - home”—but I won’t. This paragraph shall suffice. We were - coming up from town, hand in hand, when Cloy, fairly bubbling over with - good cheer, said to me, “You never did let me see in your rooms.” - I said, “Well, come in now and take a good look.” When inside, - she said, “Gee, it stinks in here.” Defendant pleads nolo - contendere.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">These two fine little youngsters have been in my home—separate - apartment—since time began for them. And I’ve</span> <span></span> - <span class="c0">instilled in their heads the ice cream cone habit. Their - mother has told them that they must not ask for the cones—but - together we’ve worked out a way around that. Whenever I meet Karen, - bright-eyed and smiling, in my path, I say to</span> <span></span> <span - class="c0">her, “Well, go in and tell your mother.” I never - know how she gets it over to Marjorie—but we are always off at once,</span> - <span></span> <span class="c0">usually with a mighty active little trailer - not far behind. When brought into my presence in the yard, before she - could talk,</span> <span></span> <span class="c0">Karen, doubtless - thinking of a cone, would point the way down town and then run ahead for - about a rod. When this</span> <span></span> <span class="c0">did not bring - the desired results, she would take me by the hand and lead the way, - humming like a contented kitten</span> <span></span> <span class="c2 c0">sometimes - purrs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">When hardly three years old, Karen</span> <span>’</span> - <span class="c0">s mother sent her, with an older little girl from across - the street, on an errand down to Hart</span> <span>’</span> <span - class="c0">s store. They both “fetched up</span> <span>”</span> - <span class="c0">at the restaurant where I get my meals. They found me - “in</span> <span>”—</span> <span class="c0">but Karen, - in the lead, did not give me so much as a single look. They marched on - past me, climbed</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">with much - effort</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">onto the counter - stools. Charlie Shaffer asked them a couple of times what they wanted</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">but they just stared. Charlie then - glanced over toward me, laughing, which</span> <span>was equivalent</span> - <span class="c0">to saying, “You take ‘em,</span> <span>”</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and then I had gotten over my laughing spell, I called - Karen over to me, and asked her if they would like cones.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Her little head went up and down a couple of times. They - got their cones, and went out pleased. And I was pleased, too.</span> - <span></span> <span class="c0">When the annual Wetmore Fair was in - progress I found Karen, slightly more than four years old, sitting primly - on a bench among strangers at the down-town end of the block on which we - lived, and I sat down by her. She proudly told me she had on a new dress</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">a little yellow creation—which - I later suspected she had been told to keep clean. I told her she looked - nice—and this she accepted with true womanly grace.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It also developed that she had been permitted to go - thus far only in advance, to await the coming of her mother and Harry—but - she did not take the trouble to tell me this. I asked her to go with me to - the drugstore for cones. She hesitated a moment as if she were remembering - something—and then declined to go, but she said, “I thank you - for asking me.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On my return from the post office, I observed the - little yellow dress was still on the bench—and, as Karen had been so - nice about it, I stepped into the drugstore and bought a couple of cones, - aiming to pick her up on my way home. Then, too late, I realized my - mistake. The children saw me with the cones as they turned the corner with - their mother enroute to the program on the Fair grounds in the next block. - With apologies, I gave the cones to Marjorie, thinking to make her jointly - responsible for messing up her children.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, the next day when we were getting cones at the - drugstore, I asked Karen if she had gotten her new dress soiled with the - cone last evening. Karen laughed—and said, “You know - something. Daddy and mamma ate the cones—but mamma gave me one bite.” - I did not hear from Harry on this score, but assumed matters had been - properly taken care of. The moral is: Never give a kid a messy treat after - mama has cleaned it up for public appearance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c23 c27"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.qhgjfa4z85nv"> - <span class="c9 c0">ANOTHER BRIGHT LITTLE STAR</span> - </h2> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The little Fresno, California miss was ushered into my - presence. My sister then went back outside to continue with the watering - of her flowers. Standing off at a reasonable distance, Connie Jean Moser, - from across the street at 1010 Ferger, said, “Aunt Nannie told me to - come in and get acquainted with Uncle John.” Attracted at once by - the little visitor’s proud carriage, pleasant expression of face, - and trim little body not burdened with too many clothes, I told her that - for me this should be a real pleasure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Little girls, from three to six, in all their - innocence, have always made a hit with me. This is not to say I do not - appreciate them when they are older. But in general they lose a lot when - they get smart. And here now was beauty and apparently innocence at its - best. A little reserved at first, Connie Jean declined my invitation for - her to sit with me on the sofa, where I had been writing on a tab. She - climbed into a chair, twisted, and got settled with her little bare feet - sticking straight out at me. She told me her name, her age, and where She - lived—and that she had a boy friend named David.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Not wanting to lose an interrupted thought, I picked - up the tab and wrote a few lines. This done, I now found Connie Jean - Moser, four years old, sitting close up by my side, on the sofa. She asked - me to read what I had written. I said, “Oh, Connie, you wouldn’t - understand it.” Then she commanded, peremptorily, “Read it!” - I told her I was writing a book, and if she would promise to read every - word of it when she got big enough that I would send her the book.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Oh, a book,” she said, happily, a light - breaking in upon her understanding, “I could take it to school like - Oralee.” Oralee Johnson, ten years old, is Connie Jean’s next - door neighbor. I told Connie that Oralee, when four years old, had paid me - several rather affectionate visits when I was in Fresno six years ago—but - Oralee was getting too big for that now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">“Yes,” she said, “Oralee is big.</span> - <span class="c2 c0">”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Connie Jean squirmed and twisted on the sofa, as - children will, causing the straps sustaining her little sun-suit to slip - off her shoulders, annoying her to the point of alarm. I said, “Don’t - let the straps bother you, Connie—you will not lose your suit.” - She smiled, and her blue eyes opened wide. “If I would lose ‘em,” - she said, “it would be too bad—got nothing under ‘em.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A very good man once said, “Suffer little - children to come unto me.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.zac316rj5in8"> - <span class="c8 c0">LLEWELLYN CASTLE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3 c36"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator—Seneca - Courier-<br /> Tribune—Goff Advance—Topeka Daily<br /> Capital—October, - 1931</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A half century ago England got rid of some of her - surplus inhabitants by sending them over to this country to “root - hog, or die” as the old saying is. They drifted in here “like - lost leaves from the annals of men.” Colonies were planted in - numerous sections of Kansas. Nemaha County, with her great sweep of vacant - rolling prairies, inviting, snared one of those colonies.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The settlement known as the old English colony was on - section twenty-five, in Harrison township, five miles northwest of - Wetmore. The section was purchased from the Union Pacific railroad company - by the Co-operative Colonization Company, of London, about 1870.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The London Colonization Company had about six hundred - members. They drew lots to determine who would be the lucky—or - unlucky—ones to come over first, expenses paid.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">John Fuller, John Mollineaux, George Dutch, John - Radford, Charles McCarthy and John Stowell were the original six to enter - upon the duties of conquering this land—virgin wild land it was. - Except John Stowell, all these men had families, but they did not all - bring their families over at first.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">An eight-room house was built in the middle of the - section and all managed to live in it for a while. It was called Llewellyn - Castle. Later, lean-tos were built on two sides of the big house, and - finally, some smaller buildings were erected around the original house. - The men were supplied, meagerly, with funds to equip the farm.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The idea of the Company at first was to make a town in - the center of the section, and cut the land up into 10-acre tracts. They - seemed to think that ten acres would make a respectable sized farm. The - town of Goff, a mile and a half away, got started and the Colony town - project was abandoned. Also the 10-acre farm plan was changed to forty - acres. The lumber for the improvements was unloaded at old Sother, a - siding on the railroad a mile and a half south of the Colony section. - There was a postoffice at old Sother. Nothing else. Not even a station - agent.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Later arrivals of the Colonists included the Wessels, - Beebys, Perrys, Coxes, Ashtons, Trents, McConwells, G ates, Morden, Hill, - May, Conover, Weston, Helsby, Weeks, Mrs. Terbit, and others. Still later, - other members of the Colonization Company come over after the local - Company had ceased to exist –gone bankrupt, it was charged, because - of the extravagant management of the non-producing misfits sent over here - to start operations. At this late date it could not be ascertained just - what was the text of the contracts between the parent company and the - members sent over here. But the impression is that if all had gone well - additional lands would have been acquired to accommodate other members. - The members, however, kept on coming regardless of the lack of advance - preparation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">They scattered out on other lands, mostly around the - Colony—usually 40-acre tracts. They were miserably poor. And the - privations were many. Mrs. Terbit, having no mode of conveyance, used to - walk all the way in from the Colony and carry home on her shoulder a - 50-pound sack of flour.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Isaac May settled on the 40-acre tract one mile south - of Wetmore, which is now the home of George W. Gill. May lived in a - dug-out. John Stowell settled on the north eighty of a quarter five miles - southwest of Wetmore—known as the Joe Board place, and still later - owned by Charley Krack.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">George Cox settled the south eighty, which is still in - the Cox family—now owned by George’s son Fred, of Goff.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Colony project was a glorious and ignominious - failure from the very first, with romance and intrigue ever in the - ascendancy. Those poor Englishmen were as green as the verdant prairies of - springtime that lay all about them. And the inexorable hand of Fate - pressed down on them heavily. They were besieged by droughts, - grasshoppers, prairie fires, blizzards, rattlesnakes—and, worst of - all, an abiding ignorance of all things American. When Llewellyn Castle - was torn down in later years, a den of rattlesnakes—twenty two in - number—was found under the house.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Tom Fish told me that the snakes were offer heard - flopping against the floor, underneath, while the house was occupied.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Those poor misfits had not a chance. And it was little - short of criminal to send them over here so empty handed and so illy - equipped for the duties imposed upon them. But they were now all a part of - the big, sun-filled Golden West. And they were too poor to go back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Many are the causes advanced for the downfall of the - Colony project, but the one cause on which all seem to be unanimous, more - or less, is that “They were a bunch of rascals.” This is - probably an error—or partly so, at least.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Internal friction with a very shady but treeless - background undoubtedly played its part. But I would rather suspect that - the main cause was ignorance, or to put it more kindly, a lack of - knowledge. Tom Fish, our faithful mixer of British-American juris-prudence—three - times Justice of the Peace backs me up in this contention. Says Tommy, - “They just didn’t knower anythink about farmin.” Our Tom - attended their meetings back in London at the Newman street-Market street - headquarters.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But whatever the facts, and admitting that there were - among the Colonists no replicas of the man who walked along the Galilean - shores two thousands years ago, still I do not subscribe to the general - belief that those Colonists were all rascals.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Had they succeeded, handicapped as they were, it would - have been a miracle—and only in ancient history do miracles spring - fullblown from questionable beginnings. A condition soon developed among - the Colonists on section twenty-five where it was “every fellow for - himself and may the devil take the hindmost.” True, there was a lot - of poor management and some shady, if not to say crooked, transactions. - And it appears one man did rather “Lord” it over the others—took - the lion’s share of everything.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">George Cox, a carpenter—they were practically - all tradesmen was sent over to superintend fencing the Colony lands. And, - very much to the merriment of the natives, he did that fencing in the dead - of winter, when the ground was frozen. The postholes he and his countrymen - dug that winter cost the Company one dollar, each. Such frozen assets - were, of course, conducive to the downfall of the Company.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But George Cox was not the fool that his ice-bound - fence would indicate. The real fault was on the other side of the big - pond. The Company sent Cox over here in midwinter to build a fence. He was - without funds. The larder at Llewellyn Castle was low—distressingly - low. And his brother Englishmen needed immediate succor. There was money - for George Cox only when he worked. And he couldn’t afford to put in - all his time that blizzardy, snowbound winter hanging onto the coat-tail - of one of his brother countrymen while the bunch of them played - ring-round-the-stove in that old Colony house to keep from freezing, as he - once told me he was compelled to do. So, then, what was really wrong with - George’s congealed fence idea?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Like other Englishmen, after coming here, George Cox - had a lot to learn, of course. He was the complainant in a lawsuit - involving the ownership of a cow. John J. Ingalls was attorney for - Theodore</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Wolfley, the defendant. The illustrious John J. - queried, “What color was your cow, Mr. Cox?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Bay,” said George. The court laughed, and - told Cox to try again. “Well,” said George, “I ‘ave - a bay ‘orse, and my cow’s the same color as my bay ‘orse.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, from over the seas, came the jovial Mr. Murray, - clothed in authority and a superabundance of ego—English to the - core. He had been sent over here to make an audit of the Company’s - estate. Murray stopped first at Wetmore and partook freely of Johnny - Clifton’s “alf-and-alf.” He was a free spender and made - friends here readily.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In pursuance of his duties, Mr. Murray said to those - Colony delinquents, “Wots the jolly old idea of all this reticence? - Hits most happallin! I want to see the books, by-jove.” One of those - derelicts exclaimed with a little more mirth than was becoming, “I-si, - just listen to ‘im, fellow! Wants to see the books, ‘e does! - That’s rich! Si, mister we don’t keep henny books!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then in unison they shot words at Mr. Murray which - were the same as “You get the hell out of here.” Murray - demurred, and not having read the storm signals quite right, he bellowed, - “Ave a care! Want that I should report you for this hincolence? Hits - very hunwise for you to hact this wy!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But when the old shotgun was brought out from its - hiding place an awful doubt of his own wisdom assailed the jovial Mr. - Murray. Those true sons of Briton actually chased the auditor away with a - shotgun.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In employing the hit-and-miss English words here I am - relaying them to you as best I can from memory as I caught them from one, - maybe two, of the original six, many, many years ago. The quoted words are - not my own. If you could have known the men and could apply either the - Stowell or Radford pronunciation and accent you would improve it a lot. - And don’t forget to speed up a little.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There are now few of the old-time typical English with - us. And the language of those who came over a long time ago has become - Americanized to such extent that the younger generation here have no - conception of just how delightfully funny was the talk of a fresh - Englishman. However, some of those who came over as children and Even some - of the American born who had good tutors retain a percentage Of the - pronunciation, but the inflection and speed which characterized their - ancestors have been lost.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After the collapse of the Colony enterprise the - unallotted part of section twenty-five fell into the hands of Captain - Wilson, of London.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He was an officer in the Company. Later, Captain - Wilson’s interest was acquired by William Fish, also of London, and - a member of the Company. In England William Fish was superintendent of the - Great Northern railroad. He came over here in 1881. He was a pensioner, - and did not renounce his allegiance to the Crown.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Captain Wilson thought a lot of the Colony scheme. He - was to have given his fortune at death to the first male child born on the - Colony section. That honor fell to Alfred Wilson Mollineaux, first son of - John Mollineaux, born 1874. While conversing with Alfred Mollineaux a few - days ago, he said to me, “But since I didn’t get me ‘eritage - I’ve dropped the Wilson part of it. Wot would be the good to bother - with it now?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Mollineaux heirs are the only descendents of the - originals holding an interest in section twenty-five in recent years. - Alfred now owns the south 80 of the northwest quarter. Harry sold the - north 80 two years ago to Otto Krack. Otto paid $6,000 for it, including - the growing crop. The old house on the place, built more than a half - century ago, is the original John Mollineaux home. The other lands in the - section have long since passed to new owners.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There are now only two of the old Colonists living. - William Wessel, familiarly called “Teddy,” came over in 1873. - He is 89, and lives with his daughter, Mrs. John Chase, in Goff. William - Conover lives with his son Edward, on a farm adjacent to the old Colony - section. He is 89.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I took a drive about the old Colony section a few days - ago seeking to refresh my memory and gather additional data for this - article. At Goff I found Teddy Wessel in the Sourk drug store. Still - living over the broken dreams of the past, Teddy exploded, first-off, - “They were a bunch of damned rascals.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In course of the interview I asked Teddy if he knew - anything about a racy romance at Llewellyn Castle many years ago. “I - should say I do,” he said. He had a momentary flash of it. That was - all. Then his mind began to fag. Laboriously, tantalizingly, the tired - feelers of his mind went fumbling into the dark pool of the past, trying - desperately to capture the lost details, but the whole works went under—ebbed - away like a fadeout in a movie.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">George Sourk, who was sitting by and coaching the old - fellow a bit, said, “You’ll have to give daddy a little time, - John. He’ll remember it all right.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Daddy swam up out of it all right and sure enough - recollections were upon him with a bang. But the main topic was still - submerged and in its place was an ugly memory that should have been dead - long ago. “They were damned rascals,” is all he said.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is assumed that my very fine old friend’s - poisoned arrow was aimed only at the shades of the original six, or, at - most, only those who had the actual management of the Colony affairs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Teddy Wessel’s run of hard luck started before - he left London. It seems he bought something—or thought he paid for - something—he didn’t get. But Teddy can thank his stars that - there was at least one crooked countryman in his close circle. Teddy - trusted a friend to purchase first-class passagenfor himself and family. - The friend bought cheaper tickets on a slower ship, and pocketed the - difference. The fast ship passed the slower one in mid-ocean and was lost, - together with all on board, when one day out from New York.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A happy—and I believe equitable—solution - of the matter would allow the reader who had a friend or relative among - them the privilege of exempting such one, and thus still leave Teddy some - targets for his arrows. For my own part, I think I should like to exempt - that little nineteen-year-old boy, John Stowell. In later years, after he - had come to Wetmore and engaged in business, I worked for John Stowell in - his lumber yard, and in his brick manufacturing plant, and finally, as - type-setter on his newspaper. He was not a crook.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I grew up along with those bally English and I think I - knew them pretty well. They were not all rascals. The Colony section was - only five miles away from Wetmore as the crow flies. And as the crow flew - then so did I gallop my mustang along the prairie grass lane while - carrying mail between Wetmore and Seneca, passing Llewellyn Castle on the - way.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were few fences in the way then. Just prairie - grass and wild roses and more prairie grass. And lots of prairie chickens. - I have seen acres of them at one time on the hillsides in the vicinity of - Llewellyn Castle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was no blue-grass then. And no timber along the - route anywhere until the Nemaha was reached just this side of Seneca, at - the old Hazzard place.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And later, in 1887, when I was a compositor on T. J. - Wolfley’s Seneca Tribune, and made drives home with Sandy Sterling’s - livery team, practically all of the twenty-six miles of road was still - only a winding trail.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Willis J. Coburn, the contractor for that Star mail - route, went with me on the first trip. He took me to the home of his old - friend, John Radford, who had then left the Colony and was living on the - old Scrafford place adjoining Seneca on the south. I put up with “Old - Radidad”—as we afterwards called him when he came to live in - Wetmore—for about a month, and while they treated me kindly, I didn’t - like their English ways.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And when I announced my intentions of throwing up my - job Willis Coburn said I should then put up at the old Fairchild Hotel, - which was on a side street north from the upper end of the main street. It - was a stone building. Besides being immaculately clean, the Fairchilds - were related to the Jay Powers family in Wetmore and that made a bond - between us that held for the duration of my mail carrying activities. - There were two stops on the way—one in the Abbey neighborhood, and - one at old Lincoln.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As compensation for my services as mail-carrier, I was - paid fifty cents each way, up one day and back the next—twice a - week. And I was glad to get that. Our mail-carriers here in Wetmore, - covering about equal distance, with only two hours on the road, draw about - seven dollars a day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Willis Coburn offered me the job I was short of - the required age, sixteen, and I was wondering how I would get by without - swearing to a lie, when our good old postmaster, Alvin McCreery, solved - the problem for me. When he swore me in, he said, “Now, don’t - tell me your age.” He shook his head, negatively, and repeated, - “Don’t tell me your age.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the Radford home in Seneca, I learned enough about - the old Colony to make a book, but much of it is now shrouded in a fog of - haze. On the occasion of our first trip, Mr. Radford and Mr. Coburn - discussed Colony matters freely in my presence. It was July, and it was - out on the border of the big orchard which came right up to the back door, - under the shade of an early harvest apple tree, where they sat and talked.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I have to admit that at the time I was more interested - in the golden fruit hanging on the apple tree than I was in the - conversation, but I got enough of it to know that there would be a good - story in it, if I could but remember more clearly. Mr. Radford’s - agile mind ground out astonishing facts as steadily as a grist mill that - afternoon. Whatever else may be said of John Radford, he was an educated - man. And he had a wonderful sense of humor.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As I remember it, or partly remember it, the high - light of the afternoon’s conversation—the thing that tickled - the men most—was a racy romance that had budded, bloomed, and died - at Llewellyn Castle. The male participants were of course Wetmore men—one - artisan, one professional. But somewhere along the time-worn trail between - that old apple tree and my present quarters, separated by three and fifty - years, the details of that affair are lost. And like the characters who - made it, that romance has crumbled into dust—is now a part of the - past.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the phantom of the bally old thing, elusive though - as a half-formed thought awakened by a stray wisp of forgotten fragrance, - still hovers over section twenty-five. And if memory were but a trifle - more elastic I could entertain you with something more than the tattered - shreds of Llewellyn Castle’s most charming romance—a jolly old - love-spree staged and destroyed by the heartless hand of Fate.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.31gddwwveoa"> - <span class="c8 c0">MORE ABOUT THE COLONY FOLK</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Colony folk, men and women, came to Wetmore to do - their trading—and to sip ‘alf-an-’alf, beer and whisky. - At that time there was quite a lot of immigration from England, and - Britons were scattered about over the prairies in all directions—and - in general they were all regarded as Colonists.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">William Cawood, with his two sons, Walter and Prince, - came direct to Wetmore from Scarborough, England, in the spring of 1870. - Other members of the family—George, Charley, Emma, Kate, and their - mother—followed in the fall.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">William Cawood was a large man—a man of means, a - man of dignity, ideas, and mutton-chops. In England he was a contractor - and builder—and a good one, too, it was said. Here, he built his - meat-market, and his residence, his horse stable, his cow barn, and his - pig sty, all under one roof. The structure, founded upon pine studding set - in the ground, was on the alley end of four lots north of Third Street and - west of Kansas Avenue. The boys at school across the street to the east - thought a new telegraph line was coming to town. In later years, wondering - if my memory had served me well, I asked Prince Cawood if it were true - that those studding were set in the ground? He said, “Every one of - them.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Walter Cawood was a large man like his father. He - played an important part in the making of this story—or rather this - incident. An outstanding episode of the early days was a free-for-all - fight on the main street in Wetmore, with Colonists predominating. It was - the year 1870—maybe 1871. Can’t be sure about the exact time. - That brawl is recorded in local history as “English Boxing Day”—though - in England, the day after Christmas is known as Boxing Day, This one - occurred on a muggy summer day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At this time Wetmore’s main street was flanked with - three buildings on the south side, and four on the north side, in blocks - one and four—all well toward the west end. Lush</span> <span - class="c11"></span> <span class="c2 c0">prairie grass still grew on the - east half of those two blocks. A long hitchrack was in the center of the - ungraded street.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I do not recall what it was that started the fight. - Perhaps it was the old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists - were continually fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping - voice—I think it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a - brother Englishman on the mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody - blighter!” They were on the south side of the street in front of - John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow started to run away. He - dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the street almost in front of - my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The big man who had taken - the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt. Then multitudinous - inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill Liebig—fell - in without waiting for an invitation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was a battle royal—everybody hitting - somebody, anybody. Blood and blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, - flowed freely. When the battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, - were prone upon the ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon - and met the bruised and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” - she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my cocky little man. - Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that - melee. He was young, powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those - tipsy brawlers went down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter - was the big shot in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before - going back to his dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a - whole family of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the - view of taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, - blemmy—the bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick - quite putrid.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The next best skunk collector of that time also was a - Britisher. Teddy Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim - Noyes place over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to - be helping with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained - and stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice - Gentry, and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a - spring wagon. On the way in they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the - men told Teddy to jump out and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. - He carried the skunk to town in his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. - John W. Graham would pay well for that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” - said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset to grab a little lunch, - rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a bob now.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side - of the street. He also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly - always together. With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s - door locked. Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at - an open window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John - W. sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a - little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog found - the object of his search, a rising young physician literally exploded.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Teddy did not wait to collect his bob.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original - influx of Colonists, did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to - go out on a chicken foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, - neither he nor I was troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both - quite sure that we would never have to answer to God or man for our - actions</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">I hasten to say, - in this particular instance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they - would tell you that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked - chicken house and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they - themselves helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they - were to be roasted</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">innards, - feathers and all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In explanation, John Stowell “burned” the - brick for his two-story building across the street from the Worthy lumber - office—the present location of the Catholic recreation hall. The - brickyard was on Stowell’s land south of the creek just west of the - town bridge. Old Hagen, an experienced brick-maker, was brought here to - burn brick for the John Spencer building—with Masonic hall above—on - the alley south of second street, facing on Kansas Avenue; and the Ed - Vilott building on the alley south of the present McDaniel picture show - location, also facing on Kansas Avenue. For these two buildings, Hagen - burned two kilns of brick on the north side of the creek, west from the - mineral spring, on the present Don Cole land.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My brother Sam and I worked on the Hagen brickyard</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and learned a few tricks. John - Stowell said he believed we could do the brick-making as well as Hagen, - and if we were willing to tackle the job he would “chawnsit.” - Sam did the moulding, and I did the off-bearing, carried the green brick - to the drying yard—the same positions we held on the Hagen yard. - Together we set the brick in the kiln for burning. And we plastered the - kiln, top and sides, with mud before starting the fires.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The material used in both yards was common top-soil - mixed with sand—ground in a horse-propelled mill. Sand for the Hagen - yard came from a pit about where Frank White’s barn-lot is, across - the street from his residence. Sand for the Stowell yard came from a pit - on the north side of the quarter section at the northeast corner of town. - It was a treacherous pit. It caved in one time between loads when I was - hauling—and it frightened me so badly that I drove back empty. And - never again did I go into that pit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a - good brick-clay was found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of - town. A promoter made the discovery. He planned to build a brick - manufacturing plant at the point of discovery, and have a railroad spur - run out from town—provided, however, that the town people foot the - bill. Also he wanted to sell his expert knowledge at a ridiculously high - figure. When it was pointed out to him that a couple of “greenhorn” - boys had made fairly good brick from ordinary dirt, without financial - sweetening, he gave up the venture.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed - the night shift during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence - rails—mostly. And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five - 16-foot fire tunnels to better advantage than any other wood that could be - had. Wherever so many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms - whose owners were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed - wire, which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to - the 12-hour shift</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">there - were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in the early evenings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid - progress we were making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that - all could hear, “I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast - tonight.” Then, to the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere - two of you boys go along with John and bring back a ‘alf dozen - chicks—I command John to go.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys - named a place in the north part of town where they thought we might get - the chickens without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now - passing John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. - I said, “Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s - wife) has in her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, - “Why, this is Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his - chickens. He might recognize them—and that would spoil all the fun.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the - Stowell lot—and I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t - blame them though, because it was bright moonlight and the door of the - chicken house faced the Stowell residence only a few rods to the south. - But it was, probably, just as well. They wouldn’t have known where - to find the choice chicks, anyway. And besides, I knew that, let ‘em - squawk, Laura and the children were going to stay put. Back at the yard, - the word got around that we had stolen Stowell’s chickens</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and the whole gang broke into a - “Chessy-cat” grin which didn’t come off during the whole - evening. Stowell busied himself with the roasting, without outward signs - of recognizing a chick.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the - conduct of his newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and - mighty fine fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly - pleased with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed - by six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after - supper, so that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and - then, too, in the winter, we could get a better print while the office was - warm.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to - the composing room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print - in two colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it - was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.” - Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” - But it was I who did the showing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">a carry over from another - ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in brown, the - yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud overhead in - the background, all done with three impressions, from the solid cut. - Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five - dollars.” The fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to - your printer—he’s gone me one better in the matter of colors.” - Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll give you $5 too. It’s - been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you ought to give - this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut, showed me how to mix - colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to print it in three colors.” - Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell said, “By-jingo, I’ll - give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He - had another three-color print in mind.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At the time of this episode, I had only one helper</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Stowell’s sixteen-year-old - daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time type-setters, were - not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl who would do pretty - much as she pleased so long as her papa would stay downstairs and attend - strictly to his editorial, and his hardware business.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This day Stowell stayed downstairs until the thing - happened—then he rushed from the editorial office on the first floor - in front, eighty feet back to the rear, then up the stairs to the second - floor, and back again eighty feet to the composing room. Alice, who knew - her father better than I did, whispered, “Oh, Lordy, he’s mad - as a wet hen. Don’t give me away, please!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">John wanted to know, “Oo was it that ‘ad - offended little Miss ‘Utch?” Neither of us had the answer. - Coral Hutchison, a frequent and I may say most welcome caller—preferably - on any day but Thursday—and Alice had put in a couple of hours - visiting, as young girls will. And this was Thursday afternoon, our press - day. I asked Alice to speed up her work a little so that we might make the - deadline before six o’clock. It did no good. I had to speak to Alice - a second time, not harshly, however—and Coral, apparently - understanding the situation, left. But when she passed the editorial - office downstairs, Stowell said she was crying.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After John Stowell had gone downstairs that day, Alice - said, “If he asks you again—and I know he will—tell him - what you told me about Coral after she had been up here last week. That - would tickle him, and he will forget all about her tears.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, John Stowell did ask me again. He really wanted - to know. And I told him, shielding Alice as much as I could. He said, - “I understand. You did right. Make ‘er pay attention to - ‘er work. But I just didn’t like to see a nice girl like - little Miss ‘Utch leaving my place of business, crying.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I squared myself with John by saying—and meaning</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">that it would be a grievously - short-sighted thing for any young fellow to knowingly offend “Little - Miss ‘Utch. Besides being “some” girl, she would likely - some day be an heiress. But, then, even so, this fact was something less - than a comforting thought to one very fine young local merchant who - fancied himself well entrenched in her future matrimonial plans. When he - began talking about what they could accomplish with her papa’s - wealth—she quit him, cold.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Little Miss ‘Utch” was the daughter - of Charley Hutchison, but everybody except Stowell called him “Hutch.” - I knew Charley quite intimately for a dozen years before I learned that - his name was really Hutchison.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">What I had told Alice about Coral that day is not in - itself worth repeating here. But it offers a chance to introduce an - outstanding success story—a success in the redemption of waning - manhood, as well as in a financial way. Also, this injection does not - strictly belong in this story</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but, in line with my adopted hop, skip, and jump reminiscing - technique, I shall try to make it fit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I told Alice that Coral was the only girl who had ever - asked me to come and see her sometime when her papa wasn’t around. - And I might say she was in deadly earnest about this. Her papa would not - permit her to entertain me in the manner she had in mind. It was not that - he disapproved of me. In fact, it was on his invitation that I was in the - presence of the girl at the moment. Also, her papa was at the time just - outside the hearing of the conspirators.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My brother Charley, Clifford Ashton, and I, were cutting - sumac for my father’s tanyard on the Hutchison land south of the big - barn. Charley Hutchison had followed his four-year-old daughter out to the - barn that day to prevent her from going through her stunt—the thing - she wanted me to witness. Charley saw us in the sumac patch, and came out, - bringing Coral with him. He said he had a big watermelon patch close to - the barn, and invited us to help ourselves to the melons—then, and - thereafter whenever working in the vicinity. He also said he had to watch - Coral closely</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">that whenever - she would get the chance she’d climb up to the beams in the big barn - and jump off into the hay. Hay hands were bringing in the harvest at that - time</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and of course the - barn was opened up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Bees were buzzing around broken melons in the patch, and - the little girl, apparently frightened of them, tried to hide her face - against my legs. Charley said that while they</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">the father, mother, and child—were visiting his - people in Ohio, after having attended the Centennial (1876) in - Philadelphia, Coral had sat down on a “live” beehive and got - stung so badly as to make her very sick; the swelling in her face almost - closing her eyes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Hutchison’s father was a wealthy brewer - back in Ohio. Charley acquired the drink habit. When his family thought - they had him shut off from the liquor supply, he would sneak into the - storage cellar, bore a hole in a whisky barrel, and suck the stuff out - through a straw.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley was sent out here, in the hope of curing him - of the drink habit. He was given a section of land on Wolfley creek, three - miles northwest of Wetmore—and supplied with money to improve the - land. I think he was then left wholly on his own. I do not recall ever - seeing any of his people out here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Hutchison came here in 1870, and was about 21 - years old—a modest, likeable young man. He spent most of his first - year here, in town. He lived at the Hugh Fortner Hotel—and while - rooming there, lost $500, which he had placed under his pillow. There was - no bank here then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Charley loafed downtown—which was much of - the time that first year—he made my father’s shoeshop his - headquarters. The shop was on the north side of the main street, opposite - John Clifton’s saloon on the south side. Charley was really trying - to taper off in his drinking, and seldom entered the saloon. He tried to - avoid the amenities of the drinking gentry. He would sometimes, when - alone, take one drink, and then come across to the shoeshop.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Though not a relative of ours, John Clifton was the - step-son of my Uncle Nick Bristow, and he often dropped in at the - shoeshop. My mother worked with my father in the shop. She asked John - Clifton to not encourage Charley in his drinking. Clifton said “Hutch” - was really doing fine, and that he would help the boy all that he could.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then a girl came down from the prairie country in the - neighborhood of what is now Goff—”Pucker Brush” it was - called then—to work in Peter Shuemaker’s new hotel. Anna - Mackey was a nice looking girl—too nice looking, Charley said, to go - out with the landlord’s “drunken” son. It really worried - Charley. He said one day, “I believe I’ll try to stop it.” - He did. He married Anna. And never again did he take a drink. My mother - and Clifton both took credit for helping him over the hump. But I suspect - it was the girl from the prairie country who had transformed him short off - into an abstainer.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Hutchison was the only one of several whom I - knew that were sent out here from the east, when this country was new, for - a like purpose, that made good. There was no finer man than Charley - Hutchison—a conscientious, upright Christian gentleman. Compared to - “Jersey” Campbell, a New Jersey drinking boy, located on the - best half section of land south of Goff, Charley Hutchison’s - performance was phenomenal. But then, maybe there never was an “Anna” - in Jersey’s life. Charley Hutchison sold his land to Fred Shumaker, - and moved to Wetmore in the early eighties. He built the home now owned by - Mrs. James Grubb.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Let me say here that Alice Stowell was an attentive - little type-setter when she worked for me after I had bought The Spectator—and - that Coral Hutchison still was a frequent and most welcome caller. Also, - they had learned that it was important that visitors be seen and not heard - on press days. Coral continued her visits to the office long after Alice - Stowell had married Marsh Younkman, and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—and - after Myrtle Mercer had taken Alice’s place in the printing office. - Coral seemed to like the smell of printer’s ink—and she - continued her regular visits long after she married Charley Locknane.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While still quite young, Coral Hutchison was the town’s - top pianist and singer, a distinction she held throughout the years - against all comers. She even competed favorably, in song, with the girls - from the Colony, whose reputation as singers was widespread. The younger - generation of Colonists were superb entertainers, anxious at all times to - compete against or team up with the young people from town, at their - lyceums held in the Wolfley school house. Wetmore had a “literary” - society, which gave entertainments, usually charging twenty-five cents - admission—while the Colonists always gave their shows for free.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, the time came when they combined in one big - show, an epochal achievement, at Wetmore—drawing two of the cast - from the Colony. Ted Fish was a specialty man, singing comical songs. His - favorite rendition had to do with the loan of a friend’s girl, the - refrain running, “Hand ‘e wounted me to tike ‘is plice - and do the best I cooud.” I’d heard him sing it several times - before at their lyceums. Coral Hutchison was also a specialty singer—on - a much higher and more pleasing musical plane, however. John Stowell, long - removed from the Colony, blacked his face, rattled the bones—and - played the concertina.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Bill Dutch, of the Colony, was leading man</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and a mighty good one too. Our own Miss Jane Thomas - was leading lady—equally good. The play was a “heavy” - drama. I might say the whole cast except myself, was exceptionally good. - As to my own part, you shall be the judge. It was not a speaking part. - Months before this, I had blundered in a speaking part on the stage—carelessly - called a word what, by all the ethics of decency, it should not have been - called. It provoked uproarious laughter—at my expense. And on a - subsequent appearance upon the literary stage I drew a concerted giggle - before I even had time to open my mouth. It completely unnerved me—for - all time. I was so “befuddled” that I couldn’t say a - word, and I didn’t have the gumption to graciously bow myself off - the stage. I bolted off. And that’s how I became a writer. It’s - safest, anyhow.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When you blunder, you can always—if smart enough - to detect it—scratch it out. But spoken words, once said, can never - be recalled.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The director, “Lord” Richard Bingham, was an - Englishman</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">not related, and - unknown to the Colonists—who had dropped in here from, nobody knew - where, or why. He seemed to have a perpetual thirst for strong drink—and - the money with which to provide it. He was a remittance man</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">which is to say he was a scion of a wealthy old - country family, sent over here on a monthly allowance, as riddance of a - costly nuisance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Director Bingham was apparently well educated, did not - talk the “Cockney” language of the Colonists</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and had some dramatic ability. He directed this - home-talent show without pay—and did a pretty good job of it. All he - asked was a “little more McBriar,” his favorite brand of - whisky. And after he had “steamed up” on a generous quantity - of the nameless stuff from the local</span> <span></span> <span - class="c2 c0">“speak-easy”—licensed saloons were out - here then—anything and everything was “good old McBriar.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The show went over so well in Wetmore that the - management decided to repeat it at Capioma—and maybe go on the road - with it. But, in the nick of time, it was recalled that Henry - Clinkenbeard, our photographer—or rather our taker of daguerreotypes—had - sponsored an all home-talent minstrel show which also had gone over big - here, but when tried out on the road, proved a financial failure—and - the road idea was written off.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">All due to an outburst of alcoholic conviviality, Mr. - Bingham saluted Miss Jane on the takeoff for Capioma, assuring her that - she would not fail to “knock ‘em cold.” He did not go - with the show. The management willed that he remain in Wetmore where he - could have ready access to Charley McCarthy’s “blind-tiger” - and enjoy to the full “a little more” of his favorite “McBriar.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The day of our Capioma appearance was cold. There was - bright sunshine, with a foot of snow on the ground. The whole cast—including - Henry Clinkenbeard and his brass band—went in several lumber wagons, - arriving in Capioma in time for supper at the Van Brunt farm home. I - believe his name was Jerry. Anyway, he was the father of Tunis and Teeny. - The show was held in the hall over the Van Pelt store, in town, diagonally - across the road west from the Van Brunt farm home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I was taken along as assistant property man</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and doubled in brass (b-flat cornet)—but the - cramped space for stage and dressing rooms in the rather small Van Pelt - hall developed a better spot for me. I was made the custodian of the - leading lady’s train—carried it in my two hands just so from - dressing room around sharp turns to the stage, and paid out its many - folds, at entrance, in a manner to avoid entanglement.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The twelve mile ride in open wagon, with bright sunshine - bearing down on the reflecting white snow, had done things to the girls’ - faces. However, the wise ones had fetched along cosmetics to make - themselves presentable</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - our leading lady said she never had, and by the eternal bonds of - respectability, she never would use make-up. Although conceded to be the - privilege of stage-women, nice girls didn’t paint their faces in - that period. And although our Jane did eventually make Hollywood, I - suspect the day never came when she would use make-up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Though a native of Wales, with maybe a dozen years in - this country at that time, Jane Thomas did not retain, markedly, the old - country manner of speech. She was endowed with a delightful little twist, - all her own—that is, something apart from that of other members of - her family, which was neither Welsh nor pure English. Jane was a pretty - girl. Her slight elegant body, draped in silk with something like six feet - of the train trailing in the wake as she moved majestically across the - stage, gave her a queenly quality. And she still looked lovely despite her - shiny nose. She was, or rather had been before his demise, my brother - Charley’s girl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.y7wxppf2a39h"> - <span class="c8 c0">HAPPY DAZE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator and</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0 c12">Seneca Courier-Tribune</span> <span class="c12">—</span> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">October 11, 1935</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In glancing over the current issue of The - Courier-Tribune I notice that the good citizens of Seneca are putting on a - Biblical show this week. That’s fine. Whenever I hear of home talent - aspiring to portray those ancient characters on the stage I become - interested right away. It recalls to mind the time when I myself was, - briefly, in the cast of a local entertainment of that sort held in the old - school house here in Wetmore many, many years ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was a show the likes of which Wetmore had never had - before, nor since—a show that stands out in memory as the one - classic of the times—a show that rocked the whole countryside, - rocked it with near volcanic convulsions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Considering the extraordinary performers and the - conduct of an audience which ran wild, this little review is not offered - as something worthy of emulation. Nor is it to be construed as criticism. - Rather, it is something to be contrasted with the newer interpretations - and renditions, something to be compared with present-day reactions as - against old-time unbridled responses.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As aforesaid, with other local talent—grownups, and - some lesser lights, including an injection of members of “that - tanyard gang”—I was cast for a minor part in that show. To - give you the right slant on this last mentioned group of my theatrical - co-workers, I should say here that my father operated a tannery in the old - days, and “the gang”</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">frequenters of the yard—included just about all the - happy-go-lucky youth of the town, vividly alive, and callow. Collectively, - we made quite a record—something short of enviable, it now pains me - to relate.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was my dear old Sunday School superintendent who - had selected me for one of her characters in this Biblical show. I had - been marvelous—so she said—in her Sunday School, committing - and reciting as many as twenty Bible verses on a Sunday morning, for which - I would sometimes be given a little up-lift card. She said that my good - work in her Sunday School was guarantee enough for her that I would handle - the part assigned me creditably. I would not need to attend rehearsals. - All that I should do was to have my good mother make for me a - heterogeneous coat according to specifications. She would instruct me at - the last minute so that I wouldn’t forget.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I was to take the part of Joseph—Joseph, the boy. - And, although a bit irregular, and I might say diabolically devised, to - save the stage-carpenter the trouble of making a pit to cast me into, one - of my Hebrew brothers—I think it would have been Judah, who, off - stage, was a big Swede</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was - to have batted me on the “bean” so that I couldn’t - protest when he and my other naughty brothers would sell me to the - Egyptians, and thus banish me to the Land of Bondage. I wouldn’t - need to rehearse? Oh, no, of course not! And as it turned out I didn’t - perform, either.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The show was going strong. The audience applauded and - yelled itself hoarse. After a particularly exciting scene, Rolland Van - Amburg, the town clown, jumped up from his seat and yelled, “It’s - the best thing Wetmore ever had—I’ve had my money’s - worth already! Come and get another quarter!” Van was ably assisted - in this demonstration by one William Morris, leading merchant.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The sponsoring lady was in high glee—happy daze. - She said to her puppets, “It’s taking! Oh, dear children, we - must give them this one again!” She flitted about from one to - another, saying, “Oh, girls, please do hurry!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The scene which had so excited Van was a tableau - draped in naught but thin mosquito bar and set off by the best soft - mellowing light effect that could be had with the oil-burning lamps, - depicting some Biblical event with strictly private and as time goes quite - modern interpretations. Embroidered beyond the original concept, it - exhibited in silhouette some of Wetmore’s fairest damsels—some - who will read this and blush—in an amazing state of dishabille. I - should like to—and probably will—hear from Montana and Idaho, - and even faraway Hollywood, on this statement.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A wag in the audience who was not man enough to show - himself, like Van, yelled, “Take down the bars!” The audience - roared! The sponsoring lady beamed! Things got to going so good for the - director that she began pulling surprises on the performers. Wholly - without warning, she ordered Clifford Ashton to take off his shirt. That - young Englishman, ever obliging and obedient, had about completed the job - when Dr. Thomas Milam cried out in his most dramatic voice, “Put - that shirt back on, you idiot!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The woman, who was my Sunday School superintendent, - overhearing the Doctor’s remark, forthwith gave another curt - command: “Off with that shirt, Clifford—off with that shirt!” - The voice carried, full and resonant, through the calico partitions to the - rear of the auditorium. That command became a phrase which was hurled at - Clifford as long as he lived here. He is now in Seattle, Washington.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As already stated, I was to have taken the part of - Joseph. I had a sort of vague idea that my beautiful coat of variegated - hues was to have been torn from my person by my brothers to show to my old - man as evidence of a lie they were going to tell him. And not knowing what - turn of mind the now deliriously happy director would take next, I beat it—went - outside and thought I would see the show through the green shutters which - covered the old school house windows.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Outside, I found that other deserters had preceded me. - Bill McVay, a grown young man, bewhiskered for the occasion, with a - flowing white beard the likes of which has seldom been seen on this earth - since the days of Moses, said, in his drawling voice, “I could drink - all the whisky the old town’s got and it wouldn’t faze me—but - that thing has bumped me off my feet. She’ll have to get someone - else to take my part.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Actually, I was afraid to remain in the cast, fearing, - the way things were happening, fast and furious like, that I might be - persuaded against my will to appear before that hilariously responsive - audience with greatly reduced apparel. I really was in a dangerous spot. - The plot called for partial forced disrobement. Knowing the hyenas who - posed as my brothers, and knowing also that those brothers had caught the - spirit of the producer in a large way, I had the feeling that when they - would have finished with me, working in that free atmosphere, that it - would have been sans pants for little Johnny.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It should be borne in mind that the director of this - very extraordinary show was an extremely odd woman, very religious, and - sincere—and, having ideas of her own, she had the courage to mirror - them bounteously in her work.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The show was all right, of course. Biblical, and all - that. And, viewed with an eye for the beautiful, it was all that Van said - it was. But coming as it did in an age of many clothes for women, it was a - revelation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.ka2vqr2uw0xh"> - <span class="c0">ODD CHARACTERS</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c8 c0">COLORFUL, PICTURESQUE</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published—1947.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The discussion of odd characters was going strong when - I entered the corner grocery store one evening. I did not join in the - discussion for the simple reason that the range of observations did not go - far enough back to take in the really odd ones—as I knew them. Had I - told what I’m going to tell now, without supporting evidence it - would, perhaps, have branded me as a prevaricator, and I wouldn’t - have liked that. But I’m taking no chances now. Supporting evidence - is at hand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ‘em in the - old days—in numbers. In truth, this assertion takes in just about - everyone, except of course Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still - living. The odd characters dominating this story were Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> - <span class="c2 c0"> Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr. Jim Riley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth - character that shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I - think I shall call my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed - his real name more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the - business, and the firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month - away from it, in the springtime.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for - some advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote - fire insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his - store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the - printing office, in the Bleisener block.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting - facilities, and as to whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we - had no waterworks and practically no fire protection, he almost let his - portly Jewish self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing - you should have waterworks when I come.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had - the agency for a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit - him a little off guard—but he rallied, and said he would - investigate. It is presumed that his investigation was satisfactory. He - moved in right away. Also, he might have heard about Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> - <span class="c2 c0"> Bates’ ineffective demonstration with his hand - grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The clothing stock had been in the building only about - sixty days when a mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old - time. It started in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. - I was working late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. - When I looked away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke - which had come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and - stood only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with - me, but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer - had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving - the office in total darkness while I was away.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Alex Hamel and Bill McAlester, a barber, were first to - show up after I had rushed out and yelled “Fire!” It was not - long before a crowd had assembled. Some gave their attention to the fire - in the building, while others rushed up stairs to my office, against my - protest. There was no fire in the printing office. “Chuck” - Cawood dashed a bucket of water on my shaded coal-oil lamp, and rushed out - of the room, yelling, “I put it out—I’ve put it out!” - Chuck’s water had also ruined an order of printed stationery ready - for delivery. Others milled about in the dark and “pied” - several galleys of type we had set for the paper which was to come out the - next day. The clothing stock was carried to the street—and the fire - was put out before it had done much damage. Since there were two occupants - of the store room, no one could say with certainty whose fire it might - have been.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Jew’s insurance was canceled in due course. He - said, “If I don’t got insurance, I’ll not stay in a town - which don’t got waterworks.” I reminded him that he still had - Mr. O. Bates, with his hand grenades. It was but a short while before this - that Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> <span class="c2 c0"> Bates had acquired - the agency for his hand grenades. He planned a demonstration in the public - square, by making a pyramid of wooden boxes, about ten feet high, early in - the afternoon as a sort of advertisement for the event to take place after - dark. This advertising stunt brought him humiliating repercussions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The square was filled with people. Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> - <span class="c2 c0"> Bates, a gabby auctioneer who really knew how to make - a spiel, gave them a good one. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen. I - have here the greatest fire extinguisher ever devised! But you don’t - have to take my word for this! You shall see with your own eyes! Why, my - friends, I wouldn’t hesitate one moment about building my bonfire - right up against my own home.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then he backed off a few paces from the burning boxes and - threw a grenade at the fire—but it failed to connect with the solid - bumpboard, which had been placed in the center to break the glass bottles, - and passed through the mass as a dud. He then tried again, hitting the - bumpboard, but instead of quenching the fire, it made a decided spurt - upwards. Then, with a huge grunt, Bates, threw them in as fast as he - could, resulting in further spurts of blaze upward</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">up, up, and up!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was then boos for Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> <span - class="c2 c0"> Bates. He was a sadly confused man, numb with bewilderment. - He stammered, “I’ll fetch a man here who’ll show you - that they will do the trick.” At a lesser publicized exhibition, - Bates—and his man—had extinguished the fire quickly. Rumor had - it that “Frosty” and “Cooney” had emptied the - chemicals out of his grenades, and had filled them with coal oil.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> <span class="c2 c0"> Bates had - unbounded faith in his grenades. He actually wanted to build his bonfire - almost smack-up against the frame hotel building on the corner where Harry - Cawood’s store is now. But “Uncle” Peter Shuemaker - wouldn’t stand for that. “Uncle” Peter was a wiry little - man of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry—much set in his ways, with a - quick tongue with which to defend himself. He was always on the defense.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Frosty” Shuemaker had said, with reason, - “Granddad, don’t you let that old windjammer light his fire - near the hotel. You don’t know what might happen,” and “Uncle” - Peter had snapped, “Goway, Forrest—who’s asking you for - advice?” But, I think, “Uncle” Peter had “smelled - a mouse.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mr.</span> <span>O.</span> <span class="c0"> Bates</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">pompous, windy, and positive</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">told “Uncle” Peter - that the proposed demonstration would do his hotel no more harm than for - him to allow Jim Riley to ride his horse in and out of the hotel office—an - occurrence that still rankled. “Uncle” Peter flew off the - handle, so to speak, and spluttered, “It’s no-sicha-na-thing! - I never permitted that lousy drunken pie-stealing galoot to ride into my - hotel! And just who would pay me for my hotel if it should burn down? - By-GODDIES, you couldn’t do it—Mr. Bates!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Since I have quoted Peter Shuemaker detrimental to the - character of one Jim Riley, I shall now explain. Never like to leave any - of the old fellows out on a limb. Then, too, there is still another reason - for this elaboration. It is to keep the record straight. Some, I now - learn, are inclined to question if I have quoted “Uncle” Peter - verbatim. That I have you may be sure. I make no inventions. You can - always bank on that. Why, I ask, should I want to feed you figments of - fiction, when memory is stocked with so much of the real thing—spoken - words by the old fellows, a thousand times better than anything an - antiquated mind could conjure up now? And then there is always the little - matter of accuracy to be considered. “No-sicha-na-thing” and - “by-goddies” were his exact utterances.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Not to be confused with the Soldier creek Jim Reilly, - who built a house in town on the site where E. W. Thornburrow’s home - is now, this Irishman owned land up in the Capioma neighborhood—a - half section north of the Patrick Hand land. Jim Riley was a substantial - farmer and cattleman. He was not married. Jim bached on the farm—but - spent much of his spare time in Wetmore, always pretty close to the dram - shops. He was a periodical hard drinker. And a prankster of the first - order.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But as time went on—and as he prospered—Jim - decided that he could change the baching situation for the better if his - sister, whom he had left in Ireland years before, were here to keep house - for him. He made the trip back to Ireland, but when he got there he - learned that his sister was married and lived in California. He then made - a hurried trip to the west coast—and in due time the sister, with - her husband and several little Ketchums, became members of the Jim Riley - household on the farm here. And through the hand of Fate title to the - Riley lands later passed to the Ketchums.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As Bates had said, Jim Riley did ride his horse into - Shuemaker’s hotel. And as “Uncle” Peter had spluttered, - Jim did swipe his pies—baked for a big dance supper. Riley carted - them out on the street in a wheelbarrow, and passed them out to anyone who - would take them. But he paid. Jim always paid. His reputation for doing - that was well established. Like the time when someone went into Rising’s - general store and said Jim Riley was out in front smashing up a - consignment of crockery that had just been unloaded on the high front - porch, giving a war-whoop every time as the crocks he was throwing crashed - in the street, Don Rising said, “Let him have his fun. He’ll - pay.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, Jim Riley did deliberately back his wagon up to - the post supporting Shuemaker’s prized birdhouse, hurriedly threw a - logchain around the post—and drove off, giving one of his famous - war-whoops. “Jim’s on another bender,” the oldtimers - said—but I knew he was just plain drunk.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Jim Riley dearly loved to torment Peter Shuemaker. And he - liked to play hide-and-seek with the town marshal. But most of all, Jim - loved his drink. And it was while burdened with a mixture of the two that - he met his death</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">in 1887. - While making a hurried getaway from the marshal his team of mules, under - lash, turned a street corner too quickly, threw Jim out his spring-wagon—and - broke his neck.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And that bird-house—it was a three-decker, about - a yard square, with entrances on all four sides, perched on top of a - 10-foot post out in front of the hotel. Here the martins of that day - nested and multiplied in such numbers as to greatly overcrowd their living - quarters. In the late summer months the new broods would have to take to - the roof.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim’s log chain, applied at the height of the - nesting season, broke up all too many bird-nests to suit “Uncle” - Peter—and it just about caused his to lose his religion. “Uncle” - Peter took his newly-found religion seriously enough, but when suddenly - angered he was a mite forgetful. Lapsing back into pre-conversion times, - his overworked byword—by-goddies—was shortened up a bit, and - with it went a blast of other sulphurous words telling the world what he - meant to do to that scoundrel when and if he could ever lay hands on him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Peter Shuemaker was practically the sole support of - the Baptist Church here for a time, in the old days. The Church membership - was poor, and there came a lean time when the members wanted to close up - shop—but “Uncle” Peter said no, “By-goddies,” - he’d pay the preacher himself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having lost his wife, Shuemaker, in his late eighties, - and always a bit on the contrary side, was now, with descendents in his - home, a little hard to get along with. But he hit it off fine with his - preacher. Then, one Sunday morning, when a beautiful camaraderie between - preacher and parishioner was running high, the Reverend announced - something special, a surprise, for the evening services. That surprise - proved to be “Uncle” Peter going shakily down the aisle, - altarward, with a feeble old woman, an octogenarian from God only knew - where, clinging to his arm. She was an “importation.” Thus, - one perceives, that in casting his bread upon the waters it had indeed - been returned to “Uncle” Peter manifold. And for his - descendents, who were keeping a watchful eye on his modest savings, it was - as a devastating bombshell topping a most disturbing surprise. Son-in-law - Don Rising “swore” the old gentleman had been “sold down - the river.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The marriage did not endure.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But, at that, “Uncle” Peter fared better, - spiritually, “than did the preacher who showed him the way. The - Reverend George Graham, evangelist, had pitched his gospel tent on the - triangular spot of vacant ground across the street east of the Catholic - Church in Wetmore back in the middle 80’s. With him was a buxom - woman, with rosy cheeks</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">who - sang quite well. And what with her good singing and George’s - impassioned pleas for repentance they garnered a good harvest—very - good, indeed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Reverend Graham invoked, with the wrath of Jehovah of - old, all the terrors of hell upon unbelievers. Together, they slew the - sinners. Even some quite good people were swayed into the belief that they - ought to make amends and strive to measure up to the high plane of this - super exhorter—and thus make sure of following through to the Great - Beyond. There were among them converts with Methodist leanings, and - converts with Baptist leanings</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">even - one young lady was possessed of the gift of tongues. When it was all over - here, the converts went their several ways, as the preacher had advised—or - rather they began to map a course by which they might make the takeoff for - the long journey. Then, with the second stand away from here</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">somewhere down around Lawrence</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">the preacher and the lady were publicly exposed for - unholy conduct.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And yea, verily, the Reverend had a family somewhere - abroad in the land.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Repercussions hit hard back here. The one great wrong - done our converts was, as you might expect, heaped upon them by the - unbelievers who had been consigned to the everlasting fire of brimstone by - the now fallen preacher. As is usual with emotionally recruited converts - there was some immediate backsliding, or cooling off, but when “twitted”—that’s - what they called it then—by the ungodly, the stampede back to normal - got under way and was, in the days that followed, made complete—save - one. “Uncle” Peter was seemingly the only one of the many who - could bring himself to believe that religion was religion—something - pure, and worth keeping, even though it had been delivered to him through - the channels of a dirty carrier.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There is an old saying that “one should give the - devil his due.” I’m sure that, regardless, the magnetic George - did a power of good in his revivals here. While, it is true, his converts - did not choose to “join-up” after the crash, until the - backwash of that scandal had become tempered by time, they did, however, - accept the opportunity to come into the fold under another standard - bearer. And, unfortunately for the Baptists, the Methodists were first to - hold a revival—and reap the harvest. And the girl who was “called” - upon to babble in tongues, gave up the pursuit when it was evident that - she was fooling no one but herself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At the time of the exposure, I was temporarily working - for Bill Granger on his Centralia Journal, and boarding at the old - McCubbin House, down by the tracks. Ed Murray</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">later, Mo. Pacific agent in Wetmore for many years—was - clerk at the hotel. Professor Roberts, principal of the Centralia Public - Schools, was the third person present when the Evening Daily newspaper was - brought in. After reading the exposure article, I passed the paper to Mr. - Roberts, with comment that I had attended Graham’s revival meetings - in Wetmore. Mr. Murray had his say about preachers in general, and about - one Reverend Locke in particular—of the latter, quite complimentary, - however.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As he read, Mr. Roberts said, “Say—you, a - newspaperman—here’s something you ought to commit, for future - use.” For future use? He meant, let us hope, only as a model for - phrase building to be used on occasion. That Mr. Roberts, he was a mighty - clever young man—quite young, then. It was a long time ago, - sixty-one years to be exact</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - I still remember.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The newspaper report was vague as to the exact nature - of the preacher’s misstep, and I shall not attempt to state it here - lest I might do someone an injustice. So, then, let’s let George do - it. The paper quoted him, thus:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“I have the consolation, small though it be, of - knowing that though my bark goes down amid the turbid waters of Illicit - love the shores of Time are marked with many such wrecks.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Prettily phrased. But no further comment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">NOTE</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">This - is okayed, “No-sicha-na-thing.” “By-Goddies,” and - all, by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik, (70), granddaughter; and by Peter - Cassity, (80), grandson. And they go further, saying: The $1,000 he paid - to rid himself of the woman, plus what it had cost him to get her - (preacher’s reward) just about cleaned “Uncle” Peter. - And Cassity says the pies swiped by Riley numbered exactly forty. Jim paid - double, as always—and liked it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now wouldn’t it be nice if I could say here - that Cassity was one of those converts? I’d say it, anyway—if - I weren’t afraid Peter would tell on me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.5z9xiwb60pqr"> - <span class="c0 c8">MY BEST INVESTMENT</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published</span> <span class="c12">—</span> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">1947</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Girls</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">Girls</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Girls</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After mulling the old thing over, I know now that the - boy who sat with me in the reserved section at Evangelist George Graham’s - meetings, as intimated in the foregoing article, was not Peter Cassity. It - was his brother Bill. Pete tells me that he was farming at the time over - on Wolfley creek and did not attend the meetings regular—but don’t - ever think Pete did not remember his raising, when he did get in.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Bill Cassity had the nerve and the Biblical knowledge to - stand up in a big way for his Maker. That boy had an almost irresistible - line, and it was, at times, questionable whether the minister, or the - converts—with Bill well out in the lead</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">were doing most in the matter of gathering in the - prospects.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When my uncle, the Rev. Thomas S. Cullom, minister of - a Methodist Church in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife Irene, and two - daughters, Lora and Clevie, paid a visit to their Wetmore relatives in - 1908, the Reverend told me that in his Church, and throughout the south, - it was customary during revivals to have “exhorters” stationed - in the congregation to give supplementary support to the minister’s - pleas for the redemption of lukewarm and tottering souls.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I asked him if his exhorters ever broke in on his - impassioned pleas in a discordant manner—that is, a little off key? - “Cert’nly,” he said, with fine southern accent. “My - exhorters are very devout workers for the Lord, and sometimes when filled - to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, they say their lines and then keep - right on exhorting and sometimes steal the whole show.” This ungodly - reference to his Church as a show was made with a wink and a grin.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And so, with the old time revivals here, the minister’s - exhorters, under another name of course, sometimes ran away with the show. - This brings us back to Bill Cassity, first born of Newton and Anne - Shuemaker-Cassity. Bill did just that on at least two occasions in the - Evangelist’s revival here. He had the Christian training to do it - courageously.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, - worked in the mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator - sent to him there</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked his work in - Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the characters - he had to associate with. In California, still on the right side of the - laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for righteousness a little - too far for his own good. As a detective, self-appointed or otherwise, he - learned much of the ways of the Los Angeles underworld—and, it was - said, the boys took him for a ride and failed to bring him back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a - former Wetmore man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and in a legal way Fred’s brother was also his - brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having married sisters, Adelia and - Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is supposed to have been taken - for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain crooks. He left his home in - Denver, a wife and two children, one evening in line of his duties</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and was never heard of again. - Than Gustafson evidently knew too much for his own good.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts - either appointed themselves or were delegated to work among the - congregation as boosters for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s - “exhorters.” They would go out in the audience, usually in - pairs, and plead with you, cry, and sniffle over you—an actual fact—in - a manner that would - make you feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected - them, loved them through long associations, was struck dumb. </span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One particularly sanctified woman—no one could - ever doubt her sincerity; I had known her for years, and she was always so—with - redoubled sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the - prettiest girl that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in - Wetmore, a girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich - man’s son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other - boy, and because “papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand - in front of me one night. I knew before the old girl began to sniffle - that, on account of the young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself - in a front row. More than one boy went forward in that meeting because he - did not have the heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also - the attraction of a girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s - pleas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in - terms only partly understood by me—but the girl’s radiant - smile told me much. I would not permit them to march me up to the front, - as other workers were doing with prospects, but I promised to sit with the - young girl in the reserved corner on the following night—and see - what would happen.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my - worldly activities with the more decent church sittings</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">but this seems the opportune time for me to ‘fess - up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, and have as - little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the making of a - good story.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and then dropped in on the boys - in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker game. Even - now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to us had he known - his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One man, Willard - Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said I might play - his hand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have - been my last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an - obsession with me. But, in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and - it is something which any self-respecting young man can very well do - without. It was, however, my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I - wanted to retain, at all costs, his respectful opinion of me. And the - other boys finally saw the error of their ways</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, - I will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, - ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel - “at “home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in - court as complainant or defendant—and was only once in my whole life - in court as a witness, at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was - sworn to do, I could have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored - member of the Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under - investigation. Also, I want to say in the outset that this poker stigma - was not the thing which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” - It was the more powerful evil—money—of which I had none. But - there was one bright spot in the clouded picture. The rich man’s son - looked a lot better to “Papa” than he did to the girl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four - natural aces, and if you know only as much as I knew then, you would - consider it a top hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker - wild, “cut and slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, - and raised me a dime. Two of the other boys called Alfred’s - fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), - dropped out of the play. I thought my four aces were good for ten cents - more, and not possessing a loose dime, I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred - was up on his toes, and said, “You aiming to bet all that?” I - replied, “No—only aiming to call your dime raise.” Still - upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather anxiously, “If - you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” - I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten - away. And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, if you know the game, you are maybe expecting to - hear that he had a set of fives, including the joker of course. But it was - not Alfred who held them. His four kings were not good. It was the dealer, - the man who had dropped out because I had dropped in, who had five fives.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But this I did not know until two days later, not - until after I had gone to church again and contributed $5.00 to Mrs. - Draper’s fund for buying Christmas candies for her Sunday School - kiddies. Alfred’s sister Phoeba, as personal representative of our - dear old Sunday School Superintendent, took my contribution with gracious - acknowledgment, as though it were not tainted money. And Mrs. Draper—the - less chivalrous boys called her “Mother Corkscrew” because she - wore her gray hair in ringlets at shoulder length—came to me on the - double quick, shrieking her praise of me, and intimated that this generous - gift might get me places.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Alfred said that inasmuch as he surmised he had been - cold-decked out of the five—thankfully with no aspersion attachment—that - I should have at least given the donation in both our names. But that - would have been risky. Alfred was a rather white “black sheep” - in a very religious family, and Sis would most likely have wanted to know - how come? The fact that Sidney and Willard were keeping company with - sisters at that time may have had nothing to do with the introduction of - that cold deck. And then again it might have. Sidney said the fellow - needed “taking down” a bit</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and that it was planned to give the losers back their money. - A fat chance they would have of getting their money back now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Until now I had only stood, by and watched a penny-ante - game in the new opera house over the Morris store, where the clerks</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">Dave Clements, Bill McKibbon, George - and Chuck Cawood, Bob Graham—and some younger fry, congregated on - Sundays. And then, too, as a kid, I had been present on several occasions - at a somewhat bigger game in the Neville residence on this same corner. - But here I did not have a chance to closely observe the technique of the - game—for I was under the table most of the time. The men played - altogether then with “shinplaster” money</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">undersized ten, twenty-five, and fifty cent pieces of U. - S. paper currency, and the breeze caused from shuffling the cards would - sometimes blow the money off the table. Mr. Jim Neville said I might keep - all I could get my hands on</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - I think it was a sort of house rule that the players were not to contend - roughly with me for the fluttering pieces. Still I think I got more kicks - than the law allowed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, I once saw the women playing poker in this same - home—and they were using “shinplaster” too—but - they were not generous enough to invite me to go down under. I do not wish - to name them. Nor would I have mentioned the boys’ names but for the - fact all of them have now gone to their reward. And, besides, despite the - undercurrent that it was not considered strictly genteel, everybody, more - or less, played poker then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our - first High Priest, would take a hand occasionally. There was a regular - fellow. For him it was Mass of a Sunday morning, then base ball or - horse-racing in the afternoon, without fail.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, - long time before I got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as - guest of a friend, in Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became - President of the United States. He did not impress me as likely timber - then. But, may I say, that when once in the running, he showed ‘em - that he was truly from Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in - a pinch, run like a scared rabbit. Politics was his forte.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had - sent a boy with a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a - private dance to be given by our select crowd, of which she was a - favorite. The boy came back without a written reply—but he said she - told him to tell me that she would go with me. This being rather unusual, - I asked the -boy if that was all she said? “Well,” he said, - “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie, you know what your father will - say’</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and the girl - said, ‘I don’t care, I’m going with him anyway’.” - I had not known about the rich man’s son trying to edge in, and this - indicated slap by her papa was a grievous blow to my ego.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I - always made ‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped - over ridiculously</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">that I - had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and daughter, and - that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to cancel the date, - until I could find out what it was all about. I may say I never sent but - one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and that got me - exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated it for me, and to - make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he really wanted it to click—to - ward off, in his absence, some dangerous competition.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an - ultra-formal and gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t - write. I was a new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the - skating rink in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, - pretty and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other - girls worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. - Ena talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note - bearing my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three - days hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the - Theodore Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s - newspaper, The Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, - and so did Ena say it was awful</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil a - date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of - it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s - upper crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me - elevated status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on - the rink. And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, - through Ella Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the - girl a date. Ena was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no - handicap. I myself married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her - for a winner from a sizable field of promising prospects.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of - the rich man’s son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent - the next night. The girl said nothing at all about my poker-playing - proclivities. She was too sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to - pick ‘em as suited her fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she - said in rebuttal of her father’s expressed opinion of me, that if - her mamma only could have kept her mouth shut everything would have been - all right, and that I would have never known. “And besides,” - she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a little; and - you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke cigarettes.” - A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How times have - changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” - weaknesses, but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me - nothing that I was not now likely to get anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved - corner of the arena in advance of the regular session while other - congregated young people were likely thinking of an afar off haven having - streets paved with jasper and gold. Something about streets and jasper and - gold ran in the lines of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the - converts might have cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire - of brimstone—this idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which - the wayward and lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall - into in a last-minute rush for that afar off haven.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham - would institute a two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s - admitted downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered - sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods offered - the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was not required by custom then for those seeking - salvation to come clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, - rested them on the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so - inclined. The girl and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We - didn’t have to. Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then - to believe that this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would - have gone through George’s pictured purgatory for me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And nothing happened that could be chalked up as - material gain for the better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of - high heaven, could it? I’m not particularly proud of it, though. - But, you know, if your chariot does not come along, you can’t take a - ride. I certainly do not wish to cast reflection on the Church. The - Church, as a Church, is really a grand institution. I should hate to think - where we would be in a world without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, - said the tent doings was proselytizing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days - to come with this renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s - revival had brought me? Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my - poker-playing, and both he and “mama” greeted me as a friend - ever after. They were really fine people—I might say the very BEST, - with capitals.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and - that too, by-gosh, in our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch - in the matter of his daughter’s company was based on too slim - premise to set store by, now that the girl had told him with flat-footed - finality that it would not work.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to - Centralia, then to Seneca to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly - purchased Tribune, and I turned her over to my best poker-playing friend - to keep for me against the time when I might return.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop - another girl with whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. - He probably saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and - too ably assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s - absence.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were - already lined up for the party that first night after my return, it was - mutually agreed that—just for once—I should line up with my - friend’s discarded girl, who was still free. It worked out all right—and - it was wonderful to be back with the old crowd again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a - mighty fine girl, and good looking too, I did not find her preferable to - the other girl. Just why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was - quite a different matter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The - Silver Stockings. Why so named I never learned. One unalterable - requirement for the men was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. - No “stags” were permitted at our parties. This was because a - certain unwanted young man had the disturbing habit of sneaking in at - public gatherings and monopolizing our girls.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The thoughtful young man of that period did not think - of marriage the first time he went out with a girl. In our community none - but the rich man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to - indulge in such dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of - heart—resolved to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” - might have had the right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, - would not be justified in playing along with me until I could make my - stake.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at - this time were, I flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say - with certainty that “Papa” would not someday become afflicted - with a recurrent attack of that silly notion the first time that the - favored son, or maybe another of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff - in the presence of the girl. Then, too, something fine—alas, - something very fine, was now gone out of the picture that could never be - returned. I reluctantly decided to let matters drift along as temporarily - planned the first night back home—and see what would happen. It was - my hardest decision.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and - raise a family at the same time. My father made more money than most—but - with ten children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day - at his trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work - and skimp. But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole - his was a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about - the difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in - first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t - knock ‘em in the head.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “They didn’t start coming until - after you were married—”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of - course not, you young upstart!” That was a time when he would have - been justified in applying the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of - correction, to my posterior. But my father was a forbearing man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if - you had waited until after you had made your stake, you would not now be - bothered with this burdensome load.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where - do you think you’d be now, young man?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, that was something to think about. It might have - upset the whole continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often - of the excess baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, - when he would begin his lamenting, usually about the high tariff.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be - caught short-handed (otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of - opportunity to earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was - our country in the early days. My parents had rubbed up against this - situation on numerous occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, - the time never came when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand - to mouth” rule of living could not rub out the anxiety.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of - necessity compelled early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy - day” if he did not wish to run the risk of becoming an object of - charity—and who did in the old days? It was then considered about - the last straw. It took a long time to lay-by a competence in the old - days. The average wage-earner gets as much per hour now as was paid for a - whole day’s work then—when ten hours was a day. This is not to - say the young “sprout” could not marry before he had a - competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a - firm resolve to defer marriage until I could make a stake.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good - I kept right on going until this goal was more than doubled</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and in subsequent years learned that it was none too - much:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious - streak was inherited rather than instilled in me by observations. My - father had entertained the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, - he made his own way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at - the age of 25. He went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit - relatives, met my mother while there—and married her the next time - he came into her back-woods community. And had it not been for the cruel - Civil War—and the guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would - have had a rich Dad regardless of his super-abundance of kids.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, conditions changed for the better for father. - When his boys got big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift - it altogether, he had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in - the shoeshop, and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end - of the building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to - go to California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the - shoe stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and - when the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one - day at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any - insurance.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, - and said no more about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the - old Logue frame store building across the street, in early evening—and - the town was out in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching - my father’s shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making - ready to remove the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better - just get his books and records where he could put his hands on them in - case of need, and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at - least. Thinking to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a - thousand dollar insurance policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, - excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">By this time—we are now back again on the matter of - girls, mostly</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">the girl’s - papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now operating - the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after spending a - pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker game, just to greet - the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, - I may say I reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every - time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it - was not the way to build character.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af - ter his wife’s death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ - residence is now, west of the telephone office. It was the original - William Cawood location, with the west portion of the high fence - (seven-foot up and down pine boards) still standing. That high fence had - enclosed four lots, and held in captivity a “pet” deer for - several years. When the Mayor and a guest of the hotel came in at the - front door, I slipped out the back door, as I thought unobserved by His - Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight, to the fence and went over - almost without touching. The next day the Mayor said to me, “Young - fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that high board fence last night.” - But he hadn’t. It was before the young sports had begun to wear - their shirt-tails on the outside of their pants. And then again I never - was guilty of that slovenly habit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the - southeast corner of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several - days. But it came back and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of - jumping out and jumping in</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">with - periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were two deer in - the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to - domesticate the visitor</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - after three days, the call of the wilds claimed them both.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Some years later—after he had spent a couple of - years in Arkansas, and was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” - was in a tight spot at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of - the Cherokee Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a - claim, and was in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, - waiting his turn to file. I had already filed on my claim. While in line, - I observed soldiers, who were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone - would get a fair deal, were running in people ahead of me—and a - little later, a man I shall simply call Eddie—apparently in the role - of chief grafter—whom I had known in Wetmore, approached me with a - proposition to advance me in line for $5. I was too near the door to be - interested—and besides, my brother Dave who held a filing number - next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth up” with Ed if we - should be delayed further. Might say here that the gang followed this - remunerative activity with another dirty practice. They filed contests on - claims, so that the rightful locators would, in many instances, buy them - off rather than stand the expense of fighting the case. Then Dave had to - give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got Dave a prompt withdrawal of - the contest. I was the only one of our party of four who did not have to - fight a contest. My friendship, or co-operation with the crooks, whichever - way you choose to look at it, had, I presume, saved me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” - news of Mr. Eddie’s activities to “Papa.” I knew he was - anxious to get back home to his hotel business, where he was trying hard - to re-establish himself after returning from Arkansas. He asked me to - contact Mr. Eddie for him—and said, “I’ll be your uncle.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and - there the line became static once more, as other advancements were being - pushed in ahead of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers - would put him through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up - the $10, and said, “Do this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your - wedding.” Now he could call me “Son” and offer to dance - at my wedding.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There are three girls prominently featured in this - story, whose names I do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should - call the first one Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, - until further notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, - and The Kid.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a - certain rich man’s son, an older brother of that other boy, got on - my trail. I do not think it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it - could have been that. He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man - enough” to “bump” me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would - be working on fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old - Girl anyway. She was my senior by four or five years, and naturally she - would welcome a good “catch.” It was understood between us - that she was only filling a vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep - us in the Silver Stocking circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be - “bumped” just for the fun of it, as viewed by the RM’s - son.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich - man’s son write a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would - be the time when the RM’s son would try to make good his boast. - Three days hence there was to be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, - and the Silver Stocking boys and girls were lining up to go in a body. - Mike and other members of the circle put in two hours looking for me. The - boys, and the girls too, were all for me, in this instance</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">but not even the King’s Horses could have - stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the letter with - the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at - once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do - this to me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she - had promised another, naming the rich man’s son. I said, in - substance—though really not sore at the OG, I think I was not in a - frame of mind to phrase it just so—”Let’s see where we - stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m out—that is, - barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my own helpful - making.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">She suggested that I go back to the girl I have - designated as My Best Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will - just spunk up a little.” I had never “spunked” much with - the OG.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“But,” I said, “if I should succeed - in dating her, someone else would be out, and that someone is your old - beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in case your date does not choose to - repeat, you might still have a chance to get back with the old crowd.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">She laughed</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, - “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, - “But, you know, I could always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with - you and your girl—just in case.” A boy was permitted to take - more than one girl—even a flock of them if he were unlucky enough.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had - changed, with exultant spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the - purpose of calling off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed - around like that</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but - please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had forfeited - her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than ever, she - wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend, Bessie - Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how could - she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be free to go - with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments trying to - round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to the OG, - “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that - fellow’s egotistical designs.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when - they would go away for the night, as they often did to visit another - daughter in the country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not - too young, but much younger than she-stay the night with her. The old - folks were away now, and the young girl had been called in for the night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Old Girl was still worried. I’m now almost - sorry that I ever started this “Old Girl” differential, as it - smacks of disrespect</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and I - do not want the reader to form any such ideas. The OG first asked the - young girl to come up town with her—then, remembering that her best - friend had dropped a hint that the ground upon which she now stood was - insecure, she decided that she was not constitutionally able to face me - just then with her problem. She sent the young girl, alone.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the Kid—that’s what they called her - when we went together to the picnic, and thereafter as a member of the - Silver Stocking crowd—said, “If you go with her now, you will - be the biggest fool in the world. All she wants to go with you for, is to - see who he takes,” naming the RM’s son.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Kid was smart.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But please do not think the so-called Kid was betraying a - trust. She was really a woman now. And, besides, she had reason to believe - that, to use a homely expression, she were very soon</span> <span>going</span> - <span class="c2 c0">to get the OG’s goat, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And moreover, the Old Girl later told the “Kid,” - perhaps in a gesture of discouragement, that I had gone with her steadily - for nearly a year, and had never tried to kiss her. Had that not been the - truth it would have been libel. -In the old days, the prudent young man - did not dare kiss an old girl who was only filling a vacancy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Prior to this, the “Kid” and I had “starred” - in a local entertainment entitled “Beauty and Beelzebub”</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and mutual admiration had blossomed - then. She was the Angel and I was the Devil. In the tableau, the Devil, - encased in a tight-fitting black sateen cover-all, with horns and a - four-foot forked tail, was suspended on wires about four feet off the - floor when the curtain went up. Then the Angel, up in the clouds, began - the descent with song, the singing increasing in volume as she came down - bare feet first, with outstretched wings, settling in front of the Devil. - The “Kid” made a pretty picture, with her abundant dark hair</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">which, I happen to know, came down - nearly to her ankles</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">spread - over the white flowing covering whose traditional folds parted in front - just enough to indicate that she dwelt in a place where shoes and - stockings were taboo. The Angel departed by the same route—wire and - windlass mechanism—went up into the clouds from whence she had come, - with more singing, at first in full voice, then fading, fading, fading - away in a manner denoting distance. In her young budding womanhood the - “Kid” made a beautiful Angel</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and the clear, sweet singing was out of this world.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Coral Hutchison was at first considered for the Angel. - She was a beautiful girl, and a beautiful singer—and while she had a - wonderful head of hair, quite as long as the “Kid’s,” - its rather too blonde shade ruled her out. So the “Kid,” with - the requisite dark hair, was given a place in the spot-light—and - Coral did the singing behind the scenes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sorry, I can’t tell you what event or setting - that tableau portrayed. There was much more to the show, speaking parts - and superb acting. And though clearly the “Kid” and I were - “it,” the whole show was titled “Beauty and Beelzebub.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the picnic, my adversary, the rich man’s son, - said to me, “I see you’ve got a new girl. How come?” I - said, “Yeah—likewise you. Thanks for the assist.” After - I had started to walk on, he called, “Hey, John, whatsha mean by - that?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He was with Lou Kern. Hattie and Lou Kern, and Nina - and Emma Bolman, were four Netawaka girls that were popular with our - Silver Stocking crowd; as were also Caroline Emery, living in the country - northeast of Wetmore, and her visiting friend, Mamie Blakeslee, a former - neighbor whose home was now in Savannah, Mo.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mamie Blakeslee was a strikingly pretty girl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall now dwell a bit on a personal incident in - connection with this beautiful girl. It was away back in 1884. I don’t - think the girl was on my mind that day when I went to St. Joe. But, in St. - Joe, I ran onto Bill (Hickorynut) Bradley who was on his way to Savannah, - and he asked me to go along with him. One Oliver Bateman was to be hanged - for the murder of two little girls who had caught him in an embarrassing - act. The railroad was offering excursion rates, and the sleepy old - Missouri town was decked out in celebration colors, with refreshment - stands all along the lane from the jail to the gallows in an amphitheater - in the nearby woods—everybody on the make.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Unlike Hickorynut, the hanging did not interest me, but - the thought of seeing Mamie did. I called at the Blakeslee home on the - outskirts of Savannah</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">it - was a farm traded by G. N. Paige for the Blakeslee farm near Wetmore—on - the pretense of wanting to see Mamie’s brother Edwin, who had been - my schoolmate in Wetmore. He was not at home. I remained a reasonable time - with Mamie, aiming to work up a little courage, and maybe ask her to go - places with me—but lost my nerve.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Two hours later I met Mamie, with another girl, on a - downtown street near the St. Charles hotel. Mamie said there was to be - skating at the rink that night, and would I like to go? I certainly would. - So now, after all, we would be going places together.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I called at the Blakeslee home for the two girls, and the - ‘skating was going fine. Then, of a sudden, Miss West told me that - Mamie was in a jam. Her steady, a traveling salesman, had unexpectedly - dropped in on her</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and, for - some reason, likely well founded, Mamie had not intended to let him know - about her going out with another fellow.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I told Miss West that we could fix that all right, if - she herself did not have a steady sticking around somewhere. Miss West - laughed, and assured me she did not have a steady. “If agreeable,” - I said, “you shall now be my company, and, to all appearances, Mamie - shall be the hanger-on, free to desert me for her steady.” Miss West - laughed again, though she looked as if she were a little concerned about - my reference to Mamie as the new hanger-on. Well, it was a slip. It was a - term often applied to the extra girls in our Silver Stocking circle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While visiting in Wetmore before this, Mamie had gone - to a dance in Netawaka with a local man who proved to be not to her - liking, and she had quit him cold at the dance hall door. Though it would - hardly cause a ripple now, it was then considered about the worst thing - that could happen to a young fellow’s social standing. I do not wish - to identify him—yet I must give him a name to be used in Mamie’s - pay-off to me for liberating her at the Savannah rink.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the substitution of names, one is liable to - innocently hit upon somebody’s real name, and to avoid the - possibility of making this error, I shall give him the surname of his - business partner, and go through the customary formality of saying that - any similarity in names is purely coincidental. The man was half-owner of - the livery stable from which we all got our “rigs” that night. - And, anyway, the partners left here together for the state of Washington - many, many years ago, and there should be no chance for repercussions now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mamie knew that I was familiar with the Netawaka - incident—in fact, it was I who did the shifting with Sidney Loop to - get her back home. When Miss West had delivered my message, Mamie broke - away from her steady, rolled gracefully around the hall, and plumped - herself down by my side, saying, “Thank you so much! It gets me out - of an awful jam! And I want you to know that this is no Dr. Fisher deal!” - I wondered? You know a girl, in competition with other girls, might strive - for long to vamp a certain good catch—which is always a girl’s - privilege—and then when the chance offers, find herself tied up for - the time being with someone that right away stinks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Blakeslee family formerly lived on a farm four - miles northeast of Wetmore, directly north of the old Ham Lynn farm. Mamie’s - father, Nelson Blakeslee, often called at my father’s shoeshop for a - visit. One time they planned on chartering a car together and shipping to - California. I did not know Mamie then—but have since wondered what - might have happened had they gone through with their plans.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Evidently Mamie did not make the most of the opportunity - afforded her that night back in Savannah. She married Frank Schilling, of - Hiawatha. There were some dark surmises that she stole Caroline Emery’s - beau. “Stole” is an ugly word to be written in connection with - this sweet, conscientious girl—as I knew her then. I would rather - believe that Miss Emery’s beau was a man of rare good judgment. I - have not seen Mamie since that night at the skating rink in Savannah. Now - widowed, she lives in Fairview</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">thirty minutes away from Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back again on the main theme: In the days which - followed, I said to myself—thought it with vengeance, anyway—that - I would like to see the color of the hair of any d—d RM’s son - that could make me give up this one, meaning the “Kid,” of - course. And may I say that for once I now believed I had my girl matters - well in hand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But, believe it or not, still another son of that same - rich man tried his darndest to edge in. At this time the younger boys had - the habit of lining up on the outside of the church, at Epworth League - meetings, and grab themselves a girl, with a polite, and sometimes not so - polite, “May I “see you home?” After the third “No, - thank you,” from the “Kid,” the RM’s son told her - to go to that place which is sometimes politely called hades.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mrs. Pheme Wood, a well meaning soul who had been an - intimate friend of our family since the first day we came here in 1869, - and who apparently took a special interest in my welfare, stopped me one - day while passing her home, and said, “There’s something I - want to ask you. Of course I don’t believe it, but I’ll ask - anyway. Were you out sleigh-riding with Myrtle Mercer the day her father - lay dead in the home?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle was the afore-mentioned “Kid.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had not intended to name her just yet, but her - identity would have to come out soon anyway, as she figures in this story - to the end. And then some.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Well,” I said—but got no further. - Pheme broke in, “It came to me pretty straight, and one would think—” - I stopped her with a promise to ‘fess up, if she would not run to my - mother with it. “Oh that,” she laughed, remembering a kindred - incident, “was for your own good.” She had gone to my mother - on an errand of mercy. That she had her wires badly crossed did not deter - her. She said she had it on good authority that I was about to marry the - aforesaid Old Girl, who was much too old for me; and that my mother ought - to use her influence to prevent it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Myrtle’s father, John W. Mercer, section foreman, - aged 39, had died suddenly of a heart attack while milking his cow one - morning in February, 1888. And naturally, the family—the mother and - five girls—had to make preparations for the funeral. Myrtle had a - badly sprained ankle</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">acquired - while ice-skating with George Peters on the creek near her home—but - she managed to hobble up town, taking her baby sister Jessie with her. I - followed them into the store, told Myrtle that I would get a sleigh from - the livery stable and take them home. After driving the girls three blocks - directly to their home, I picked up the Old Girl and we drove for an hour - or more. I knew that Frank Fisher would charge me $2.00 anyway, and I - wanted to get my money’s worth. I was seen picking up the “Kid” - at the store and later seen driving with the Old Girl, and someone had - imagined that the two girls were one and the same</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and that’s how the story got started.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When explained, Pheme could have no criticism of - Myrtle, nor of me either for driving her home. But, being a woman of the - old school, she was bound to have her say. She said, “It looks like - you should have had more respect for Myrtle than to go joy-riding with - that other girl at a time like that.” I was not sure that she didn’t - have something there. I said, “Remember, not a word to my mother.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Ah, go on,” she laughed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I might say here, before passing this incident, that - after the family had split up a few years later, Myrtle was sister and - mother too, as well as guardian, for Jessie. And speaking of pretty girls, - this attractive little one had the makings of a real beauty that in later - years just about topped them all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The rich man’s sons were all fine boys—I - think—but in view of their penchant for camping on my trail, the - only compliment I wish to pay them now is to say: They did not play poker.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My trusted friend did not marry the girl I loaned him. - She went with her parents and three brothers to Arkansas</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and married down there. The trusted friend went to the - Far West, made his stake, and married into a quite well-to-do family—and - lived at Yakima, Washington.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Old Girl got her man too—an out-of-town man</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">after she had quit fooling around - with the younger fry, and went with Davey Todd to Kansas City to live. She - became a helpless invalid—and then, not having prepared himself in a - financial way for such eventuality, Davey literally and figuratively had - his hands full. But, to the best of his ability, he was good to her—carried - her around as if she were a baby. How do I know? Well, the “Kid’s” - sisters, -Jennie and Kathy, neighbors while here, helped him a lot in - giving her needed attention.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now Euphema Wood speaks again. Commenting on this - unfortunate affair, she said to me, “Now you can maybe appreciate - all the grief I saved you.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Many years later, I met the mother of the girl whom I - designated for this writing as My Best Girl, on the train out of Kansas - City going to Atchison, her home at that time. I knew the girl had married - a man whom the family were pleased to call a Southern aristocrat, living - at Bald Knob, Arkansas. He was a merchant who carried the sharecroppers—mostly - descendants of Ham—on his books until harvest time, virtually owning - them. This gave him status in his home community, particularly with the - colored folk</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and in - traveling North this mark of distinction was greatly exaggerated. From - what the girl told me, while on a visit back home, I think Mr. Walker was - a worthy man—but that aristocracy appendage, I liked it even less - than I liked the means that had been employed to push me out of the - picture. It is a word that should never have been coined. I was pleased - that the girl herself made no use of it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the course of our talking over old times in - Wetmore, the mother said, “I never could understand why those two - did not marry,” meaning her daughter and the boy who had succeeded - me. I said, “If you really want to know,- I can tell you why. He - just didn’t have the money to do it the way she insisted on having - it done, an expensive wedding, and all that.” She, the mother, - already knew why I had first gracefully tapered off, and then backed away - from it all—for the girl had told me that her penitent mother had - wanted to kick herself for speaking out of turn.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And the “Kid?” Well, wait and see. Might - have to skip a few years, though. I had not yet made that stake. In - reminiscing, one is permitted to wander about over all creation—provided, - always, that he carries along for blending purposes at least one principal - character already introduced: and makes sure to come back “home” - before becoming hopelessly entangled in a wilderness of clearly unrelated - matter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The “Kid” figures prominently in this - episode.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While in Kansas City, I ran onto a street hawker - selling fake “diamonds” for one dollar each. Just for the fun - of it, I bought one of the things, brought it home and presented it to - Myrtle Mercer, who was now working in my printing office, merely to see - how a diamond would affect a girl.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After showing me that her heart was in the right - place, she darted out the door before I could stop her, ran down the steps - to the Means store, and showed it to Lizzie Means; then beat it out the - back door and ran across to show it to Mamma Alma. This lady was the wife - of Dr. J. W. Graham.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mamma Alma was sharp as all getout. Lizzie Means was a - shrewd business woman, but she had a less inquisitive mind. And I guess - Myrtle was pretty sharp too, after the first ecstatic shock had passed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle came bounding back up to the office, and bawled - me out: “Mr. Smartie, that is going to cost you a real diamond—and - a good one, too! And I want it right now!” She had reason to believe - I was holding out on her.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “All right, all right—but you can’t - have it now.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Cloy Weaver, my printer, who had been out on an errand, - had come into the office by this time. He stood there with his mouth open, - wondering what it was all about. Cloy had a girl in Stockton, California, - and was aiming to leave the next day for California to marry her. As I - needed him, and as he had told me he had a wife in the Philippines</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">he was a veteran of the Spanish - American War— I tried to show him that this would be a bigamous - trick. He agreed. Cloy was always agreeable. He remained with me a while - longer—and married Edna Hudson.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Lizzie told me later in the day that the bogus diamond - had her fooled, too. She laughed, “By golly, it did sparkle real - prettily, didn’t it? But it’s going to cost you a real diamond—don’t - forget that. Mamma Alma and I are not going to let Myrtle forget it - either, Ough,” she shrugged, - “that was about the dirtiest - trick imaginable. And Myrtle was so pleased! It was a shame!” And - Mamma Alma had told Myrtle that it was high time anyway for me to be - giving her a “real” diamond.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The next morning Coral Locknane—Myrtle’s best - friend</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">came to the office, - and I don’t know what all passed between the two, but it is pretty - certain they didn’t discuss trifles. The three of us went to Kansas - City on the noon train. I said to the girls, “Shall we go to Cady - & Olmstead’s or to Jaccard’s?” I had been to both - places on my last trip, and I knew they had just the right quality of - sparklers to tickle a girl’s heart—now that I knew how a girl - would react. But Myrtle, feeling pretty sure of herself, and in high good - humor, said quite emphatically, “Neither.” She looked down the - street and said, “We are going to Mercer’s on Petticoat Lane. - It’s a name I believe I can trust. You don’t think I’d - let you steer me to a place like where you got that other thing?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When we went into the Mercer Store, Mr. Waddington, - the diamond salesman, as it happened, pushed his portly self forward, and - asked, “What will it be, please?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, pretty loudly, “A diamond ring for Miss - Mercer!” That claimed the attention of the whole house—the - proprietor included.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Coral had several pretty good diamonds of her own. She - took a seat with Myrtle at the salestable in the little black velvet-lined - cubby corner, while I stood back and looked on. When Mr. Waddington told - them the price of the one they had selected, Myrtle exclaimed, “Whe-e-ew!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then she looked to me for approval. The modest, one - carat blue white stone was in good taste, plenty big enough for a girl. - Coral’s largest diamond—at that time—was also an even - carat, and she was a great help to Myrtle in making the selection. Coral - said, “It’s not good taste to have them too big.” Later, - Myrtle said earnestly and very softly, as if the thing had taken her - breath away, “Do you really think you want to stand that much?” - Mercer’s was the highest priced shop in Kansas City—but in a - case of this kind I figured that a girl must have what she wants.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Then we separated, and I went over to the Cady & - Olmstead store on the corner of 11th and Walnut, and bought for myself—or - rather paid for what I had already bought</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">the beautiful blue white diamond, nearly twice as - large, which Myrtle’s sister Jennie had helped me select only three - days before. Jennie had warned me not to spring that fake diamond on - Myrtle. Said it might not set just right with her. But I knew that Myrtle - was too smart a girl to let anything make her mad at me for long.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Cady said, “You are a day early—where’s - the lady?” “Yes,” I said, “I’m early. Got - pushed around a little. Never mind the lady now. Though you may still make - it a Tiffany setting, but make it for this hand right here.” He gave - me a sympathetic look. Mr. Cady was such a nice man that I felt duty bound - to tell him, as nearly as I could, what had happened to the lady.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sometimes even quality folk didn’t get to see - Mr. Cady, in person. Well, I did—just like I said. I still have the - sales ticket, dated May 12, 1903, bearing his notation, “Will - exchange Tif. Belcher mounting without cost—or diamond for other - goods any time without discount.” Signed, “Cady.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">All this was too much for Coral. A woman with money of - her own can stand only so much. She went over to Norton’s—and - bought herself another diamond, nearly twice as big as Myrtle’s. The - satisfied expression on her lovely face was something to behold. My first - thoughts were that this might call for me to do some swapping with Myrtle. - But, no sir—she’d not part with hers. If pressed, she’d - claim them both. Trust a woman!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had to stay the night in Kansas City with Myrtle’s - sisters, Jennie and Kathy. When she got the chance, Jennie asked me, - “How did it work?” meaning the bogus diamond.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Well,” I replied, “it looks like it - hasn’t blown the top off anything yet.” She said, “It - surely does look that way now, but I wouldn’t be so sure of it after - she sees the beauty we picked out for her.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The two country girls had talked nothing but diamonds - from the time they had entered the apartment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The next morning the three of us started out three - ways to get our diamonds—only we didn’t do it just that way. - We went the rounds in a group. Mr. Mercer told Miss Mercer that she had - selected the best one-carat blue-white flawless diamond in his store. And - he wondered if they might not be related. Myrtle came home pretty pleased - for keeps that time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I’ve always counted it my best investment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.jsrbonnn7c8a"> - <span class="c8 c0">THE VIGILANTES</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">August 28, 1931</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was, assuredly, need for the vigilantes at one - time in the Far West, where the idea originated and here there were no - laws and no courts other than “miner’s courts”—impromptu - courts set up by the people on the spot. But, with all the machinery of - organized government functioning normally and in most instances - efficiently there in Nemaha County, there was, seemingly, no call here for - the vigilantes when they hanged Charley Manley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">The courier-tribune</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">(Semi-weekly)</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Geo. C. Adriance Dora Adriance</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">SENECA KANSAS</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Aug. 28, 1931</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">My dear Mr. Bristow:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">We have just read with a great deal of interest - your article in the Wetmore Spectator dealing with the hanging of Charley - Manley. This is the first time I have ever heard of this act of the - vigilantes. We are going to check through our files of April 1877 and see - if we can find anything relating to it. In any event, I write to ask - permission to reproduce this article in a much special issue of the - Tribune we are putting out next year to celebrate Seneca’s 75th - anniversary.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">The article is so well written and deals with so - early history of our county that I consider it admirably adapted to our - purpose. The next time you are in ‘Seneca I should like to have you - call at The Courier-Tribune office. I have no doubt you have a fund of - other stories that would be just as interesting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Sincerely yours,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Geo. C. Adriance</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It is a tragic story</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">the hanging of Manley by the vigilantes. It was Mar. 31, - 1877. I was a small boy when I first knew Charley Manley, just about big - enough to turn a grindstone, with effort. There is purpose in this - reference to the grindstone.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I remember the time very distinctly. And, with all due - respect to the memory of my departed elders—the vigilantes—if, - after so many years, I may be permitted to express myself freely and - fully, I would say God seemed to be terribly far away from the scene that - night. Before going into the details of the hanging, let us have a look - into the workings of the vigilantes—that organization of men who set - itself up as judge and jury and executioner. There was tactful veiling of - the identity of the individual members, and little is known of the inside - workings of the local vigilantes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">This much is known, however. There was one little slip</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">a bungle—that was, in time, - the means of disclosing the identity of the local operators, but that - secret was also carefully guarded until practically the last one of the - vigilantes has passed on to another world beyond the reach of wagging - tongues and the strong arm of organized law. There is now only one—possibly - two—of the originals left.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The vigilante organization or “Committee,” - as it was called, had its birth in the Far West, for the specific purpose - of dealing with “road agents”—banded highwaymen and - murderers. The idea traveled East and the farther it got away from the - home of its origin the farther it seems to have gotten away from its - original purpose.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the sixties and seventies vigilante committees were - in evidence the full length of the old Overland Trail, from California to - Kansas, and the fact that Wetmore and Granada had as residents a half - dozen or so of the old stage-drivers, express messengers, and pony express - riders, may account, in some measure, for the local organization of - vigilantes. And, if so, by the irony of fate, it was in the home of a - former express messenger that the vigilantes claimed their first and only - victim. It is known that at least two of the old stage employees were - vigilantes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Without question, the idea filtered in from the West. The - almost constant stream of returning gold-seekers passing through Granada - over the Old Trail at a time when the vigilantes were very active in the - West</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">particularly in - Montana—may have scattered the seed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While I was out in the western mining district, a - quarter of a century ago, chasing fickle fortune—which was always - just a few jumps ahead of me—I heard much about the exploits of road - agents, and the work of the vigilantes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the Old West, at Bannack, Virginia City, and - Nevada, in the Alder Gulch section of Montana, where a hundred million - dollars in placer gold was recovered in the early sixties, road agents - plundered and killed, without mercy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Placer gold, as many know, is free gold that has been - eroded from exposed gold-bearing ledges and deposited in the sands and - gravel along the water courses. It was the first form of gold-mining in - the West—the lure that caused the great stampede to California in - 1849. It has rightfully been called “the poor man’s gold,” - because of the comparative ease in which it is recovered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The flush times in the Alder Gulch section, which - contained about twenty thousand eager gold diggers, made rich pickings for - the road agents. They preyed upon individual miners, on express companies, - on anyone, anywhere they could grab gold-dust, or minted gold, the money - of the times. And they were killers, every one of them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Montana vigilantes, sworn to secrecy and loyalty, - with a by-law boldly asserting, “The only punishment that shall be - inflicted by this committee is Death,” undertook the job of - exterminating the road agents. And in one month’s time twenty-one of - the notorious Henry Plummer gang were hung. The job was pepped up a bit - when the first victims squealed on the others. This is history of the - Montana vigilantes. They patterned after the California vigilantes. And it - is to be assumed that vigilantes everywhere were organized along the same - lines.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was a vigilante committee in Nemaha County at - least nine years prior to the hanging of Manley. In September, 1868, - Melvin Baughn, a horse-thief, was legally hanged at Seneca for killing - Jesse Dennis, one of the deputized men who helped capture him. In writing - of that hanging George Adriance said there was a vigilante committee at - the time, and it wanted the officers to turn Baughn over to the committee.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Manley and Joe Brown were charged with being - implicated in stealing John O’Brien’s horse. O’Brien - lived on the Dave Ralston place west of Granada and Brown lived on a - quarter section of land west of the Charley Green farm in the Granada - neighborhood, about two miles from the O’Brien farm. Charley Manley - lived with the family of W. W. Letson at Netawaka. He had lived with the - Letsons at Granada and at Wetmore before they moved to Netawaka. Letson - and Spencer kept a general store here in the old corner building now owned - by Cawood Brothers, originally built by Rising and Son.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At one of their meetings, it appears, the vigilantes - decided to hang Manley and Brown. One member who lived close to Brown - pleaded for the life of his neighbor. Brown had a family of small - children. The discussion waxed hot</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and there was a great rift in the personnel of the - organization. They did not agree in the matter. The determined ones, - however, went ahead with their plans for the hanging. And on the night of - the execution some of the vigilantes, not in accord with the plan, spent - the night at the homes of their neighbors so as to clear themselves of - suspected participation in the hanging.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Manley was arrested at Netawaka and was to - have been given a preliminary trial in Justice H. J. Crist’s court - at Granada. He was brought to Wetmore early the day of his execution and - held under guard in the office of the old Wetmore House until evening. The - delay supposedly was occasioned in order to bring Joe Brown to the bar of - “justice” at the same time. Later it appeared the proceedings - had been delayed, waiting for nightfall.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Robert Sewell, constable, liveryman, ex-stage driver - and Indian fighter, was the arresting officer. On the plains, and here, he - was known as “Bob Ridley.” George G. Gill was deputized as - assistant constable. Dr. J. W. Graham, a Justice of the Peace in Wetmore - at the time, was appointed special prosecutor by County Attorney Simon - Conwell. Sewell, Gill, and Graham, with Manley, drove to Granada in a - spring wagon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the way to Granada, all unconscious of what was in - the air, Dr. Graham, seeing a tree by the roadside with a large - overhanging limb, jokingly said, “Whoa, stop the team, Bob—-we - might just as well hang Charley right here.” Manley laughed and - said, “Oh, no—let’s all have a drink.” He passed - his bottle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Court was to have been held in the Hudson hotel at - Granada. But before proceedings had started, the vigilantes, in - black-face, with coats turned insideout, appeared upon the scene and began - shooting up the place</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with - blanks. They seized Manley and rushed him away—to his doom. - Pandemonium reigned, and in the excitement the president of the vigilante - committee, it is said, raised a window and told Brown to “beat it.” - So, it would seem, the neighbor’s plea for Brown’s life, while - very costly to himself, as you shall see later, had made its impression.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Earlier in the evening, one high up in vigilantic - officialdom, had taken the precaution to relieve the three constables and - the prosecuting attorney of their revolvers—borrowed them “for - a few minutes.” Dr. Graham says he never did get his back.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Manley was taken to a big tree down on the - creek west of Granada, and strung up. The tree was on the old Terrill - place, now owned by the Achtens. Monoah H. Terrill, a store-keeper at - Granada, was a brother-in-law of Manley. Terrill had died a long time - before the Manley hanging.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Manley was buried on the Terrill place—or rather - what afterwards proved to be the roadside—by the grave of his - brother-in-law. Later the bodies were removed. Terrill was placed in the - Letson lot in the Netawaka cemetery. Some say the body of Manley was also - taken there. The Letson lot has no such marker. Others say he was - re-buried in the northeast corner of the Granada cemetery. There is no - marker or other visible evidence of his grave there. His grave now seems - to be as irredeemably lost as was his life on that fatal March night - fifty-four years ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is said by those who were in a position to speak at - the time, that Manley made no protest, spoke not a word when the mob took - him from the room. Whether it was sheer shock that robbed him of all power - to speak, to think, to feel, no one knows. Dr. Graham says that after they - started away with the prisoner someone fired a gun, and he heard Manley - say, “Don’t do that boys, it’s not fair.” Just - what happened after that was never made public. The knowing ones didn’t - seem to want to talk. There were, however, many conflicting rumors afloat—sub - rosa reports, you understand. One rumor was that Manley was dead before - they left the main street with him—died from fright and rough - handling.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the way out one of the vigilantes lost his cap. - Someone picked it up. The same man who had “borrowed” the - officers guns, acting as rear guard, rode back and took the cap. He said - to the people who had followed from the court room, “We don’t - want to hurt anyone—but keep back.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Some of the men in that mob were recognized, but, as one - old timer aptly puts it, no one at that time seemed to care a “helluva” - lot about knowing who they were. However, as the veiling gradually lifted, - it became known that the major portion of the respectable adult male - citizens</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and a few bad - eggs—were numbered among the vigilantes. They were, mostly, - fair-minded and just men. But, even fair-minded men, under stress, can - sometimes be auto-hypnotized into doing strange things—and it would - seem some of the vigilantes got terribly out of hand that night. From all - accounts the performance was a rather disgusting exhibition of mob - passion. Later criticism of the vigilantes was based very largely on the - inexcusable savage demonstration attending the Manley hanging. And mistake - not, there was criticism—criticism that stirred the whole - countryside.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Vigilantes did not tell their wives everything. It - might have been better if they had. And if the Manley demonstration had - met with the approval of the good wives and mothers of the participating - vigilantes, the women might have taken a hand in the general clean-up and - scrubbed the burnt-cork, or whatever it was that blackened their faces, - from back of the men’s ears and thus obliterated the telltale marks - that lingered, like the itch, with some of the boys for several days. The - women generally deprecated the hanging.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Just what evidence the vigilantes had against Charley - Manley, and how authentic or damaging it was, never was made public. Nor - will it ever be. Had the vigilantes permitted the trial to progress far - enough to establish the prisoner’s guilt, their actions would, no - doubt, have received less criticism. The friends of the vigilantes—the - vigilantes themselves never talked, as vigilantes—said that it would - have been difficult to produce convicting evidence as Manley was too good - at “covering up.” He was credited with being the “brains” - of the gang.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Two business men in Netawaka were also suspected. They - evaporated. In fact, there were a dozen or more men scattered about over - the country who were under suspicion.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was rather a hard proposition to handle. The - farmers—the vigilantes and the farmers, with a sprinkling of town - people, were practically the same—were terribly incensed because of - the thefts of their horses, and they were determined, at any cost, to put - a stop to it. And while the convicted horse-thief did not draw a death - sentence, the courts were efficient enough and willing enough to impose - ample punishment on offenders. But the real trouble was in getting - convicting evidence. And the courts could not, of course, play “hunches” - in so serious a matter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And where convicting evidence was lacking, it would seem - about the best—or worst—the vigilantes could do, was to make - an example of some one of those under suspicion, and hope that they had - hanged the right man</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">a - rather dangerous procedure, and hardly sufficient excuse for taking a - life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But one thing that worked then against bringing - suspects into court was, that in case of failure to convict, the court - costs were assessed to the complaining witness, and that meant a lot to - the pioneer farmer—especially to one who had just lost his horses. - At least, that is the way the John O’Brien complaint was handled.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The old court record shows that Constable Sewell - traveled twenty-four miles in making the arrest of Manley, for which he - received $2.40. George G. Gill, as deputy, received a like sum. The - attorney received $7.50. There was also a charge of $1.00 for the keep of - the prisoner, and another $1.00 for guarding him. Isaiah Hudson traveled - only six miles, three miles out and three miles back, in making the arrest - of Joseph Brown, for which he received $1.20. One witness, J. W. Duvall, - was subpoenaed in the Brown case. None in the Manley case. And, - presumably, because of the disrupted court proceedings and the loss of the - prisoners, it was “considered and adjudged” by the court that - the costs in both cases be charged to John O’Brien, the complaining - witness.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, after the hanging of Manley, someone made a - mistake—a very serious mistake—which, coupled with the - previous disagreement, came very close to disrupting the vigilante - organization. A letter, purporting to come from the vigilantes, was sent - to the rebellious member. It gave the man ten days to leave the country, - and warned him that if he failed to do so he would be given the same - treatment as was meted out to Manley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This was a hard jolt to the obstreperous member. And - it was a harder jolt for the man’s wife. The woman opened and read - the letter first, and only for that she might never have known what it was - that caused her man to so suddenly develop a bad case of ague. Then, every - day, for weeks, as the gathering shades of night began to fall upon his - home, this man, with his wife and three small children, trailed off - through the woods, across lots, to the home of a relative to spend the - night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That letter was the cause of much mental and even - physical misery for the woman. She suffered heart attacks at the time: And - in the weeks that followed she suffered the mental torments of the damned. - In relating the matter to me very recently, she said, “Every time - the dog barked I would have a fit.” According to her version of it, - those were the blackest days of her life. And, like a scar, she will carry - its horrors to her dying day—to the grave. She knew what a crazed - mob was capable of doing. As a matter of fact, she knew what a guerilla - mob had done to my father’s family.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Many, many were the times that my mother—sweet, - patient, administering angel—was called upon to be with that woman - in her hours of great distress. And once, when the insidious thing was - about to consume her, my mother brought the woman home with her for a - week.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The marked member finally took the matter up with other - vigilantes, and to save the sanity of the man’s wife</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and no doubt to appease the man’s fears also</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">after all denying knowledge of the - letter, the vigilantes signed a paper pledging protection to the man. The - marked man</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and his friends - in the organization—however, had a pretty good idea who wrote that - letter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With such a document in evidence the identity of the - vigilantes, which had been so closely guarded up to this time, was no - longer cloaked. At least the veil of secrecy now had a big rip in it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The hanging of Manley had a tendency to slow up - activities, but it did not stop the horse-stealing. And once more the - Committee set out to make an example of an accused man. Frank Gage, - charged with stealing a horse from Washie Lynn, was being tried in a - Justice court somewhere over in the Powhattan neighborhood</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">probably Charley Smith’s court. The vigilantes - were in readiness to “storm” the court and take the prisoner, - as they had done in the Manley case at Granada, but the plan was abandoned - at the last minute.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Two horsemen, young and daring, with a whiff of what - was in the air, made a hurried run to the scene. They told the vigilantes - that they were about to make a mistake—that they, the informers, - knew positively that Gage was elsewhere the night the Lynn horse was - stolen. The high-stepping modern Paul Revere of that heroic dash still - lives. The other has gone to his reward.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Gage, of course, was acquitted, for lack of evidence. - Later, the real thief, convicted for stealing wheat, confessed to stealing - the Lynn horse, and told where it was. Washie reclaimed the animal.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The man who was credited with being the president of - the vigilante committee afterwards became a very popular and efficient - peace officer of Nemaha county. And, if I understood the man rightly, I - think he would have fought forty wildcats, and maybe a buzz-saw or two, - before he would have surrendered, for unlawful handling, a charge of his - to any set of men—vigilantes, clan, mob extraordinary, or even a - regiment of soldiers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Soon after the Manley hanging a branch of the Kansas - Peoples Detective Association was organized here. Unlike the vigilantes, - its purpose was not to override the law, but to assist it in capturing and - convicting horse-thieves. W. D. Frazey was president and E. J. Woodman was - secretary.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now a line about the Old Overland Trail. Besides - carrying a faint flavor of Manley handiwork, it was the avenue by which I - myself came into this country. But I did not ride the old Concord coach - drawn by its four spirited horses. I came by the slower mode of the - ox-team.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Old Overland Trail, or military road, as it was - sometimes called, was vastly different from the good roads of the present - time—very, very much different from the elaborate specifications for - Number Nine, now building through Wetmore. It was little more than a wide - rut worn deep by the constant movement of horse-drawn vehicles, including, - of course, mules and oxen. There were stage-lines, pony-express riders, - and heavy freighting outfits. The commerce of the West was handled over - the Old Trail.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Starting at Atchison, the Old Trail came into the Pow~ - hattan ridge settlement at the southwest corner of the Kickapoo Indian - reservation, and, keeping to the high ridges as much as practical, it - passed through Granada, Log Chain and Seneca, and on westward to Oroville - and Sacramento, in California. The stage company maintained a change - station on the old Collingwood C. Grubb farm—called Powhattan. Noble - H. Rising was in charge of the station after it had been moved three miles - north, and the name changed to Kickapoo. His son, Don C. Rising, was a - pony-express rider. W. W. Letson was express messenger. Bill Evans, Lon - Huff, and Bob Sewell, oldtimers here, were stage drivers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The road made a sharp turn to the north before - reaching Granada. Peter Shuemaker lived on the farm now owned and occupied - by Charley Zabel, west of the turn. Shuemaker wanted the road to pass by - his farm, and, at his own expense, built a cut-off in the hope that - traffic would be diverted that way.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Roads in those days were built, mostly, by the simple - process of going out with a plow and running a couple of parallel furrows, - with the proper spacing to accommodate all anticipated traffic. Peter - Shuemaker’s cut-off veered off to the northwest, across the prairies - just anywhere the going seemed to be good, until it intersected the Old - Trail again. And though as simple as that, road building in those days was - not without difficulties. Some would want the road and some wouldn’t - want it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Uncle” Peter’s road bumped into a - circumstance when his engineer projected the cut-off across the farm of a - certain female importation from the Emerald Isle. And right there Irish - wit and Missouri temper mixed. William Porter, not so very long removed - from the Rushville hills, was chief engineer and contractor for the - prairie division of “Uncle” Peter’s cut-off. Mrs. - Flannigan met the Missourian head-on, with an old horse-pistol wrapped in - her apron. “Off with you, I’ll not have the place torn up,” - she commanded.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Entirely unaware of the</span> <span>ominous</span> <span - class="c2 c0">clouds rolling up in the sky of his destiny, the wily - William squared himself in an attitude of defiance, squinted his eyes in - the peculiar manner of his people, spat out his tobacco, and said, “I - carkilate I’m running this road.” Whereupon Mrs. Flannigan - unbound her pistol, and replied, “It’s a fine young man you - are, but I’m sorry to tell you that you’ll never see your old - mother again.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Contractor Porter decided to take fate in his own - hands and change the plans of destiny as decreed by Mrs. Flannigan. He - took another chew of tobacco and then meekly backtracked for a mile over - the perfectly good road he had just built—and ran some more furrows. - You couldn’t block a road project with a horse-pistol, or even with - injunctions, in those days. There was too much open land.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The generous spacings and fine appointments of Peter - Shuemaker’s cut-off—it had a corduroy bridge, over Muddy - Creek, with nigger-head trimmings—were out of all proportion to the - scanty travel that passed his way. And when “Uncle” Peter - found that he couldn’t bring the traffic to him, he, like Mahomet, - went to it. Shuemaker built a hotel in Granada.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Recollections are now about as dim as the Old Trail - itself, but there is one oldtimer who asserts that it is his belief that - Ice Gentry and Charley Manley were credited with being the axe-men who - made the slashings on the timber division of “Uncle” Peter’s - cut-off. But, says another, that may have been before Manley came into the - neighborhood. Nothing certain about that, though. So many of the old - fellows have their biographies so scrambled that it is hard to get at the - truth. The suggestion was, nevertheless, timely. And, anyway, Charley - Manley spent his last day on earth in Peter Shuemaker’s hotel at - Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">As I remember him, Charley Manley was a rather quiet, - pleasant mannered man. And, although a matured man himself</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">he was about forty, and unmarried</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">he made friends of the youngsters about town and - seemed to enjoy their company. He could always find a way to help a boy - with a few dimes.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Early in his career here in Wetmore it was settled - that I was to have the job of turning the grindstone for Charley Manley - whenever he needed help to grind his axe. Since that time I have often - wondered why he had so much axe-grinding to do. But I thoroughly enjoyed, - with all the thankfulness of a growing young boy’s” healthy - heart, the dimes and quarters he gave me. And sometimes I have thought - that maybe he ran in a few extra and needless grindings solely to gladden - my heart.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then came the time when Charley Manley fitted his - grindstone with foot pedals. I used to sit by and watch him do the - grinding without my help, and long for the dime I was being cheated out of - by the introduction of that new labor-saving device. One time Charley - Manley let me pour water on the grindstone while he ran it with - foot-power. He said the tin can suspended over the stone, which was - releasing a steady stream of water where it was needed, did not do the - work so satisfactorily. He gave me a quarter for that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With all his axe-grinding, I never knew Charley Manley - to do more than chop wood on the Letson wood-pile. No coal was burned here - in that axe-grinding period. Wood was brought in from the timber, a - wagon-load at a time, in the pole, or in cord-wood lengths. It was chopped - into stove lengths as needed, enough to cook a meal at a time. And - sometimes the chopper would make the supply very scanty, or even renege on - the job altogether. Then the cook would have to go out and scrape up - chips. How well I know that. Aside from my axe-grinding activities I spent - some time on the Bristow wood-pile in my younger days. And I am now sorry - to say there were times when my patient mother would have to gather in the - chips.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The last words Charley Manley ever said to me were, - “Come over to Netawaka and see me sometimes, Johnny, and I’ll - let you turn the grindstone for me.” He smiled pleasantly. That was - while he was held in custody here the day of his execution. Poor fellow, - he did not then suspect what was to be his fate. Naturally, I felt badly - about the hanging—and the loss of my opportunity to make another - honest dime. And the worst that I could now wish for the shades of his - executioners, is that they be compelled to take turns in turning Manley’s - grindstone, over there in the vast beyond, until his axe is made sharp, - sharp, sharp—and then, that Charley’s ghost be licensed by Him - who judges all things, to use it—provided, of course, that he didn’t - steal their horses.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.39ggf083w6zg"> - <span class="c8 c0">MOUNT ERICKSON</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator—</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">March 27, 1936</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was sixty-two years ago. Our quiet little village, - surrounded by almost continuous open country, with grazing herds all - bedded down for the night, slumbered. A gentle rain was falling.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The night train brought to Wetmore a man bent upon a - desperate undertaking. Jim Erickson was a resident of these parts, but had - been absent for some time. He did not seek lodgings in town. Under cover - of the night he walked west on the railroad track for two miles, then - turned off to the timber on the south. He spent the remainder of the night - in a hay stack at the timber’s edge. Here he loaded his revolver for - the cold-blooded murder of his neighbor and supposedly his friend, Adolph - Marquardt.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With the coming of dawn on that spring morning, May - 10, 1873, Jim Erickson-plodded on foot through the wet grass from his - hay-stack bed to the Marquardt home two miles to the southwest. He knocked - for admittance. The door was opened. Erickson’s gun flashed, and - Marquardt fell dead by the side of the door.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Just what all happened after that is mere conjecture</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but rumor had it that the whole - abominable affair rested with Erickson’s burning desire to break the - Tenth Commandment; and as expedient to this insane impulse he deemed it - important for him to break also the Sixth Commandment. And as it turned - out, he just about smashed the whole category of “Thou shall nots.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim Erickson took the two small Marquardt children - over to the home of Peter Nelson about a quarter of a mile away. He told - Nelson that he had killed Marquardt; that he had shot Mrs. Marquardt in - the thigh, crippling her, so that she could not get away, and that he - intended to kill her when he returned to the home. Erickson also told - Nelson that he had intended to take Mrs. Marquardt away with him, but she - had refused to go.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was never definitely established that there had been - any promises or understanding between Erickson and Mrs. Marquardt. If - there had been any clandestine meetings, they had the good sense, or more - likely the good luck, to keep it well under cover. The one certain thing - is that Erickson coveted his neighbor’s wife</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and that was bad business.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Marquardt children were too young to realize what - had happened. The older child, a boy of four, could say nothing but - “Boom!” The younger child died two years later in the home of - William Morris.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The older boy</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">now - Adolph Nissen</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">still lives. - He was taken into the home of Christian C. Nissen. Or rather, the Nissens - came to the boy’s home, acquiring the right through due process of - law. And they adopted the boy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Marquardts were regarded as fine people, and if - there had ever been any rifts in the family, the world did not know it. - Jim Erickson was a rather quiet and apparently honorable man who owned a - homestead north of the Marquardt home. The Marquardt land is now owned by - Mrs. C. C. Nissen, Christian’s second wife, mother of Frits Nissen, - and C. C.’s other four children—Bill, Homer, George, and Mrs. - Charley Love. Peter Nelson owned the intervening eighty then. Erickson was - a bachelor. The residents of that settlement were all countrymen. That is, - they or their ancestors had immigrated to this country from that little - corner of the old world known as the land of the midnight sun—Sweden, - Norway, and Denmark.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were no telephones then and the process of - summoning the law was necessarily slow. William Liebig was constable. He - was reputedly a very brave man, but that was one time when he displayed - more caution than |. bravery. With a posse of deputized men, Liebig went - to the scene of the murder—that is, they went near it. For long - hours the men hung around on the fringe of the premises, watching and - waiting. Finally Liebig crept noiselessly up to the house and very - cautiously pushed the door open. His tension relaxed a bit. All occupants - of the house were dead. Jim Erickson had killed Mrs. Marquardt while in - bed. He then sent a bullet through his own head.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time there was a small publication at Netawaka - whose outspoken editor believed in calling “a spade a spade.” - His printed version of the affair, purporting to be based on revealments - in the house on entry of the officers, was, to say the least, racily - rotten.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Erickson’s body was brought to town and rested - for a while in the wareroom of the DeForest store building. The doctors - sawed Erickson’s head open, and decided that he had an “abnormal - brain.” But evidently they were not satisfied with their findings. - Anyhow, it would seem they craved another whack at him, as will be - observed later. In making the post-mortem the doctors used a common - carpenter’s hand saw. I saw them do it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Marquardt and his wife were buried in the Wetmore - cemetery. Marquardt was a Union soldier. His grave is marked with a slab - bearing only his name.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There was no one here to claim Jim Erickson’s body. - Neil Erickson, a cousin, lived in that neighborhood—but the crime - was too horrible for him to have any part in the disposal of the murderer. - Neil Erickson was a respected citizen. Neil later married Peter Pope’s - widow. She was the sister of a Wetmore shoemaker named Reuter. Pope gave - Reuter a cow for bringing his sister here—as a prospective bride—besides - paying the woman’s way from Germany. She took with her into the - Erickson home one child</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Charley. - I do not know if Charley was her son, or Peter Pope’s by his first - wife. Likely the former. Pope had a daughter—Louise. She was old - enough at her father’s death to make her own way. She worked in Dr. - J. W. Graham’s home for several years. Neil Erickson was the father - of Dick Erickson. Jim Erickson’s brother George came later, and - lived here many years. He was an honorable man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The town people decided that they did not want a murderer - buried in the cemetery, so what was left of Jim Erickson after the doctors - had finished with him, was dumped into a packing box, and he was buried on - top of a high hill just south of town. This hill, then regarded as “no - man’s land,” is now a part of the Bartley farm. It has been - locally known ever since as Mount Erickson.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the night following the planting of Erickson, two - groups of doctors, with numerous assistants, started out to recover the - body. But, as it turned out, the corpse was left undistributed—at - least, for that night. Rumor had it that it did not remain long on the - hill-top.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Wetmore group, led by Dr. W. F. Troughton, was first - in the field. Close on their heels came the Netawaka group. Dusk was upon - them. One of the Netawaka men rode a white horse. That rider and his - companions moved silently across the slough-grass swamp skirting the big - hill, steadily gaining on the Wetmore men who had halted at the base of - the hill. One of the local hirsute sentinels</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">they nearly all wore whiskers then—exclaimed, - “It’s a ghost!” That was enough. The Wetmore group - stampeded. The Netawaka group followed suit. And the cattle which had - bedded down for the night at the base of the hill stampeded. The cattle - bellowed, and what with terrified men and frightened beasts running this - way and that way, pandemonium reigned supreme for quite a spell. Perhaps - the cattle, too, had seen Erickson’s ghost.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.ciaftympo7ql"> - <span class="c8 c0">TURNING BACK THE PAGES</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator and</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Horton Headlight—1936.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Old Overland Trail</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">STATEMENT BY CHARLES H. BROWNE</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Editor Horton Headlight</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">EDITOR’S NOTE—Nearly a year ago, J. T. - Bristow, pioneer resident of Wetmore and former editor of the Wetmore - Spectator, promised Charles H. Browne, editor of The Headlight at Horton, - Kansas, he would prepare an article dealing with early history of this - corner of Kansas, particularly as it was affected by the Old Military - Road, which became the Overland Stage route to the Far West and also the - Pony Express route.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was hoped Mr. Bristow would have the article ready - for the 50th Anniversary edition of The Headlight, published on October - 29, 1936, but this he was unable to do. However, he furnished the article - several months later, and The Headlight published it in seven - installments.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The article is so unusually well written, so - authentic, and of such absorbing interest that the editor has taken the - liberty of reproducing it in a small booklet in order that it may better - be preserved for its historical importance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Kansas pioneers living in south-central Nemaha and - southern Brown counties a little more than three-quarters of a century - ago, witnessed the inauguration of a stage line over an old trail passing - their very doors, so to speak.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That road, thick with horse and mule drawn vehicles - and long ox-drawn wagon trains, grew quickly into the greatest - thoroughfare of its kind on the face of the earth. Simply a winding trail, - ungraded and almost wholly without bridges, it was by far the greatest - line of vehicular traffic of all times. It was a road with a golden - background. It is the major topic of this article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time there were no railroads or telegraph - lines west of the Missouri river. A vast wilderness, uninhabited except - for Indians and a few isolated white settlements, all territory between - the river and the Rocky mountains was designated as “The Great - American Desert.” By many it was considered the most worthless - stretch of country in the western world. An error, of course, and one - agreeably noted by those living here now—notwithstanding the New - Deal brain trust’s prophecy that much of this land is to revert to - the desert.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h2 class="c17" id="h.enew19t18hyv"> - <span class="c9 c0">WANTS INFORMATION</span> - </h2> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">W. F. Turrentine, in Spectator</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">A few days ago J. T. Bristow received a letter from - Albert T. Reid, national vice-chairman of The American Artists - Professional League, Incorporated, complimenting</span> <span>him</span> - <span class="c2 c0">on his article, “The Overland Trail,” and - asking for information regarding “Old Bob Ridley,” a famous - frontiersman well known to what few of the old settlers are left in this - vicinity. “Old Bob Ridley” was Robert Sewell who lived in this - part of Kansas in an early day and had a lot of vivid experiences, some of - which Mr. Bristow recorded in the article mentioned. Robert Sewell’s - wife, several years his junior, was a sister of Mrs. V. O. Hough. We quote - the following from Mr. Reid’s letter to Mr. Bristow:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">16 Georgia Ave., Long Beach, N. Y., November 14, - 1937.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Dear Mr. Bristow:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0 c13">Ralph Tennal of Sabetha sent me your story, - “The Old Overland Trail,” a few days ago and I read it from - kiver to kiver without stopping to catch my breath. It is very fascinating - and a swell job.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I was particularly interested in it because I had - done a sketch which I intended painting sometime. I made the sketch about - two years ago and from my memory of the incident which fascinated me - particularly. I called it “Old Bob Ridley Brings in the Mall.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Recently I put a mural in place in the Post Office - at Sabetha which was called “The Coming of the New Fast Mail.” - It is of the Pony Express rider passing the old Mail Stage. It has made a - hit far beyond my wildest hopes and leads me to believe this is the sort - of thing the public likes, and particularly our Kansas people—they - like something which is out of their past, realistic, romantic, colorful.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">Possibly you may remember me as the fellow who - published the Leavenworth Daily Post for 18 1/2 years and the Kansas - Farmer for almost eleven years during that period. I started to stick type - on the Clyde papers. Was born up in Concordia and I never saw a railroad - train until I was well up to six</span> <span class="c6">—</span> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">just my father’s old stages which ran from - Concordia to Waterville and Marysville.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">So you see why the painting of our old past - particularly interests me and why I have a considerable first hand - knowledge and feeling for it. The details are most important to me. I made - a most careful research for my Pony Express and I want to be very accurate - with Old Bob when I start in to paint it. There are a few details I want - to get straightened out, so I am imposing on you to help me, thinking you - may have some interest in seeing the incident preserved.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I gave Mr. Reid the information he desired, but I - do not know if he ever finished a canvass of “Old Bob.” - Probably not—for it was my impression (from reading between the - lines) that if and when it should be completed that I would be expected to - approve it, in return for his compliment to me. Bob’s home town - would have been the natural place to exhibit it. Albert was concerned most - as to whether the stage-team driven by Bob at the time of the Indian - attack near Cottonwood Springs, in which he killed three Redskins and - wounded a dozen more, were horses or mules. I said in my story that - “Ben Holladay gave him a gold watch for saving the stage and the - four mules.” And this was Bob’s version of it. So I gathered - that Mr. Reid had this incident in mind for his painting. Only recently, - Dec. 10, 1950, the Topeka Daily Capital ran a story, with illustration of - a canvass by Albert T. Reid, “Main Street—1873” of the - Artist’s old home town, featuring his father’s four-horse - stage coach on the takeoff from Concordia. The Capital article said the - women’s organizations of Concordia were raising a fund of $1,500 to - purchase the canvass.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">Bob Ridley (Robert Sewall) brought his colorful record - with him when he came to Wetmore. Here, he was just like everyone else—maybe - a little more so. He took life easy, did not brag overly much about his - past exploits. Early in his career as stage driver on the Overland Trail, - he fell into the habit of helping a red headed girl wait table at Mrs. D. - M. Locknane’s celebrated eating house just west of Granada, grabbing - bites now and again from his plate in the kitchen, as he worked, all - through the twenty minute stops—and when this got monotonous he - pepped up matters by grabbing the redhead, all in one take. He</span> - <span class="c6">married</span> <span class="c6 c0">Cicily Locknane—and - established her in an eating house of their own at a station in the Little - Blue valley</span> <span class="c6">west of</span> <span class="c6 c0">Marysville, - while he himself continued driving stage. But the frequent Indian raids in - that section soon sent Cicily back to</span> <span class="c6">her mother</span> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">at Granada. Then, when there was no more stage - driving, Bob and Cicily moved down from Granada to Wetmore. Their - activities here have been noted in other articles. Robert Sewell died in - 1884.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">J. T. B.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Overland Trail, along which the mighty traffic of - the plains moved, was first laid out from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Kearney - in 1849. The road was definitely established in 1858, with a weekly mail - route from Saint Joseph to Salt Lake. In its settled state, the line ran - daily from Atchison to Placerville, and Sacramento, California.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Prior to that the route through this section was used - by gold-seekers, following the discovery of gold in California in 1849. It - was used by emigrants, trappers, and adventurers coming from the East. - Military stores from Fort Leavenworth to the posts in the northwest were - handled over this trail. Also, freighting by ox-train was carried on - extensively from Leavenworth to the Mormon settlements in the Salt Lake - valley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mormons, too, may have traveled the road. And, as has - been asserted in print, Mormons there might have been who camped in a - clump of timber a few miles west of Atchison, causing it to be locally - known as “Mormon Grove.” Straggling Mormons, maybe. But not - the main exodus. Contrary to fixed assumption, the great migration of - Mormons to the Salt Lake valley in 1847 did not pass this way. Driven out - of Missouri, they went to Illinois; and again driven out of Illinois, they - traveled through Iowa, crossed the Missouri river at Council Bluffs and - did not touch ground on which the Old Trail was subsequently established - until they reached the Platte valley at or near Fort Kearney. The offense - that had so incensed the righteous citizens of Missouri and Illinois was - flagrant polygamy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The main group of Mormons camped for nearly two years - in Iowa while Brigham Young, with a few of his disciples, went on farther - west is search of a place outside the United States where he hoped they - could carry on without interference. The Salt Lake valley was then in - Mexican territory. But almost before Brigham’s people had become - settled the war with Mexico was over and Brigham’s refuge was ceded - to the “hated” United States. Then for years the enormous - migration across the plains to California poured through the land of - mormon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Brigham didn’t relish that—and in the - following decade he kicked up quite a disturbance. On every hand, he - showed his hatred of all peoples not Mormon. He climaxed matters with the - Meadow Mountain massacre. In 1857 the Mormons plundered and murdered an - emigrant train numbering nearly 150 people. To be exact—a historical - fact—120 men and women were slaughtered. Seventeen children under - seven years of age were taken alive into Mormon camp. Also rumors, and - some overt acts, indicated that the Mormons were planning rebellion. This - bit of history is related merely to clarify statements which follow.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now the Old Trail through this section came into - active use again. General Albert Sidney Johnson’s army of 5,000 men, - with a long ox-train bearing military supplies, was sent out from Fort - Leavenworth to put down the so-called Mormon uprising. And, incidentally, - that new mail route through here was to give quicker service between - Washington and General Johnson. Prior to that, mail went to Salt Lake and - the northwest forts monthly, out of Independence, up the Kaw valley.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">All this business about the Old Trail happened of - course before my day. True, I came into this country over the Old Trail—when - traffic was at its peak—but I was too young to note much. Therefore, - in compiling this article I must draw from memory of what I have read, of - what was told in my presence, by old-timers after the closing years, - together with what I have been able to pick up at this late date—and - from what I really know about subsequent incidents that shall be given - consideration. It is not alone the story of the Old Trail.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I know of no old-timer from whom I could have obtained - more reliable information than from my Uncle Nick Bristow. His first-hand - knowledge of the Old Trail, and of the early history of the West, is - reflected throughout this article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My uncle, Nicholas Bristow, who died here November 12, - 1890, age 69 years, came to Kansas before the Old Trail was in active - existence—just how early, I do not know. When my father wrote his - brother from their old home in Tennessee, he would send his letters in - care of the Floyds at old Doniphan, a steamboat landing on the Missouri - river about five miles north of Atchison. How often my uncle would get his - mail depended upon how often he drove his lumbering ox-team across the - forty mile stretch of intervening prairies to the river for supplies. - Uncle Nick kept that yoke of oxen a long time. I remember seeing him break - prairie with old Buck and Jerry, two rangy Texas steers with long - spreading horns tipped with brass knobs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And when my Uncle Nick wrote his cousin, Stephen - Sersene, in California to ask, in substance, if he were really finding the - gold—the lure that had snatched the said relative from his old - Kentucky home and sent him scampering across the plains to the Pacific - slope in 1849—and could he himself, should he go out there, stand a - reasonable show of filling his own poke with gold-nuggets, he posted that - letter at old Doniphan and it went to California by way of the Isthmus of - Panama.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Had Uncle Nick been so fortunate as to get that letter - in the mails so as to reach the Atlantic seaboard in time to connect with - a semi-monthly sailing it would have reached his cousin Steven in about - thirty days. With the inauguration of the Central Overland Stage Line, - letters mailed at Granada or old Powhattan were taken through to the - western coast in seventeen days—and later, by Pony Express, in ten - days. Now, if he were living, my uncle could have his letters delivered in - California by air-mail in ten hours. Thus have we progressed! Now, too, as - all know, with three enabling devices, one can telegraph, talk, and sing - to California, at will—and, if your photograph is of importance to - the news service, it can, within certain bounds, be wired to California at - the rate of an inch a minute for the breadth of the finished picture.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And had my uncle decided to go to California, the - Isthmus route would have been his quickest and best way, if not the only - safe way. However, notwithstanding the perils and delays of overland - travel, more than a hundred thousand people crossed the plains in the - first two years of the gold rush—many of them passing this way.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our former townsman, Sneathen Vilott, whose home was - then in Illinois, and who came to Kansas in 1855, went to California by - way of the Isthmus of Panama during the gold excitement. I have often - heard him talk entertainingly about that experience. Also, William J. - Oliphant, father of Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of Granada, went overland to - California in 1849, and returned by way of the Isthmus. However, the - goddess of gold did not smile upon either of these men. Indeed, they both - worked in menial pursuits to earn return passage.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Like nearly every one else in those days, Uncle Nick - was gold-minded. He coveted some of that gold. In fact, we all did in our - day—uncle, father, brother, and I.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With sails all set for California and the placers, my - father, William Bristow, actually got out as far as Kansas in 1856. But - someone in old Doniphan, a relative of the Floyds who had been to - California, took the wind out of his sails with a negative report. My - father was then twenty-one years old. He visited his brother here, then - went back to Nashville, got married, and came out here again with his - family in 1865. He finally went to California to live out his last years. - He died at Fresno in 1908.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">In California, my father did not take up the hunt for - gold—though, on one occasion when I was visiting him, he drove with - me over to the old site of Millerton, which was one of the rich placers in - the early days. It is where the San Joaquin river comes down out of the - mountains. The only remaining evidence of that once hell-roaring town of - 10,000 inhabitants is the old territorial jail, a large stone building - with heavily barred windows and three foot walls</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">a relic of the wicked past.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While standing on the west bank of that swift flowing - stream, watching the foaming waters among the boulders rush past, my - father, pulling at his own whiskers in a sort of meditative way, said, - with apparent regret, “If it hadn’t been for that old - long-whiskered cuss back there at Old Doniphan, I might have been out here - when there was something doing; and probably”—he glanced - toward the old jail which was then closed to the public—”have - gotten to see the inside of that building.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While at old Millerton my father told me that my - brother Dave, then in business in Fresno, had sent a representative and - $5,000 into the Klondike country. In passing, I may say here that my - brother’s five “grand” found a permanent home in the - frozen north. Also, the miner sent to Alaska on a grubstake agreement got - back within two years with nothing more than a sizable tale of hardships—and - ten frosted toes. Julius Pohl, from Horton; Col. Ed. Post, from Atchison; - and Sam Ebelmesser, formerly of Wetmore, now living in Los Angeles, were - in that frenzied, frozen, Alaskan gold rush. Also, my brother Dave had - some non-productive experience in seeking “black gold” in the - Bakersfield oilfield—$15,000 worth of it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My Uncle Nick was a Union soldier in the Civil war, - and before that a soldier in the Mexican war of 1848—the war that - dashed the heaven out of Brigham’s haven. Also, in a way, he was a - soldier of fortune. He hunted gold, and he hunted mountain lions in the - Rockies.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But Uncle Nick did not go to California. Almost before he - had had time to hear from his cousin Steve, he got his chance to dig for - gold—and strange as it may appear, it was in Kansas! My uncle was - among the first at the sensational Cherry</span> <span>c</span> <span - class="c2 c0">reek gold diggings—the present site of Denver—in - 1858, advertised at the time in the East as the gold-fields of western - Kansas. For want of a better known landmark, probably, the scene of that - gold strike was inaccurately laid in the shadow of Pike’s Peak. - Though visible on clear days, through the sun-drenched haze that lies - always, like a pall, over the mountain fastness, Pike’s Peak is a - good hundred miles south of Denver. But that gold find was truly in - Kansas. At that time Kansas territory extended west to the backbone of the - Rocky mountains. The city of Denver—first called Auraria—scene - of the Cherry creek placers, was named after the territorial Governor of - Kansas—James W. Denver.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Uncle Nick located a claim at the Cherry creek - diggings and sent home to my aunt Hulda a small bottle of gold-dust, - saying in a letter to her that she was “no longer a poor man’s - wife!” That was, as my aunt afterwards said, a “sorry” - thing to do—like giving a reprieve to a condemned man, and then - revoking it. My uncle brought home no gold. He must have neglected his - claim for the more hazardous business of hunting mountain lions.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That ferocious beast, if you don’t know, is the - big cat with four names. In the East and South he is the panther. In the - Rockies he is the mountain lion. In Arizona and on the Pacific slope he is - the cougar. Somewhere he is the puma. And everywhere he is the killer!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">No Government bounty was paid on cougars then, as there - is now; but the pelts were much in demand for rugs. Hunters went after the - lions for the same reason that early-day trappers sought the beaver. I - recall that the lion rug in my uncle’s home, measuring eight feet - from tip to tip, with stuffed head and artificial eyes—a trophy of - his Rocky mountain hunts, killed at the risk of his own life, was a scary - thing. The great beast was shot in the nick of time</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">in mid-air, after that two hundred pounds of</span> <span>destruction</span> - <span class="c2 c0">had made the spring for my uncle from an overhanging - limb of a great pine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And, incidentally, I might say my father had some - terrifying experience with that killer, the panther. He was walking - through the dark woods in his native Tennessee, nearing his home, when a - night prowler fell in behind him, coming so close that he could feel the - animal’s breath on his swinging hands, and he thought nothing of it—just - then. Likely one of his dogs come to meet him. But in the yard, he could - see by the light of the lamp in the window, which my mother was always - careful to put there to show him that he would not be trespassing on the - home of a wicked woman living in a lonely cabin in the nearby deep wood—a - witch, they called her; but there was suspicion that she was more than - that to some of the menfolk—he could see that his trailer was a - panther. It had feasted on the offals from the day’s hog-killing, or - butchering—and, with a bellyful, was in a rather composed mood. Not - so my Dad. Did he run? He did not. He had learned from old hunters to not - show fright when in a tight spot with that ugly animal. However, he said - his stimulated mind reached the door about twenty “shakes of a sheep’s - tail” ahead of his paralyzed legs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Uncle Nick’s recounted experiences with the lions - were enough to fire the hunting blood in his young nephew. Later, however, - the nephew going over the same ground said to himself, “To hell with - the lions—me for the gold!” The contagion had gotten me. - Recounting the great wealth of the five major placers, I “cussed” - myself—mildly, of course</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">for not having been born earlier.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Too late for the placers, and thoroughly imbued with - the idea, I took a dip at hard-rock mining—and, paradoxically, - “cussed” myself again. Less mildly, however. Ah, that delving - for gold—it is a dramatic game, a business wherein the element of - chance runs rampant and the imagination is given unbridled play.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bedeviled by Indians and highwaymen, there were perils - and hardships in travel along the Overland Trail in those days—but - nothing, absolutely nothing, slowed up the westward march. The race to - acquire new wealth was on! “Pike’s Peak, or Bust,” was - the slogan! In swinging up through Nebraska the Old Trail made a wide - rainbow circle to reach Denver. There was literally “a pot of gold” - at the end of the rainbow! Gold, glittering yellow gold! Nothing else in - the wide world has ever stirred men more deeply, driven them to greater - tests of endurance, or robbed them more swiftly of reason.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Still, gold changed the whole history of the country. It - sent a mighty migration of people across the continent, built a - trans-continental railroad, and established an American empire on the - Pacific coast. And gold—magic gold</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">was the life-stream of the old Overland Trail!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Cherry creek placers were the first after the - California discoveries to attract the throngs of that gold-mad era. It was - gold here in mid-continent! Gold in Kansas! It was new business for the - Old Trail. The great bulk of western travel, with attending heavy - commerce, was to the goldfields.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Again, in 1863, when placer gold was discovered in the - Alder Gulch section of Montana, traffic on the old line became enormously - heavy. The three principal camps—Bannock, Virginia City, and Nevada—yielded - a hundred million dollars in placer gold. Twenty thousand gold-hungry - miners frantically worked the streams for the yellow metal, while - thousands more men were on the road to and from that Eldorado. They were - mostly from the East—men who had traveled the Old Trail through - here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Indians have been mentioned. They were notably - troublesome at times, especially in the buffalo country west of the Blue - river. In that territory there were four hostile tribes—Sioux, - Cheyenne, Comanche, and Pawnee. The Indians had the Overland Stage line - between the Blue and Julesburg blocked for six weeks in 1864. - Station-keepers, stage-drivers, and travelers were killed; stations were - burned and stage-stock stolen. The congestion along the line extended back - to Atchison. Numerous itinerant outfits were detained at Granada.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Even in my time, on this side of the Blue, the sight - of a red blanket out in the open was enough to send a spasm of fear - surging through children, and adults did not feel any too comfortable. - Always there was that feeling that approaching Indians in numbers might - not be our Kickapoos, but hostiles from the other side of the Blue. Then - there came a day when our citizens were sure of it—no mistaking that - band of four hundred redskins for the peaceful Kickapoos!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was a queer looking cavalcade</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">tall braves and Indians squatty, squaws fat and greasy, - bronze maidens passably “fair”; children, papooses, ponies, - and dogs galore</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with - luggage lashed on long poles hitched to ponies in buggy-shaft fashion, - with the rear ends dragging on the ground. The Indian travois.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At four o’clock of a rather hot summer day, those - Indians, unannounced, made camp at the old ford near the edge of town. Two - of our influential townsmen—one professional, one artisan</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">invaded the Indian camp, and - through speech, signs, or somehow, gleaned the information that the - Indians were from Nebraska and were on their way to the Indian Territory.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Come early bonfire-light that night, those two white - men re-entered the Indian camp. They took along a Scotsman’s “wee - bit” of the Indian’s “firewater,” but whether they - unlawfully gave it to the braves or drank it themselves, was cloaked in - silence. The charitable townspeople preferred to believe they drank it - themselves—hence the mess. But the best “kid” analysis - at the time favored the belief that the trouble had all come about through - the white man’s ignorance of Indian etiquette—as with respect - to bronze maidens passably “fair.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Those two white men were ejected from the Indian camp—not - exactly thrown out on their ears, but definitely dismissed. Expressed in - Indian terms, here was a tribe whose braves “no like paleface put - nose in Indian’s business.” In the telling, those two rebuffed - men themselves did not seem to care very much—but all through the - night the town waited in suspense. No exaggeration, there was needless - apprehension. And may I add that this episode did not react unfavorably - against the future high standing of those two influentials.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Traffic on the old dirt road, known as the Overland - Trail, began in a big way in 1859, when the powerful freighting firm of - Russell, Majors, and Waddell acquired the stage and mail business of John - M. Hockaday, who held the first mail contract. The road was given another - big boost when Ben Holladay, with his famous Concord coaches and four and - six-horse teams, came onto the line in 1861. Holladay took over the stage - and mail business of Russell, Majors, and Waddell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">About three thousand horses and mules were in the - stage service. Eight to twelve animals were kept at each station, which - were spaced on an average of twelve miles apart. At its highest the stage - fare to Denver was $125, and to Sacramento $225.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Russell, Majors, and Waddell firm, with - headquarters at Atchison and Leavenworth, continued in the freighting - business. This company employed 8,000 men, and was equipped with 6,000 - heavy wagons, and 75,000 oxen. At the same time there were about twenty - other firms and individuals freighting out of Atchison.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Russell firm, with other interests, established the - Pony Express in 1860. The route from St. Joseph to Sacramento, 1920 miles, - was covered in ten days—semi-weekly, at first. When the Civil war - commenced, it was changed to daily. In the service were eighty riders and - 500 horses</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">not ponies of - the Indian class, but the best blooded horses that money could buy. They - had to be fast to outrace the hostile Indians. The Pony Express, carrying - first-class letters and telegrams only, lasted eighteen months. Telegraph - connection with the Far West was established then. For a half-ounce letter - a 10-cent Government postage stamp and a dollar Pony Express stamp were - required. The Pony Express charge was much more at first.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Riders starting from St. Joseph and Sacramento - simultaneously every morning kept a constant stream going both ways—day - and night. Like the stage drivers, each rider had a given territory to - make, with a change of horses every twelve miles. The first lap was from - St. Joseph to Seneca. Lightweight riders only were used—mere boys - they were. Don C. Rising was a Pony Express rider. He made his home in - Wetmore after the close of the staging days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The old road, with St. Joseph and Leavenworth as initial - starting points, had a junction at Kennekuk, one and one-half miles south - of the present site of Horton. On the St. Joseph branch were three - stations</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Wathena, Troy, - and Lewis.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Later, Atchison was made the starting point for the - stage and mails. At this time railroad service was extended from St. - Joseph to Atchison—and, on the west end, river service was had from - Sacramento to San Francisco. The first station out of Atchison was - Lancaster, 11 miles. Then Kennekuk, 24 miles; Kickapoo, 36 miles; Log - Chain, 49 miles; Seneca, 60 miles.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From Seneca the line continued westward to Marysville. - It crossed the Big Blue river at Marysville, went up the Little Blue - valley, crossed over to the Platte valley, then up the Platte to Fort - Kearney. At Julesburg one branch turned south into Denver. The main line - crossed the South Platte at Julesburg, touched at Fort Larimer and Fort - Bridger in Wyoming. From Salt Lake it took a western course across Nevada - to Virginia City; thence over the Sierra Nevada mountains to Placerville - and Sacramento.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Considerable attention is given to the routing through - Nemaha and Brown counties. For historical purposes, it is important that - this should be done now while it is yet possible to trace the route with - some degree of accuracy. Only slight evidences of the Old Trail remain. - Practically everything obtainable now is a carry over from another - generation, hearsay. In a few years more all information pertaining to the - old road will have been relayed to a third and fourth generation, if not, - indeed, forgotten altogether, locally. There are people here now, some - living almost atop the Old Trail, who have never heard of it. There are - none living now who were adults then, and even very few who were children. - Albert Pitman, of Sabetha, aged 90, is probably the oldest person now - living who was in the Powhattan-Granada neighborhood during staging days. - Mrs. Martha Hart, E. J. Woodman, Volley Hough, Edwin Smith, and Ed. - Vilott, now living at McAlister, Oklahoma, were children.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Tracing the Old Trail, locally, we find: The road at - first came almost due west from Kennekuk across the Kickapoo Indian - reservation, but probably bent over into what is now Brown County, as it - followed the ridges. It crossed the Delaware at a point about eighty rods - upstream from the crooked bridge on the present south line of the - reservation—the Jackson-Brown County line. The Kickapoo reservation - at that time contained about 150,000 acres. It has since been diminished - three times. Now it is a block five by six miles in extent, thirty - sections, 19,200 acres</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with - much of the land owned by the whites.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The first mission, built in 1856, was located on Horton - Heights, inside the present city limits of Horton. The site was marked by - a red glacial boulder on December 1, 1936</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">80 years after the Indian school was established by E. - M. Hubbard—the first school of any kind in Brown County.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, there is confusion about the name of the stream - spanned by the crooked bridge. Some call it the Grasshopper, and others - refer to it as Walnut creek. It is neither. Lewis and Clark, explorers, - named it the Grasshopper in 1804. It was changed to the Delaware in 1875 - by an act of the Kansas legislature.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From that creek crossing, the trail followed the ridge - to the old town of Powhattan in section 33, Powhattan township—the - same section on which the East Powhattan school house is located, at the - present intersection of U. S. 75 and the new graveled highway now running - 11 miles straight east to Horton. The change station was on the northeast - quarter, owned by Henry Gotchell, who had charge of the station, and also - the post office.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother got her first letter written by relatives in - Tennessee, at the Powhattan post office. Her cousin, Gaius Cullom, a - school teacher, wrote: “Powhattan—why, that’s an Indian - name! I am grieved to believe my dear cousin Martha is residing - dangerously close to wild Indians. Be careful, my favorite, and don’t - let those accursed aborigines get your scalp!” Alone for the day - with her three small children in her country home, a year later, some such - fears must have gripped my mother, when, on approach of a meandering band - of blanketed Kickapoos, she hurriedly gathered up her brood and made a - dash for the cornfield.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The old town of Powhattan—not to be confused with - the present town of Powhattan farther over in Brown county—which was - established 11 miles northeast when the Rock Island railway went through - in 1886</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was in the center - of the northwest quarter of section 33. There was a store, hotel, - blacksmith shop, and numerous dwellings. Although regularly surveyed in - town lots, nobody really owned the land on which the town was located at - the time. It was held by “quatter’s rights,” in - succession, by three men—Peter Shavey, Riley Woodman, and C. C. - Grubb. It is now a cornfield, owned by Mrs. James Grubb.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From Powhattan, the line ran west across the - Timber-lake and Cassity lands. The Timberlake land is now owned by Mrs. - Cora Jenkins. The road then followed the ridge to Granada, passing from - Brown county to Nemaha county at that point.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In 1860 the Powhattan change station was moved to a - point three miles north. The change was made to take out a big curve and - save mileage. The new station was called Kickapoo. It was on Indian land - near the new mission on the west edge of the reservation. Noble H. Rising - was in charge. Later, he was a merchant in Wetmore; as was also W. W. - Letson, Express messenger.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Going back to the Grasshopper-Delaware crossing, the - new line ran northwest to the mission, crossing Gregg’s creek—now - Walnut creek—about midway. From the mission, the road crossed the - Bill Garvin lands and went almost due west to Granada, crossing Gregg’s - (Walnut) creek again downstream from the present bridge east of Granada. - Joe Plankington recently found a cache of rough “diamonds” in - a hollow at the base of a tree near this crossing. The “rocks” - were supposedly hidden there by a returning traveler, back in the sixties—probably - a prospector afraid to chance crossing the Kickapoo reservation, carrying - his precious find.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">NOTE—Since this article was printed in 1936, Joe - Plankington tells me that one of the old Kickapoos—Pas-co-nan-te, - father of John “Butler</span> <span>”</span> <span class="c0">—told - him the Indians were stalking the traveler and that he, Pas-co-nan-te, - watched the wayfarer hide the rocks in that tree, many moons ago. And Joe - said the old Indian accurately traced the way</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">on paper—tree by tree, from the Trail to the - right tree.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And furthermore, Joe believes he has seen the scalp of - the former possessor of his rocks—and at the same time had his own - hair standing on end. Because of a slight favor by Joe, Pas-co-nan-te - asked him if he would like to see a scalp, and at the same time told a - young Indian whom Joe thinks was a grandson, to fetch one. When the scalp - was laid down where Joe could get a good look at it, Pas-co-nan-te grabbed - Joe by the “topknot” saying, “Maybe me show you how.” - The knife the Indian held in his other hand cut Joe to the quick—but - the blood froze in his veins, and not a drop was spilled. Then the old - Indian said, “Me foolin.’ Me know better now.” The young - Indian told Joe, later, that he was pretty sure the old Indians had killed - the traveler.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Joe also says he sent one of the “diamonds” - to a niece in Boise, Idaho, and that the cutter who dressed the stone—for - $25—pronounced it a high-quality pigeon blood ruby.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The old stage drivers “bumped” into many - exciting and some amusing incidents. In the Far West “Hank Monk” - held the record for fast driving and tall stories. And fictitious or not, - “Hank” was the ranking driver in the West. Here it was Bob - Ridley, Bill Evans, and Lon Huff—with Bob well out in front. My - cousin, Bill Porter, says his uncle Bill Evans told this one. His run took - him across the Kickapoo reservation. Whenever his stage would pass the - Indian Mission the young Indians would put on a demonstration</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">race their ponies around the stage, compelling him to - stop. Then they would ask for tobacco. Bill was always prepared for them. - On one trip out of Saint Joseph he had only two passengers</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">mere boys, from the East. They said they were going - West to fight Indians, and they had the guns strapped on them to do it. - Knowing how the young Indian bucks would perform, Bill told his passengers - that he was now coming into Indian country, and was liable to be attacked—but - they, the boys, must not start shooting until he gave the word. It would - be suicidal for them to start the fight. He told them other reasonable and - some* highly unreasonable stories about the Indians. The boys were - expecting the worst. The young Indian bucks appeared as usual, and circled - the stage—yelling, screaming, yelling like assassins pouring out of - bedlam. Bill tossed his plug of tobacco out to them—then climbed - down from his high seat and looked in on the boys. They were down on the - floor, hiding. Before completing his run, the boys told Evans that they - were going to abandon the notion of fighting Indians. Bill said, “I - told them that I was sure they would change their minds after having one - good look at the Indians.” One of the boys said, “We didn’t - really get a good look at them—.” but we heard their - blood-curdling yells, and that was enough. The other boy said, “What - I want to know is—how do we happen to be alive?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After the removal of the Powhattan change station, - Henry Gotchell sold to Riley Woodman. Woodman sold to C. C. Grubb, who - came to section 33 in 1857. Grubb was postmaster after Gotchell. Mail was - carried down from Granada. Later, the Powhattan postoffice was moved to - Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Riley Woodman, father of E. J. Woodman, came in 1863. - While the mail and stage now went on the north road, some traffic still - followed the old line. In December, 1863, an ox-train transporting - Government supplies was snowed in at the Woodman place and remained there - until March. In the outfit were seventeen men, two saddle horses, and - ninety-six oxen.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Government paid Woodman one dollar a- bushel for - corn—not an excessive price, under prevailing conditions. But often - freighters and travelers were compelled, in emergencies, to pay ruinous - prices for feed. Scarcity and the high cost of provisions at times, also - taxed the travelers’ slender resources.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In 1860, the driest of all years in Kansas since the - first efforts at farming, nothing was produced. Potatoes, Mrs. Martha Hart - tells me, did not grow as large as hazelnuts. That year William Porter - yoked up four steers to his lumber wagon and drove them over into - Missouri, where he traded one yoke of oxen for provisions—and he - didn’t get a burdensome return load, at that. There was a little - short slough-grass in the lowlands, which the farmers cut with cradles and - sold to overland travelers at twenty cents a pound.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From Granada, the road went past the cemetery, touched - at the Sneathen Vilott farm, section 24, Capioma township; thence - northwest to Log Chain in section 19. From Log Chain the line ran - northwest to old Lincoln, section 13, Mitchell township—about one - mile northeast of the State lake—thence to Seneca. Granada and - Lincoln were not change stations.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">If the hills about old Log Chain could talk, doubtless - one could find a lot of story material there. While to my knowledge the - only thing to distinguish that station was the mud-hole that gave it its - name, it really has a colorful background. Rich in legendary lore and - historical fact, there is no telling what an enterprising artist might do - in painting the old picture over. It is said Abe Lincoln got as far west - as Log Chain. The land is now owned by Dr. Sam Murdock.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Nearly all the old-timers here took one or more turns - at bull-whacking across the plains. It was the only sure money “crop” - for the pioneer farmer. Usually one trip was enough. Fred Liebig, Henry - McCreery, and John Williams made several trips.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fred Shumaker, father of Roy and “Hank,” - who came here in 1856, was a driver for the freighting firm that - transported the stores for General Johnson’s army. After the army - had reached Fort Bridger, where it was detained through the first winter, - Shumaker was detailed as driver for a guard sent on beyond Salt Lake to - meet the army payroll coming in from California. The safe containing the - money was transferred to his wagon. On that trip he saw, scattered about - on either side of the road, bleaching in the desert sun, the bones of - those ill-fated emigrants who lost their lives in the Meadow Mountain - massacre. Fred Shumaker earned enough money on that trip to pay for his - first farm, which cost him $1.25 an acre. He married Rachel Jennings, the - sister of Zeke Jennings who lived on a farm northeast of Wetmore for many - years. She was employed in the Perry hotel at Kennekuk.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bill and Ben Porter, who came here first in 1856—left, - and came again in 1858, drove oxen for a transport company hauling - Government supplies. On one trip, the company feed supplies ran short out - in Wyoming and most of the stock died. The train was hauling corn to the - northwest forts, but it could not be used, even in emergencies like that. - A guard was left with the train while waiting for fresh oxen to move it. - The weak cattle, still able to travel, were taken back to Leavenworth. It - was a bitter cold winter. The drivers protected themselves as best they - could from the Arctic blasts in snow drifts.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Wagon trains of the larger outfits consisted of - twenty-five wagons, five yoke of oxen and a driver for each wagon</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">with wagon-boss, assistant boss, - and herder.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My Uncle Nick Bristow and Green Campbell took a turn - at bull-whacking for that major freighting firm—Russell, Majors, and - Waddell. But imbued with the spirit of the times, they forsook the bulls - for the more exciting business of panning gold. My uncle’s exploits - have been mentioned. In other articles I have referred, with no little - degree of pride, to the Campbell mining success—he having gone from - here into the West in company with my uncle—and then, too, he - “schooled” one connected with my own efforts in the mining - game. That we failed to duplicate his enviable success was no reflection - on that able tutor.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">This, however, has never been in print. Green Campbell - made his first money at mining in the Cherry creek diggings</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">$60,000. He spent most of it while in that camp. He - told my mining partner, Frank Williams, that he spent his money rather too - freely, in the customary way of that period, at old Auraria. It was money - he very much needed later. With only $1,500 of his stake remaining, he - went to the Alder Gulch diggings in Montana. At Bannock he and a partner, - Mart Walsh, located claims which sold for $80,000. Walsh, a merchant at - Muscotah in the early days, at one time owned 600 acres of land north of - that town. He died in a county home in Oklahoma, penniless. He was a - brother-in-law of Mrs. William Maxwell, of Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Later, Green Campbell made his big fortune, millions, in - lode mining in Utah and Nevada, which, since his death has, largely, been - kept intact by his wife and two sons, Allen and Byram</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">his second family</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">now living at 705 Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, California. - The first boy was named for his father, who, in the halls of Congress, was - the Honorable Allen G. Campbell. The other boy was named for Campbell’s - partner in the famous Horn Silver mine—August Byram, of Atchison. - There was a girl, Caroline.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Given space, I could make of this in itself a very - interesting story. Green Campbell’s second wife was Eleanor Young, a - reporter on a Salt Lake newspaper, and daughter-in-law of the famous old - Brigham himself, who hated all peoples not of the Mormon faith. It is not - recorded that the lady said to her man, like Ruth of old, “Thy - people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” But the inference - is, she did. Campbell did not go Mormon. Indeed, he was poison to the - saints after he contested the election of his Mormon opponent, Bishop - Cannon, and took unto himself the Canadian’s seat in Congress after - it had been occupied by the alien for nearly two years.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Several of the old stage drivers, after closing days, - married and settled down in Wetmore. Robert Sewell married Cicily - Locknane; Lon Huff married Clara Rising; Bill Evans married Kate Porter. - Through their activities on the stage line, and breathing the free - atmosphere of frontier life, these men were all moulded pretty much into a - like pattern. Good story-tellers all, they lent themselves to the - occupation without stint. Jovial and courteous at all times, they shunned - work—unless it be with horses. Lon Huff drove the hearse for the - local undertaker. He had a black team for adults, and a team of white - horses for children.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Robert Sewell, the outstanding character, known on the - plains as “Bob Ridley,” owned a livery stable here. Shall I - tell the auto-minded young sprouts that the livery stable, now in the - discard, was an enterprise of the horse-and-buggy days—a place where - rigs were kept for hire? Sewell’s wife, Cicily, ran a hotel. Her - mother, Mrs. D. M. Locknane, had conducted a famous eating house just west - of Granada during overland days. Those two early-day enterprises of the - Sewells were known as the “Overland Livery Stable,” and the - “Overland Hotel.” Bob Sewell had a record of killing three - Indians and wounding a dozen more in a running fight near Cottonwood - Springs. Ben Holladay gave him a gold watch for saving the stage and four - mules.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">About the Old Trail, I have heard my uncle say that in - the flush times of 1865 and 1866, when traffic was at its peak, there was - hardly an hour of the day when one could not see the road lined for miles—one - seeming endless procession moving westward. No other road ever had such a - promiscuous, persevering throng—a weary plodding throng, whose way - was fraught with many hardships, whose dead were left all along the Old - Trail from the Missouri river to the Golden Gate. Other stage lines - threaded the West and the Southwest—but the Overland has gone down - in history as the greatest of them all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Three score and ten years have now gone by since the - last Concord stage coach made its final run from Atchison, through - Granada. All equipment was at that time moved west to the end of steel—leaving - the eastern end of the great Overland Trail abandoned and waiting, a lost - ghost, for the day when Fate, slow but sure, should plow it under. And - with poignant memory was gone, too, a stirring bit of frontier life in the - West.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.qjs89hxngq19"> - <span class="c8 c0">MEMORY’S STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator, Holton Recorder, - Seneca</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Courier-Tribune, Atchison Daily Globe—</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">December, 1938.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell’s Colorful Mining Career</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The train wound its way by easy stages down from the - mountain heights into the desert valley. The railroad split the great - basin in halves. On either side treeless mountains rose in endless - succession. It was mid-summer in the great inter-mountain region—and - the sage-fringed valley, broad and almost level, stretching ahead for - miles and miles, shimmered frightfully under the glaring rays of the - noonday sun. And winds swept out of the south like withering blasts from a - slag furnace.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was the Utah desert.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Far off to the right, shrouded in desert haze, could be - seen the tip of a mountain which marked the approximate location of a - famous early-day mining camp. The scene</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">barren, desolate, and so familiar to me</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">brought back a flood of memories. Instantly my mind - dwelt upon events of the long-ago in that old mining camp and - simultaneously with the home-life back in Kansas of the man who made it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In that brief flash I saw it all. In that jumbled - picture I glimpsed a sturdy hoist over a deep shaft at the base of that - mountain, whose cables had in times past brought up daily tons of - high-grade argentiferous ore, every ton of which, though it greatly - enriched my erstwhile Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The last installment of J. T. Bristow’s - fascinating tale of the career of Green Campbell is a fine piece of - writing. We have heard many commendable expressions on this biographical - sketch. . . . The author, J. T. Bristow, is a resident of Wetmore, a - former newspaperman, well known to many of our citizens. That he is a good - writer is the conviction of all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">—WILL T. BECK, Holton Recorder, neighbor, had - spelled defeat for him in the most sacred phase of human life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In that flash I glimpsed too a stretch of rich rolling - Kansas prairie lined with streams of running water and a healthy growth of - timber, in the center of which, down by the timber’s edge, was once - this man’s place of abode, and which was then, and still is, but a - few miles from my own home. And I saw a wrecked home; a court house - thronged with curious people; and a lonely woman, a distraught wife and - mother of a little boy, fighting desperately for her freedom—and - alimony.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The scene is now in Kansas. It will shift back and forth - between here</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">meaning, - roughly, Wetmore, from which place this writing issues—and the old - mining West again and again as this narrative unfolds.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">THE CHERRYVALE ICE CO.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Watkins Brothers, Prop’s</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">CHERRYVALE, KANSAS</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">Feby. 17, 1939.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Jno. T. Bristow, Esq., Wetmore, Kans.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Dear Friend John:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">“Memory’s Store-House Unlocked,” - by J. T. Bristow, appearing in the Wetmore Spectator, came to me through - the mail recently and I sure enjoyed reading it more than anything I have - read in some time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Having attended the Campbell University and - knowing personally many of the characters in your article makes it of - unusual interest and I wish to congratulate you for writing such an - interesting historic record and thank you for the copy sent me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Sincerely yours,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">F. M. Watkins</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Among the emigrants from the East during the early - settlement of the Sunflower state, were John and Green Campbell. Tall, - stalwart young men they were. Green was then twenty-two years old. John - was a few years older. With their sisters, Caroline and Sally Ann, and - their mother, Ruth Campbell, born in North Carolina in 1803, they came to - Nemaha county by ox-team in a covered wagon from down around Springfield, - Missouri, in 1856. Their father, James Campbell, had died in Missouri.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Passing up smooth high lands, the brothers selected - adjoining claims in the breaks of upper Elk creek, section thirty, Wetmore - township. This selection of rather rough lands was influenced no doubt by - the presence of some timber and a spring of “living” water—two - indispensable requisites of the pioneer farmer. Then, too, they might have - entertained the notion of becoming cattle barons. Many of the early comers - had such dreams. Here was the ideal location. Here they would have few - neighbors—and unlimited free range.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Goodsprings, Nevada, February 12, 1939.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Dear Sir:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I want to thank you for the copies of the Wetmore - Spectator which you sent to me, which carry the life of father. Frank - Williams had already given me one issue, which I have loaned to several of - father’s friends, a few of whom are still alive. The new copies will - be treasured by my brother, my sister, and myself.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Father died while I was still so young that I have - been able to retain but few memories of him. However, I have gathered so - many impressions from friends who knew him well, not to mention mother, - that I feel that I have gained quite a true picture of him. In this - connection it seems to me that your life of him is not only accurate, in - its main for I know this to be true features, but that it goes deeper, and - gives some of the spirit that animated him. And particularly do I like - your last paragraph, and your reference “. . . . in whose heart - there seems to have burned an inextinguishable desire for something that - never came.”;</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Sincerely yours,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Byram C. Campbell</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In that same year, 1856, Isaiah Thomas, with his - family, came here from Newton, Iowa. He had traveled all the way from - Indiana to Iowa, thence here, with ox-team and covered wagon. Custom and - bovine traits had caused him to walk alongside his oxen for practically - all those wearying miles. Isaiah Thomas settled on a quarter of land north - of that taken up by Green Campbell. His eldest boy, Elwood, was a lad of - fifteen years, seven years younger than Green Campbell. The destinies of - these two young men were to be subsequently linked together in gigantic - enterprises in a still newer frontier environment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Times were close for the Campbells. They were - compelled, as were many early Kansas settlers, to pick up here and there a - few extra dollars, as opportunity offered, while becoming established on - the farm. Green Campbell found employment with the freighting firm of - Russell, Majors, and Waddell, at Leavenworth. His work took him often into - the West. When the Cherry creek gold excitement on the east slope of the - Rocky mountains broke out in 1858, he joined the throngs in that mad rush. - He cleaned up $60,000 from the placer mines, but had spent most of it - before coming back to his homestead.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then for a while Green worked his land while the boy - Elwood grew up. Elwood was not to come into the picture, the gigantic - doings, for some years yet. In the meantime his father, Isaiah Thomas, had - gone to the war and had died in Arkansas. His mother, Martha Thomas, with - her family of seven children, had moved over to the north part of the - township and settled on forty acres a quarter mile east of Wetmore, which - place has been, until a few months ago, the home of her son, Manning. - Unmarried, and the last of that pioneer family, he died May 12, 1938. - Though very young, Elwood Thomas also joined the Union ranks and was held - prisoner of war at Tyler, Texas, for nearly a year. Shortly after - returning from the war, he married Maria Adamson, of Holton. They had four - children—three girls and a boy. Charley, the son, died at Beatty, - Nevada, in August last year.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Five years after his first mining venture, in 1863, - Green Campbell was again panning gold at Bannock, Montana. His take this - time was $40,000. Then, after one more desultory try on the farm, he - married Florence Oursler, of Circleville, in 1867. She was the daughter of - Rufus Oursler, wealthy resident of Jackson County. She was a beautiful - woman.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">For a few years contentment reigned in the Campbell - home. I remember going with my Uncle Nick Bristow one time when he visited - in that home. We went in a covered wagon, a wagon that was little more - than a ghost of the old “prairie schooner,” having all five of - the bows still in place, with a tattered canvas over only the rear half. - But my uncle walked all the way alongside his nigh ox. Uncle had a “log-wagon” - for heavy hauling on the farm. He kept this one for special occasions and - Sunday driving. He owned no horses.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Uncle Nick and Green Campbell had mined together in - the Cherry creek diggings—and the fact that his host of the day had - cleaned up big, while he himself brought home only alibis, and a cougar - pelt, had not impaired a fine friendship. Conscious of Mr. Campbell’s - mine-made money, it then seemed to me, a youngster, that the Campbells had - everything—even a “hired” girl. That girl was Elizabeth - Dittman, now Mrs. Ed. Keggin, living in Wetmore, who would tell you that - everything was fine and lovely with them then, as it had every reason to - be.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then rumor of a new mining strike in the West changed - everything. Green Campbell now found life irksome on his then none too - productive acres down on the banks of Elk creek. And as he turned over the - soil with his plow on a bright May day in 1871, he also turned things over - in his mind. His brother John, he decided, could remain on the farm and - keep up the fight against odds if he wanted to, but as for himself the Far - West was calling. That call had struck the man of my story with all the - force of a Kansas tornado, and it moved him from his anchorage on the farm - with a suddenness that brought a protest from his relatives.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">So it was that Green Campbell, with his family now - shifted to Circleville, the home of his in-laws, went out again in quest - of a third fortune. And though millions came into his coffers, one cannot - be sure, after all these years and in the light of what followed, whether - he profited or lost by that abrupt decision back here on that bright May - morning sixty and seven years ago.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">They called him a tenderfoot when he reached the end - of the trail which led out into a sand-blown waste two hundred miles and - more beyond rail transportation. Here, on the east slope of the San - Francisco mountains, in southwest Utah—about thirty miles from - Milford, on the San Pedro line—this man from the plains country, - ripe for more adventure, was to have a try for a third mining fortune. It - was his first hard-rock mining venture.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Green Campbell got the gold all right—millions of - it</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and distinguished - himself by developing one of the greatest silver mines of the age. But - that is only part of the story.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The great fortune was won by so close a margin that it - hurt. Then there was, to some extent, the usual anti-climax</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">spiced with complicated domestic relations, growing - out of an improvident situation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the name “tenderfoot,” as applied to - Green Campbell, was not quite right. He had already taken $100,000 from - the placers; certainly enough to lift him out of that classification. Even - so, granting that he was a seasoned miner at the time he entered the Utah - field, Green Campbell did, however, slip just a trifle.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The erroneous application of that appellation came - about through a little misjudgment of the waters of that desert country—springs - they are called. But the springs in that section, as in all other desert - country, with few exceptions, are not the bubbling, sparkling, steady flow - of waters generally visualized with the mention of springs. Rather, in - most instances, they are only seepages of water which must be collected in - ground reservoirs through a system of trenching the earth. Some of those - springs supply what is termed on the desert as sweet water, while other - springs—those issuing from volcanic rocks—are brackish and - unfit for domestic use, or for steaming purposes. The first spring - developed by Green Campbell was of the latter class.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thus it was that when in later years Green Campbell - went over into Nevada to establish a new camp, he first had the waters - analyzed by a chemist, then very appropriately named his new camp - Goodsprings. And it so remains on the map today—a gold, - silver-lead-zinc, and vanadium mining camp down among the gentle slopes of - the Spring mountain range in southern Nevada. The next two camps - established by Green Campbell, in California, were named Vanderbilt and - Providence. We may be sure the water there was good also.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Here, I want to interrupt my story to say that it was - at Goodsprings where the writer was, some thirty-odd years ago, initiated - into the mining game along with Campbell followers, and where much of the - material for this narrative was picked up, first-hand. Here at Goodsprings - were Elwood Thomas and his nephew, Frank Williams. Elwood Thomas had been - Green Campbell’s right-hand man all through the latter’s - colorful mining career, having gone out from the old home town in Kansas - to join him in 1873. Frank Williams went direct from Wetmore to Mr. - Campbell, at the age of twenty-one, and has spent forty-seven of his - sixty-eight years on the Nevada desert. And perhaps I should say here that - much of the information presented in this narrative was obtained from Mr. - Thomas and Mr. Williams.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the Utah field, then a new and isolated country, - under conditions that tested the fiber of the man, Green Campbell - prospected the hills of Beaver county for a while. Then, nearly five years - later, his big opportunity came when he secured an option on a mining - claim for which he agreed to pay $25,000. That claim was later developed - into the famous Horn Silver mine, which, up to the time of my last visit - nearly thirty years ago, had produced slightly in excess of twenty million - dollars. The mine, owned now by New York interests, is still producing at - great depth. Few metal mines there are that have had such long run of - life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But, as I have already stated, chance played a big - hand in this game of millions. At that time Green Campbell had all his - funds tied up in other properties. He was then operating the Hickory mine - at Newhouse. Green Campbell turned to his friend, August Byram, of - Atchison, Kansas, for financial assistance. Byram and Campbell had become - acquainted while they were both in the employ of that major freighting - firm. Byram had already spent some money at the suggestion of Campbell - without results, in the Star district, close by. After considerable - correspondence, Byram decided to take another chance at the game, - promising to come through with the funds to take over the Horn Silver - claim before the expiration of the ninety-day option. Byram was to advance - the full amount, half of it as a loan to Campbell, and they were to own - the property on a fifty-fifty basis.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But here caution stepped in and robbed those two men - of exactly one-half of an immense fortune—a fortune in the making. - After the agreement had been made Byram wrote and asked Campbell to see if - he could find someone to take a quarter interest in the risk. Campbell - found two men, Matt Cullen and Dennis Ryan, who would come in for a - quarter interest. But Byram still thought he was taking too great a - chance, and wrote a second time asking Campbell to try induce those two - men to take a half interest. It was so arranged.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell then settled down to a game of waiting. - Thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the times, he told himself—and - rightly, too—that he had only to await the coming of Byram to jump - in and win. But, without further word from Byram and the final day of the - option drawing near, he became very nervous. New developments had caused - the owners to look for some chance to void the option, and Campbell sensed - danger in delay. Then came the awful blow that set all his emotions to - working at high speed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">August Byram, on his way out to the mine, had stopped - over in Salt Lake City and there he was discouraged by designing - individuals who wanted to pluck the mine for themselves. Developments had - increased, its value fourfold. But this fact was kept from Byram by his - Salt Lake acquaintances—indeed, they stressed the fact that the - claim had but recently been optioned for $1,500, and that the option had - been allowed to lapse. The result was August sent word to Green that he - would have nothing more to do with it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, Campbell managed somehow to get Byram over to - the property on the last day of the option, but up to the eleventh hour he - was filled to the brim with nerve-wracking suspense. For hours he had kept - his gaze constantly fixed on the sage-fringed road leading out across the - broad valley to the east, where was open to the eye a twenty mile sweep of - sun-baked waste, looking for that distant dust cloud which might mean that - relief for his tired nerves was on the way. Then, late in the afternoon, - as the last golden tints lingered along the ragged edges of the mountains, - the stage bearing Byram, full four hours late, was sighted far out on the - road—a mere speck in a great cloud of dust.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was yet time for speedy action. For a brief ten - minutes the two men faced each other—Campbell full of words, Byram - deep in meditation. It could hardly be expected that after floundering in - a bog of indecision and doubt for so long, that understanding would come - to Byram in a flash. But Campbell’s great anxiety in the matter - caused him to believe, for the moment, that Byram’s resolutions were - still wavering, while his own thoughts whirled like leaves in an autumn - blast. Byram’s final words, however, kept Campbell’s spirits - from suffering further.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I was not there at that particular time, of course, - but this minute accounting, the reactions of those men, is as I caught it - from Elwood Thomas. “If it hadn’t been such a serious matter - with Green,” said Elwood, amid chuckles that sent ripples all over - the old miner’s weathered face, “it would have been downright - amusing.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The transfer of the Horn Silver claim took place in - the shadow of the mountain as the sun dropped out of sight on February 17, - 1876. And it was a joyous occasion for the little group of interested men—except, - possibly, the two original locators who were now beginning to realize the - true worth of that little piece of ground. Fate dealt a mean hand to the - locators of the Horn Silver claim. After sinking a shaft thirty feet on - ore, Samuel Hawkes and James Ryan bartered away millions on the belief - that the ore would not last.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And I might say here that the Horn Silver lode, the - main ore body, was found by sheer accident. Jimmy Calvering, a young - Irishman employed to do the location work, following the custom of the - shiftless miner, went away a considerable distance from the outcrop to - find “soft ground” in which to dig his ten-foot hole, as - required by law. Jimmy was not looking for ore, but in doing that ten foot - of work he opened up the main lode. And nowhere else did it come that near - the surface. Jimmy was ever after that proclaimed “A man with a - great nose for ore.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Horn Silver mine was operated by Campbell, Cullen - & Co., for three years, with a gross production of nearly three - million dollars. The mine was then sold in 1879 for six million dollars, - and title passed to the Horn Silver Mining Co. An interest equivalent to - about one-sixth of the mine previously had been given to an eastern - promoter for securing a railroad to the mine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell had other interests at Frisco, the camp - which had sprung up about the Horn Silver mine. It was a town peopled with - all kinds of characters known to frontier life. It had all the mining-camp - trappings—dance halls, saloons, and what not. This camp had caught - the overflow from the older mining camp of Pioche, in Nevada, where the - boast was, “A man for breakfast every morning!” And in - lawlessness Frisco flourished like the green bay tree! Life at the high - tide was almost as cheap as water! But Green Campbell’s personality - was such as to keep him out of harm’s way. Green was a good mixer. - He drank some, but in moderation. In no sense was he a dissipated man. And - here at Frisco he made more money! Lots of it! The Carbonate mine alone - gave him five hundred thousand dollars in profits! He was classed with - other mining moguls of that day. Hearst, Tabor, Walsh—he knew them - all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell’s rise in the financial world was - spectacular. Within the brief span of a few years he could have returned - to his old home and to his family with enough money to live in luxury. But - friend Green had other notions. Like the noble beast of burden of the - Sahara bearing his name, Campbell was now a permanent fixture of the - desert.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span>Man’s ambition is seldom satisfied. Visions of greater wealth - and the thrills that go with the making held Green Campbell with a - vise-like grip. He willed to stay in the West.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">His wife preferred to stay in Kansas with her people, - at Circleville. Or, maybe, it was decided that the untamed West, the - desert with its sizzling summer suns and unbridled winds, was no place for - Florence Oursler Campbell and her little boy Charley. Anyhow the situation - brought about an estrangement and, finally, a separation. Ofttimes men, - too much absorbed in chasing the pot of gold, unconsciously make this - supreme sacrifice.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Clouds began to appear on Green Campbell’s - marital horizon soon after he went West, but the storm did not break until - he was virtually in the big money. He was enormously engrossed with his - mining operations, while back here at home, because of his continued - absence, a growing resentment was piling up against him day by day. The - time was coming, if he would see it, when he must give up either his - mines, or his family. He heeded not the signals, seriously. Like his royal - highness across the Atlantic—the self-deposed king—until - disaster was upon him, he proposed to keep them both.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Florence Campbell filed her petition for divorce and - alimony in the Jackson County court at Holton. Case Broderick of Holton - and Judge Stillings of Leavenworth were her attorneys. Green Campbell was - represented by Hayden & Hayden of Holton and Colonel Everest of - Atchison. The stage was set for a spirited legal battle. The whole country - buzzed with gossip. Because of the prominence of the Campbells and the - Ourslers people traveled for miles on horseback and in wagons to attend - the hearings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The plaintiff and her witnesses occupied the stage for a - day and a half. Then the defense attorneys armed with depositions and a - liberal line-up of witnesses, told the court what they had up their - sleeves. But the judge, being somewhat of a sleuth, had already detected - that something was wrong with the plaintiff’s legal machinery. Gears - didn’t mesh. The charge was out of alignment with the facts as - adduced by the plaintiff and her own witnesses. In short, her lawyers had - experienced embarrassment in their endeavor to twist a prolonged absence - from Campbell’s fireside</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">and whatever else that was offered—into “extreme - cruelty.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There had to be a “charge,” to be sure, - but it would appear that the plaintiff’s attorneys might have more - profitably selected for their client, out of their cabinet of ready-made - complaints, something more reasonable, something less galling to the fine - sensibilities of the man. Judge John T. Morton said that inasmuch as the - plaintiff had failed to prove her case, defense testimony would not be - heard. Moreover, he said Mrs. Campbell would get no alimony.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was not, as one might suspect, another man in - the case—not a breath of scandal. Mrs. Campbell was too fine for - that. It was her unalterable conviction that she and her child were being - unduly neglected. It was “blue” blood in revolt—indignant, - regrettable rebellion.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The decree was given the defendant, Green Campbell, on - February 23, 1878. Custody of the little boy, Charles R. Campbell, was - given to the mother. Mr. Campbell was required to pay $250 a year for the - boy’s “keep and education,” with a lien on the northeast - quarter of 22-6-14. Two hundred and fifty dollars a year from a potential - millionaire to keep and educate his son! All right then, perhaps, but it - sounds like parsimony now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Henry C. DeForest, pioneer merchant of Wetmore, was - made custodian of the impounded land. He also acted as agent for Mrs. - Campbell. The allowance for the boy was not held down strictly to the - court order. Indeed, Mr. Campbell did much more for his son. It is alleged - that, after the separation, the boy would meet the train on occasions of - his father’s infrequent trips in from the West, and that Mr. - Campbell would fill his son’s hat with gold coins. And in time - Charley was given the impounded land, together with several other valuable - tracts of Jackson County land. Green Campbell still kept his Nemaha County - homestead.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">No property settlement appears of record—leastwise - my investigator does not report any—though, I believe, there was a - private settlement. Little enough it was, no doubt, if any, but the - disillusioned Mr. Campbell was not niggardly with his money, as the - plaintiff and her kin backers, and all who listened in on the trial were - soon to know.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As if in preparation to carry out the educational - phase of the court mandate handsomely, Green Campbell endowed a college - right in the boy’s door-yard, so to speak. Work began on Campbell - University at Holton in 1880, and the school opened on September 2, 1882, - with Prof. J. H. Miller, president. For a small-town school it became - quite noted. After a successful run of nearly a score of years, it fell - into decay and finally ceased to exist. The old stone building standing on - an eminence at the northwest corner of Holton, long in disuse as a - college, was razed in 1931 to make room for a new $139,000 brick high - school building.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It would be interesting in this connection to know - what Green Campbell’s reactions really were, what motivated that - splendid school? With a knowing smile on his weathered face and without - amplifying his surprising assertion, Elwood Thomas once told me that had - there been no divorce there would have been no Campbell University. And - did the boy Charley actually “finish off” at Campbell - University? I think not. A recent casual inquiry at Circleville told me - nothing in that particular. While yet quite young, he married Kate - McColough. He went West—and, backed by his father, tried his hand at - mining at Providence, California, with little or no success.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With his marital differences adjusted in the divorce - court, Green Campbell now, like as not, a morose misogynist, went back to - his beloved golden West and in the immediate years which followed was as - grim and silent, on one very ticklish subject, as the barren peaks of the - mountains about him. In his mine, Mr. Campbell had encountered and - conquered some extremely refractory ore. He had hauled in cord-wood from - as far as sixty miles to roast that stubborn ore in outdoor fires, to make - it amenable to the smelter. But in marriage, a bit of clay—he had no - workable method for that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Green Campbell came back to his old home only a few times - after the separation. But Kansas still claimed him</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">claimed him until he went to Congress for Utah, - claimed him until he sold his homestead here to Bill Hayden. He was Nemaha - County’s first millionaire!</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell, first of all, was a miner. Close - attention to business, as has been pointed out, brought him great riches—and - a dilemma! The memory of this last named acquisition persisted, - ghost-like, to haunt him for long years. But it did not haunt him for all - time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the mining game, a hope never fades that another - doesn’t bloom brightly in its place. Likewise, generally speaking, - it is so in matters of the heart, only the flowering is not always so - spontaneous. Sometimes, not infrequently, after the romantic love of other - days has passed, the withering love-instinct must be carefully cultivated - for years if it is to flower again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fourteen years and fourteen hundred miles lay between - Green Campbell and the subject of his marital woes when at the age of - sixty or thereabout, after he had reached the peak of his financial flight - and experienced some setbacks, and after he had grown a fine flowing - snow-white beard and become quite bald, it bloomed for him again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This time the bride was Eleanor Young, a reporter on a - Salt Lake City newspaper. She was a daughter-in-law of the famous old - Brigham Young. And the stork, that industrious old bird of world-wide - habitat, at home on the desert as in the oasis, brought the Campbell’s - three fine children—Allen, Byram and Caroline.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Campbell would, of course, want to do something - to perpetuate the school that bore his name. But in his will he made the - fatal mistake—fatal for the school—of first taking care of his - family with the more tangible assets. He bequeathed $100,000 to Campbell - University, conditionally, however. It was to be paid out of the proceeds - of two mining properties, namely, his Vanderbilt and Goodsprings holdings. - A minimum price of $500,000 was placed on his Vanderbilt mine, and - $200,000 on his Goodsprings claims, and they were not to be offered for - less than the stipulated price for two years. The properties have not yet - been sold. While really promising properties, with the future pledged, - largely, by the terms of the will, there was no one to continue - developments to make them bring the price. Green Campbell had expended - something like a half million dollars in developing his gold mine at - Vanderbilt.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Secure in the fortune left them, the Campbell heirs</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Green’s second family—have - risked no money in mining. Besides his various mining interests Green - Campbell owned, at death, a magnificent home on Brockton Square, in - Riverside, California; numerous tracts of California ranch lands, and - real-estate holdings in downtown Los Angeles. Also, a substantial cash - operating fund, and some income property in Salt Lake City—notably, - the Dooley block. Mr. Campbell often expressed his faith in the future of - Los Angeles. The fortune has largely been kept intact.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When last contacted a few years back, Mrs. Campbell - was living at 705 Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, California. The two - unmarried sons lived at the same address. Caroline, the daughter, was - married to a Los Angeles banker, Leland T. Reeder, a son of the fiery and - famous Congressman W. A. Reeder, from the sixth Kansas district, back in - the nineties.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Idle mining properties, or mines worked only - spasmodically by lessees, do not readily attract buyers, especially when - filled with water, as in the case of the Campbell mine at Vanderbilt. - Incredible as it may seem, there really is water deep down—in places—in - that desert country, and it even rises sometimes. The shaft at our own - mine, in the very heart of the desert, situated in a small depression on - the mountain side, was once filled to overflowing during a heavy rain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Other bequests, principally to relatives, also were - contingent upon the sale of those two properties. And hope, tenacious - hope, once bloomed so very brightly but now devoid of sparkle, still - lingers with heirs around here.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Henry Campbell, a nephew, who was sheriff of Nemaha - County for two terms about the turn of the century, with his two sisters, - Mary and Frances, the son and daughters of John Campbell, all deceased - now, were named jointly for $100,000. The surviving heirs are: Emma Swarm - Campbell, wife of Henry, Bancroft, and two sons by a former marriage, - living in the West; George Cordon, husband of Mary, Ontario; Ray Drake, - son of Frances, Norton.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The heirs of Caroline Campbell, who married a Mr. - Steele and went West, and the heirs of Sally Ann Campbell, who married - Henry Stanley and lived near Circleville, were named jointly in the will - for $100,000. William and Edward Stanley and Laura Hart, all dead now, - were children of Sally Ann. William worked with his uncle in the mines and - was named for an extra $100,000.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Two daughters of Green Stanley, another son of Sally Ann, - are married to “Jack” and “Kid” Rudy, and live at - Soldier. A daughter of Sally Ann—Julia Alice Stanley</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">married Albert D. Chamberlin, now living in Holton. - Mrs. Chamberlin is dead. Her heirs are: Mrs. Lee Able, Holton; Mrs. S. B. - Moody, Centralia; Mrs. Ernest Hogg, Payette, Idaho; Mrs. Mary Gaston and - Nathaniel Chamberlin, Whitehall, Montana; and Charles Chamberlin, Salt - Lake City.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One small payment was received by the heirs here about - two years back, which revived interest in about the same degree of - satisfaction as that of a sprinkle of rain to a thirsty earth. Time was, - though, George Cordon tells me, when they could have accepted settlement - at fifty cents on the dollar.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is probable that the inheritance of Charley - Campbell was tied up in this or by some other uncertain condition. - Whatever the case, he settled with the estate for $50,000. Crediting rumor - afloat at the time, it is my recollection that, in recognition of close—and - perhaps menacing—kinship, this was paid with money left by Green - Campbell to his second family.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Leaving an ex-wife and two sons, Allen and Robert, in - the West, Charley Campbell later returned to Circleville. There, in 1920, - he married Laura Deck. He is now living in or near Philadelphia.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">His mother, Florence Campbell, did not marry again. - She went to work. And by the irony of Fate she became a teacher of art in - the college founded by her divorced husband, along about 1895. Later, - years later, when I saw her last she seemed merely to be waiting, in - emptiness and dead memories, for the end. She died in Pomona, California, - about 1920.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Elwood Thomas was administrator for the Campbell - estate—in Nevada. After spending thirty-eight years on the desert - and in the mines, without receiving so much as a damaging scratch, Elwood - was fatally injured in a horse and buggy accident while back Here on a - visit to his daughter, Mrs. Maude Ralston, at Holton, in 1915. He died - three days after the accident. He was buried in the Wetmore cemetery. - Elwood Thomas lived apart from his family from the time he he went West in - 1873. Family ties, it seems, were not strong enough to bridge the distance - between them. Maybe it was the desert again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Turning momentarily aside from the path that leads - toward the rainbow’s elusive end, let me here interpose a brief - paragraph about John Campbell, the brother whom Green had said could - remain on the farm and keep up the fight against odds if he wanted to. - John did remain on the farm; and kept up the fight—and won. He even - elected to remain on the farm after pressing invitations to join his - brother in the land of gold. He lived on the original homestead in Wetmore - township until he died, in 1894. As the years became more seasonable for - the production of grain, John Campbell made a good living—and more—from - his acres and his herds. And, best of all, he found contentment and - happiness with his wife and three children on the farm. I think that in - all my life I have never known a more kindly, considerate, and contented - person than was this tall, slim, fine man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Luck was a bit fickle with Green Campbell. It both smiled - and frowned on him in a few fleeting years. Alert, with a keen mind, he - made good at first on everything he touched</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">save, of course, that first water-hole. Then, - abruptly, as if a great cloud had obscured his vision, he lost his charm. - Two outstanding reverses followed in quick succession.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Irreparable damage is often done in the name of - friendship. With millions of dollars to the good, Green Campbell was - picked by his friends to turn the tide of politics in Utah, to break - Mormon rule. He was on the minority side, to be sure, but what did that - matter? Clean and ambitious, with bulging pockets, he would be a - formidable figure in bringing about the change so much desired—by - the outs of course.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thus, Green Campbell was launched upon the perilous - sea of politics—literally shoved off into its unfriendly waters, - slightly, but assuredly, beyond his depths. The warm and manifest - enthusiasm of his friends, so goes the story, inspired in him a feeling of - confidence—and, unschooled in the hard-played game of politics, he - set sail upon the turbid political waters with never a thought as to the - many, many wrecked political ships that mark the shores of Time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Infectious enthusiasm had spread over the field. - Voters and non-voters alike cheered for him. The Italian colony piped, - “Viva Campbell—bigga man!” John Chinaman, it was - related, yelled in badly Americanized Cantonese, “Hoola Campbell! - All-o-same-e, no like-e dlam Mormon lenny-way!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Deliverance, it seemed, was at hand. Still in the - first flush of his great financial triumph, Green Campbell spent money - freely for the cause, and incidentally tried for a seat in Congress. This - experience cost him a lot of money—just how much no one knows. Some - said it was nearly a million dollars.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Green Capbell was defeated for delegate to Congress by - the Mormon bishop, Cannon. But he contested the election upon the grounds - that Cannon, a Canadian, was not naturalized. In this he won, but not - until the two-year term was almost over. He went to Washington as the Hon. - Allen G. Campbell.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall not attempt to tell you his politics, because - I don’t know—for sure. But when I tell you his fine saddle - horse was named Cleveland, you can make your own deductions. It was a - common sight to see Green Campbell mounted on that spirited horse riding - about the streets of Vanderbilt, often with one of his little boys up in - front of him or riding behind, while his luxuriant white beard, always - well groomed, billowed gracefully in the desert breezes. Green Campbell - was a large man, about six feet tall and rather portly, though not really - fat. He always presented a prosperous, dignified appearance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now, while a million dollars, or whatever sum it - really was, out of one pocket was a lot of money wasted in priming the - political pump, it wouldn’t have been so bad for Green Campbell, - seeing that he had obliged his friends, had there not been other heavy and - unexpected drains upon his purse. It was a partnership with Jay Cooke and - Company, a Washington stock brokerage firm, at a most unfortunate time, - that really hurt.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jay Cooke was perhaps the foremost broker of that day. - Hard luck bankrupted him. His brokerage houses in three eastern cities - collapsed in 1873, causing one of the greatest financial panics of all - time. He was financing the building of the Northern Pacific railroad and - had made too many advances. But Jay Cooke was still the promoter - par-excellence. He was the promoter previously mentioned as having - received an interest in the Horn Silver mine for securing a railroad to - the camp.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jay Cooke was heavily involved when Green Campbell - became a member of the firm, and through an oversight a protecting clause - was omitted. With new money in the firm, Cooke’s old creditors - forced their demands. Green Campbell’s first check was drawn for - nine hundred thousand dollars! And that was by no means the end of - enforced payments. However, much of this loss was salvaged through - securities turned over to Campbell by Cooke.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was not at all strange that at some time in his - financial career, after climbing up to the heights, that Green Campbell - should take his turn on the toboggan. Nobody ever wins every step in life. - But these two reverses, falling so swiftly and so heavily as to make them - the high points of the drama, cut a jagged gash in the fabric of his - dreams. And while the hand of Fate continued, for a time at least, to - carry the Campbell fortune steadily downward, he did not lose all. Far - from it! There was no time after selling the Horn Silver mine that he was - not a rich man!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the winds of adversity, mighty dream-wrecking - gales though they were, had not swept away the flame of hope. Back to his - mines, unflagging in his efforts to do it all over again, Green Campbell - was full of plans for the future when he died rather suddenly of - pneumonia, in 1902. Thus, the call of the desert, the lure of the mining - game, held him until the last.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And this is the true story of Green Campbell—gentleman, - miner, and great wealth-builder, in whose heart there seems to have burned - an inextinguishable desire for something that never came.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.k8itvqilkz36"> - <span class="c8 c0">DESERT CHIVALRY</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">March 13, 1931.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There were not conveyances enough to handle the influx of - gold-seekers when I got off the train at Nipton, California, and a long - walk across a dry sun baked waste lay ahead of me. I was on my way to the - new mining camp of Crescent, just over the line in Nevada, and on my way - to a fortune—maybe. Rainbow visions began to rise before me, and hot - though it was I did not mind that six-mile walk one bit. I was not alone. - She was young, slender</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - pretty. And Elsie was a “gold-digger” too. There were others.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With Frank Williams, a former Wetmore boy, as partner, - I was in from the start at the “hell-roaring” mining camp back - in 1907. Born overnight, it was a stampede mining camp, growing from - nothing to a tented city of one thousand people in a few weeks time—followed - quickly with saloons, dance-halls, and whatnots.</span> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image7.jpg" alt="image7" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image7.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Crescent was wild, mad, wide open.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When the big news broke, I beat it for Nevada. Frank - and I and associates owned three claims in the very heart of the Crescent - district. Also, I personally owned an adjoining claim on which Frank had - caused one of his men, Paul Stahmer, to do the required ten feet of work - to hold it for one year, at a cost to me of $100. The work was done on a - $544 gold showing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having operated with Frank rather disappointedly in - the lead-zinc-vanadium camp of Goodsprings, thirty miles away, through the - years since 1904, I believed that here at last—at Crescent—I - was about to pounce, in one fell swoop upon the legendary pot of gold. It - was a fantastic notion, of course—but oh, the magic thrill of it!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charles M. Schwab, Pennsylvania multi-millionaire - steel magnate, who held mining interests in Nevada, lent encouragement - with an on-the-spot pronouncement: “In the past the great fortunes - have been made in manufacturing, but henceforth the really big money will - be made in mining.” Also, operators from Goldfield, the Nevada camp - that gave George Wingfield, a lowly cowhand, twenty million dollars almost - in a jiffy—men in the big money up there said in my presence, - “If we had such surface showings at Goldfield as you have at - Crescent, any old claim would sell for a fortune.” I don’t - mind telling you that I had fed rather too optimistically upon the - glorious prospect of grabbing a quick fortune at Crescent. But the - unveiling of facts there proved a solvent for the nightmare in which a lot - of us had been living for months.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">With fabulously rich surface showings</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">high assays, $500 to $20,000 to the ton reported almost - everywhere</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">Crescent - proved, in the end, the greatest bubble of them all. Countless thousands - of dollars were expended, over a period of two years, in a frantic effort - to bring out a profitable producer. But if there ever was as much as a - shirt-tail full of ore shipped from that camp, I don’t know it. And - though I never had the time nor the inclination to compare notes, I’ll - bet Elsie had better pickings than any of the hopeful miners who wore - pants.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It was with reluctance that we pulled out of Crescent. It’s - most fascinating, this thing of prospecting for gold</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">like participating in a big-game hunt. Were I - full-handed, even now, I would go back to Crescent and give our - Shreve-port group another try. Someday, somebody is going to find the - “mother lode” there.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was honest effort—a lot of honest effort—as - well as the usual faking, at Crescent. A $20,000 gold strike was reported - near the summit, between our claims and Crescent. The first day out there, - I was all for seeing this strike right away. My partner said, “Oh, - wait until tomorrow—we’ll be going past it when we go over to - Crescent.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The next day, starting from our claims by way of a - perfectly good wagon road down the canyon a ways, Frank took me by a - tortuous climb, off the road, to near the top of the mountain. He pointed - out the spot where the assay had been obtained. When I began to examine - the shallow trench, he said, quickly, “It took all the ore in sight - to make the assay.” Twenty steps farther on we reached the summit - where we could look down on Crescent a mile below. And then we stepped out - onto a very good wagon road. On inquiry, he said, “It’s the - same road we left back there in the canyon.” I asked him how come we - made that rough climb? Frank said, “You know, it’s about as - much as a man’s life is worth to be caught showing up that strike to - a tenderfoot.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This was an eye-opener—the first clear signpost - on a long and uncertain road.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At another time, later, Frank and I paid a saloon - keeper in Nipton, the railroad station, twenty dollars to drive us over - the Crescent district, for the full day. We visited our claims first, got - dinner in Crescent—then to a saloon where drinks were 50 cents each, - whether whiskey, beer, or water. The bartender simply counted noses or - glasses, as it were, and summed up the charge. There were about twenty - saloons in the camp, and our “host” deemed it his duty to - visit them all. I am sure he dumped the $10 I paid him on twenty glasses - of water for me. It was a spot where you couldn’t afford to shake - your head and say, “No thanks.” When asked to drink, it was - wise to call your drink.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The main object of the drive—on my part, anyway</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">the thing we had paid twenty - dollars for, was to visit a highly newspaper publicized mine two miles - south of Crescent, where it was shamefully claimed immense bodies of rich - gold ore running into the millions, were blocked out. But the desert - twilight caught us still drinking Adam’s ale and the Indian’s - “fire water.” Our driver knew his business all right—and - I suspect Frank knew from the start that we would never fetch up at that - mine. Nothing, absolutely nothing—but the truth—was barred in - that camp.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I shall now leave the desert momentarily, and write - candidly about my earlier “mining” experience. This, and other - notations here—until we get back to Crescent—are throw-ins, - kindred situations not contained in the printed’ article.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With our townsman Green Campbell’s enviable - mining success as an incentive, it has ever been my hope that I might - someday also strike it rich—and mining seemed to offer the best - lure. I therefore joined a group of Wetmore and Horton men in an effort to - rejuvenate a gold mine at Whitepine, Colorado, twenty miles north of - Sargent on the narrow gauge branch of the Denver & Rio Grande - railroad. With the Wetmore group—Dr. Augustus Philip Lapham and wife - Elzina Brown-Lapham; Jay Wellington Powers and wife Helen Hoyt-Powers; - Charles Samuel Locknane and wife Coral Hutchison-Locknane; and Mr. C. A. - Mann, the owner, backed by Scott Hopkins, Horton banker, and other moneyed - men of that city, I spent a week at White pine looking things over.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The mine was really six miles up the canyon from White - pine—just beyond the abandoned town of Tomichi, not far from the - “Top of the World.” Tomichi had been hit by a snow slide which - wrecked a number of houses, killing several people. The residents, - numbering about 1,000, had abandoned their homes and places of business, - leaving the buildings intact—a true “Ghost Town.” - Thinking in terms of the present, one might wonder why had the buildings - been left to rot down? A mill had sawed the lumber on the site</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and in that out-of-the-way place, - the material was not worth salvaging.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The tunnel of the Mann mine was about 150 feet - up-slope from the wagon road on the floor of the canyon, which road was - also Main Street in Tomichi. To get up to the tunnel, the trail started - several hundred feet up the gulch and then swung back around a projecting - ledge where the footing was rather insecure. To negotiate it the men would - use the lines off the harness. The women could remain at the wagon and - watch the men fall, if such might be the case.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And here I pulled a boner—not my first, nor - last, I frankly admit. I looked across to the “scary” ledge, - and straight up to the tunnel—and then I started up on the run, the - loose rock in places sliding me back almost as fast as I was gaining. - However, I made the tunnel, completely exhausted. I did not sit down to - rest. I fell down. And I crawled into the tunnel where there was ice—in - July—and revived quickly. One of the men was hampered in that climb - with a wooden leg, which afforded me ample time to recover before their - arrival—but my own legs were still shaky as I eased myself around - that projecting ledge, grabbing the strap now and then, while coming down. - I don’t know how the first strap-holder got around without help—nor - the last one, either.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Mann said I had taken a great risk; that he had - called to me to come back; that the exertion required to negotiate that - heap of sliderock was really too much for one unaccustomed to the high - altitude; that he himself—a seasoned mountain man—would not - have undertaken it for the whole mine. And, you know, after I had taken - one peep at the spot of interest in the tunnel, I thought, “Neither - would I.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The prospect did not look good to me—nor was I - fooled by the enthusiasm of my inexperienced associates, but I wanted to - go along with them. The other Wetmore men thought enough of the prospect - to locate adjoining claims, naming them for their children—The - Marsena, The Gracie, and The Marguerite. I had no child, not even a wife—so - no claim. But I then and there made a resolve to learn something more - about that enticing mining game, perhaps elsewhere. And in the final - analysis I suppose I have.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Doctor Lapham was the principal exuder of enthusiasm, - an inborn trait which came to the fore again in a big way on the train - enroute to Salt Lake City. The Doctor had spent some time in the smoker, - and came back to the coach all “hepped” up. Rubbing his hands - together in his characteristic manner, he said he had gotten—on the - qt—a tip from the newsboy that an observation car was to be hooked - on at Gunnison, for the trip through Colorado’s most colorful - canyon. The observation car would be on a siding to the left of our train—and - that the favored few were to make a dash for it the moment the train - stopped.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Doctor was always putting forth his best efforts - to make us all comfortable—and happy. He said he had bought a book - of views, paying $2 for it, something he really didn’t care a whoop - for—but he wanted to reward the boy for his kind tip. With an eye - for business, the newsboy had also tipped off other passengers.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The “observation” car was only a coalcar - having temporary backless board seats placed crosswise of the car. One had - to climb over the seats, or step across from one plank to another to get - to the rear end of the car—all right for the fellow who had so - recently clambered up the tunnel dump, but very awkward for the women and - the man with the wooden leg.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Many of the passengers looked at the thing and went - back to the coaches, and some abandoned their seats and went inside after - the train started—but our men folk, being well to the rear and - encumbered with helpless women whom they did not wish to lose just then, - couldn’t even do that once the train headed into the Black Canyon of - the Gunnison, a narrow gorge with 2800-foot almost perpendicular walls, - following the serpentine course of the Gunnison river, on a steeply down - grade, switching the “observation” car like a whipcracker from - one black wall to the other. Hot cinders rained down on us so that we - could look neither to the right, or the left—nor up. Now, Lap’s - newsboy came aboard crying, “Goggles, goggles, goggles!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And the appreciative Doctor gave the boy some more - money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had done Denver, Colorado Springs, Manitou and Pike’s - Peak—and Cripple Creek. And we had all climbed “Tenderfoot” - Mountain while waiting over-night at Salida for train connection—and - I individually had literally sat on the proverbial powderkeg for three - hours during a twenty-mile overland drive. Mr. Mann had provided a spring - wagon for the other members of the party, and I, being unexpected, was - conducted to a freight wagon going our way. When told, near the end of the - journey, that I was sitting on a box of dynamite I blew up—in - spirit. But nowhere had we experienced anything so disappointing as this - “observation” car ride. It is anchored in my memory as the one - really big scene that beggared description.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">NOTE</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">The - railroad through the Black Canyon of the Gunnison has been abandoned, and - sightseers may now view this colorful canyon from their automobiles over a - highway—a “highway,” mind you, more than a half mile - down in a narrow slit in the earth.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, again, my newspaper friend, William Allen White, - of the Emporia Gazette, toured the western mining districts and wrote - enthusiastically about some newly discovered mining opportunity in the - west, known as Thunder Mountain. It stimulated my desire. I wrote William - Allen, asking him if he would, as one newspaperman to another, advise me - to try my luck at Thunder Mountain? His personal letter to me was even - more optimistic than was his editorial. Like Horace Greely, his advice was - substantially, “By all means go west, young man, and give it a try.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">But I did not fetch up at Thunder Mountain. On the advice - of another friend, I dumped the proceeds from the sale of my newspaper, - sight unseen, in a hole in Nevada</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">while the wise Mr. White kept on publishing his Gazette; - wrote a best seller book, “A Certain Rich Man,” and got rich - himself. His name and fame are to be perpetuated in the erection of a - public library building in Emporia; while I, his misguided friend, still - have my laurels to make. And, incidentally, as a mining man, after that - first big blow, I never again heard of Thunder Mountain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now back to the desert—and the printed Crescent - story.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our contribution here at Crescent, with a minimum of - outside help, was a 500-foot tunnel driven into the side of a mountain—the - rock shot with high assay in gold and silver and copper. But the cost of - this work, though a dead loss and highly disheartening, was as nothing - compared to the outlay for the 2197 feet of tunnels and shafts we have - driven—also with a minimum of help—through solid rock on our - Goodsprings claims, where production, though quite good at times, has - never caught up with expenses.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And the end is not yet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You can take it from me that a man has to be - insensible to pain to laugh this off.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On the train away back in the valley on this my first - trip to Crescent, the conductor had pointed to a distant cluster of white - flecks barely</span> <span>discernible</span> <span class="c2 c0">through - the shimmering, sun-drenched haze that lies always, like a pall, over the - desert, and said to me, “There she is—the biggest thing in all - Nevada!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had become chummy with the conductor, and that - chumminess increased mightily when we learned that we were both on the way - to become millionaires—as we visualized it then—through the - mining route. He told me that he knew my mining partner, that he had - engaged Frank Williams to look after the assessment work on some claims he - himself owned over in the Goodsprings district. And when I asked the - conductor his name and made a move as if to write it down, he shook his - head negatively and threw out his hands in a gesture of utter uselessness, - and said, “Oh-hell, man, you couldn’t forget it as long as you - are in this country. It’s Dry—just plain William Dry.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My friend’s parting words to me were a mixture - of jocularity and serious hope. “Well, so long, old top,” he - said. “See you again when we fetch up at the end of the rainbow.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And do you know, the next time I saw that conductor, two - years later—and I might say before either of us had made any - appreciable advances on the rainbow’s elusive end</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">he recognized me at once, and in offering his hand, - said: “It’s Dry.” And I said, “Oh-hell, man, don’t - I know it!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And so it was.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">That meeting was in Superintendent J. Ross Clark’s - private car, hitched to the flyer. We had exchanged some correspondence - before, and Ross wanted to tell me in as hopeful words as possible that - the officials of his railroad were still watching the situation closely - and would build a branch line into our district—to our claims and to - his claims</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">just as soon as - the required tonnage was assured. You see, J. Ross Clark, too, was - possessed of the desire to harvest a quick fortune and owned mining claims - across the flat from our claims in the Goodsprings district.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That meeting with J. Ross Clark bore fruit for me, - though—and it was the means of holding up the Los Angeles Limited - for an hour, as well. Several years later I had an important engagement at - Goodsprings and was delayed seven hours in Pueblo on the way out there, - owing to a change in time of the Denver & Rio Grande trains. The best - I could do then was to arrive in Salt Lake five minutes after the Limited’s - leaving time, at one o’clock at night, with depots a mile apart. - Failure to keep my appointment at Goodsprings would mean disappointment to - others and a money loss to me, as well as a wasted trip. In desperation, I - went to the up-town office of the Denver & Rio Grande, and asked the - agent there to try to have the Los Angeles train held for me at Salt Lake. - Nothing doing. That important personage swelled up to full capacity and - said, “Evidently, if the San Pedro people wanted to neighbor with my - Company they would change their leaving time.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Next, I asked the conductor on the Rio Grande train to - wire ahead for me—and I am happy to state he was a gentleman. Also - he was a one-time miner. “Tried it once over at Aspen,” he - told me. And right away there was a bond of sympathy, or something, - between us. That conductor really wanted to help me. But, as he told me he - had wired the San Pedro people several times without results, I had to - think of some other way, for I wanted to make that Limited as a lost soul - wants to make Paradise.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was then I thought of J. Ross Clark. What was the - good of making friends, if you could not use them? The Rio Grande - conductor obligingly held his train for me at Green River, Utah, while I - filed a message to the Superintendent of the San Pedro lines. We arrived - in Salt Lake ten minutes ahead of time, and the conductor, pointing to a - hack-stand, said to me, “Now hurry—the Los Angeles train may - be a little late in getting away.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the San Pedro station I found the Limited all - steamed up, ready to go—and I boarded it quickly, all out of breath. - But there was no need for hurrying. Presently the conductor came along and - asked me: “Did you come in on Rio Grande Three?” I told him I - did. Then he asked, “First or second section?” I admitted that - I didn’t know the train had been split up at Grand Junction. The - conductor, wanting to be sure of his order, drew a yellow slip from his - pocket, and re-read: “Hold for one or more passengers off Rio Grande - Three.” He then said, “Yes, that’s it. I’m sure - you are the man I’m holding for—but I’ll have to wait - for the second section.” And it was an hour late.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I think perhaps Ross had put in his order the words - “one or more” solely as a precaution against the possibility - of being accused of showing partiality to his mining neighbor, in breaking - rules. Anyway, J. Ross Clark had no call for worry. His brother, William - A. Clark, a mining man, controlling, among other holdings, the fabulously - rich United Verde mine at Jerome, Arizona, owned also forty-nine per cent - of the San Pedro lines—and was at this time operating the road under - a twenty-year control agreement. It is now in full control of the Union - Pacific.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Limited was not scheduled to stop at Jean, Nevada, - my destination. The regular procedure would have been for me to go on down - the line forty miles or more and then double back on a local train. But - when the Limited began slowing down on approaching Jean, the conductor - said to me, “No, don’t jump—wait ‘till she stops.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The engineer climbed down from his cab. The conductor - hopped off the train and yelled, “Hey, Bill, what’s wrong?” - I knew what was wrong. And Bill knew; and the conductor knew; and possibly - one other knew—but that was all. And whose business was it, anyway?</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The lost hour had been made up before the train pulled - into Caliente, Nevada, where it halted ten minutes. And, paradoxically, it - gained another hour there in that ten minutes. Caliente—Mexican for - hot—is where Pacific time begins.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Bill had left that division point “on time” - and held to the fast schedule all the way. And I’ll bet Bill and his - relief engineer landed the old Limited in Los Angeles on the dot</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">even though there were miles and - miles of desert wasteland, with two high mountain ranges, and, finally, a - beautiful irrigated valley with orange groves and banks and banks of - rose.s, yet to be crossed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As the Limited started to move again the conductor - threw me a last cheerful word: “You’ll have only a little way - to walk.” And I could only hope that there was no one to report that - conductor—nor my friend Ross.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You see, it was Dry again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">All about lay the eternal waste of the desert and - mountain slopes, barren and desolate, walled in that arid corner of the - world.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.yai9ngwxcpc1"> - <span class="c8 c0">THE WIFE—AT GOODSPRINGS</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published</span> <span class="c12">—</span> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">1947</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">To round out the foregoing story, I might say here - that my wife was a guest for the week during my absence in Crescent, at - Mrs. Yount’s hotel in Goodsprings. Sam Yount, the landlady’s - husband, was leading merchant, postmaster, private banker—and miner. - And he backed the hotel proposition too. The sleeping quarters of the - hotel were a detached row of ground-floor rooms close by the main - structure. It was before the building in Goodsprings of the Southern - Nevada Hotel, said at the time to have been the most commodious hotel in - the state. It was before the camp boasted a newspaper, even before the - camp got electricity.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My wife was not versed in the ways of the West; and - she had some misgivings about making this stop-over on the desert, - particularly because of the lateness of our train, while on our way to - visit my people in California. I had told her that of the many times I had - been out there I had never seen a gun-toting man—and that there was - a fixed impression that it would be about as much as a man’s life - was worth to molest a woman.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This trip was made at a time following the great flood - that had wiped out all the railroad bridges for many miles along the - Meadow Valley Wash, in eastern Nevada. Owing to a slow track, our train, - due in Jean in the forenoon, did not arrive until near midnight. There - were no accommodations at Jean when I was last out there, and I had told - Myrtle that, as we would now miss the stage, we might have to sit in the - depot until morning, or walk ten miles across the desert to Goodsprings.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Frankly, she was not of a mind to do anything of the - kind. She said we could remain on the train, go on to Los Angeles, and - maybe stop at Goodsprings on our return trip—or we could, as far as - she was concerned, pass it up altogether. I pointed out that we could - hardly do this, with her trunk and all her fine clothes—clothes she - didn’t need at all—checked through to Jean. And besides, we - would be returning by way of San Francisco.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Remember, I had told her that I had never seen a gun - toter in the West. Remember also that this was before Crescent. Then, - imagine my surprise, and the wife’s renewed misgivings, when, on - getting off at Jean, the first and only man to be seen had a murderous - looking six-shooter strapped on him. And the wife had so little respect - for my veracity as to tell me right out loud that in her best judgement I - had purposely misrepresented matters to her.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">George Fayle, whom I had known in Goodsprings</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">associated with Sam Yount—had - come over to the railroad to engage in the mercantile business. He owned a - general store, a restaurant, and was building a hotel. This made matters - fine for us—almost. Fayle was postmaster, and handled pouch mail - between the postoffice and the trains. The gun he carried was only - routine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">George Fayle took us to a ground-floor room in his - unfinished hotel. The room had wallboard partitions, bed upon springs flat - on the floor, with a blanket hung across the outside door opening, leaving - one-fourth of the space with nothing but thin desert air between us and - the unknown. George did not tell us what kind of characters he was - harboring beyond the cardboard—but he did wish us a pleasant good - night, and, patting his six-shooter, said we would be perfectly safe, as - is.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the wife did not readily catch the spirit of the - West. I had told her that the desert was overrun with lizards and - sidewinder rattlesnakes, the poisonous kind that travel in spiral form - with head up ready for a strike at all times. She put in most of the - remainder of the night watching the 18-inch opening between the blanket - and the floor—precisely for what, she could not be sure. Luckily - there was no wind. The blanket hung limp throughout the night. I can swear - to that. Two of a kind, you might say.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">At breakfast, George told me there had been a manhunt the - day before over in the country west of Goodsprings</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">that an escaped convict was reportedly holed up in the - hills east of Sandy. That would be in the neighborhood of our lead mine. - The wife took this in without comment</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but it was plain to be seen that she was stowing it away for - future consideration.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Frank and I had returned from our tour of - inspection at Crescent, after nightfall, we found the Good-springs camp in - an awful state of alarm. My wife, fully dressed, was sitting upright in - the middle of the bed in our ground-floor room, afraid to put foot on the - floor. She had been so since shortly after dusk. Dusk—that - indeterminate translucent veil which, like a mist, screens and magnifies, - transposing even the most common objects into phantom figures.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">She had heard a scraping noise, likely a block away, - but at such times the imagination does tricks to one’s reasoning. In - her state of nervous tension, it was but natural for her to imagine that - indistinct noise had come from under the bed, the obvious place for an - intruder to hide.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Ordinarily Myrtle was not given to such fits of - timidity. But she had entered the country under trying conditions, and - therefore was not prepared for the many unexpected irregularities. We had - not counted on our train being so far behind time as to land us out there - in the middle of the night. With my memory of the surroundings as I last - knew them, it required a lot of silent argument with myself to get up - courage to subject her to the risk we must necessarily take in finding - accommodations of any sort, at Jean. I knew there were ten miles of desert - on either side of the railroad station. That the country was not inhabited - might or might not have been in our favor. Certainly, it presaged - loneliness—and it was dark.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">A woman at the hotel in Goodsprings thought she had - glimpsed the deadly thing, at dusk, near the sleeping quarters—and - Myrtle’s door had been left open for a brief spell while she was - out. Or rather the door had been found open on her return—she just - wasn’t sure how it was. Myrtle informed me that all the other women - in camp were just as frightened as she was. And she bade me look under the - bed, forthwith.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The thing I was supposed to make sure was—or wasn’t</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">there, had an overall length of - about two feet, a width of four to five inches, an inch or so less in - height when inactive—and it was a little pot-bellied. It was rusty - in color, with yellowish spots distributed the full length of its body. It - had a fat meaty tail, and a broad ugly looking head.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There really was something alive under the bed. It - moved. Its eyes moved toward me. Also there were now two people upon the - bed. And simultaneously the door swung open, as if the devil was in - cahoots with the thing, bent on letting in all the demons of a wicked - world. I had hit the bed on the bounce with a jarring thud, causing the - door to swing in, as it invariably did when not securely latched. And the - cat “hightailed it” out into the night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the house cat was not the thing so much dreaded.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Springer’s Gila Monster, a lizard-like - reptile, even more poisonous than the rattlesnake, was on the loose. It - had got out of its place of confinement two days back, and diligent search - by the whole camp had failed to locate it. On the third day, however, the - Monster was found at a water-hole, an old trench dug years before by our - former Wetmore citizen, Green Campbell. The camp demanded that the reptile - be killed immediately.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Elwood Thomas, also formerly of Wetmore, was a close - neighbor to Mr. Springer, and he had carried the word of caution to - Myrtle. It was all so very exciting—even worse than a panther scare. - And, miraculously, the wife was to experience that one too before leaving - the Goodsprings camp.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">We were to go with Frank Williams to stay over Sunday at - our lead mine, which was twelve miles over the</span> <span></span> <span - class="c2 c0">mountain range on the west side. The daily stage (except - Sunday) passed within a few hundred yards of the mine. Frank and I started - to walk over, at sunup, on Saturday morning. Myrtle was to go over on the - stage in the afternoon.</span> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image332.jpg" alt="image332" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image332.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">To make a short cut, Frank and I took a burro trail at - the summit, near the Columbia mine. While trailing that rugged miner ten - yards in the rear, going down on the west side, I sprained my right ankle, - badly, rolling down the slope almost to where Frank was—my camera - trailing in the wake, taking the bumps.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We stopped for a brief rest at the Hoosier mine—formerly - owned by Frank’s uncle, Elwood Thomas—where the miners were - taking out zinc ore, a new find in that district. And “tenderfoot” - though I was, I made a discovery there which had escaped my seasoned - miner-partner for a whole year. At least I thought I had done this to him. - Frank had cut through a 12-foot body of identical appearing stuff in - running the tunnel, and had several tons of it ricked up on the dump. It - would require an assay to convince him that we had a zinc mine, as well as - a lead mine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In accordance with the miners’ code we were - invited to stop at the Hoosier shack in the foothills and get our dinners. - By this time my swollen ankle was hurting so badly that I preferred not to - stop until we could get out to the stage road a mile farther on—but - Frank said it would be an insult to the Hoosier boys for us to pass them - by. And besides he was hungry. Also, according to the miners’ code - Frank had to wash his dirty dishes. This is a must in the mining country.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image333.jpg" alt="image333" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image333.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c2 c0">This is where I went down—second time. Took this - picture while waiting for the stage. Frank’s mail box is about a - mile around the bend of the road. The trail—foot path—going - over the mountain starts near the right edge of this view’ and tops - the mountain starts near the right edge of this view, and tops the - mountain at the head of a canyon, on the other side.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span>We reached the stage road about two hours before the stage was due. - Frank walked on three miles farther to the mine, and I hobbled along until - within a mile of “our”</span> <span class="c2 c0">mountain—then - my ankle toppled me over again, and I lay there with my head shaded by a - single sagebrush. As the sun moved along on its westward course—which - of course it didn’t do at all—I had to scratch gravel - frequently, sliding on my back, to keep my head shielded from the burning - desert sun.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The stage-driver let us off at Frank’s mail box, - and Myrtle had a hard time helping me over the hump and down the canyon to - the mine. We took the short cut over the mountain instead of going a mile - or more around on the wagon road; through a saddle-back, and then up the - canyon to the mine, which would have been less arduous. We were carrying - provisions for six meals for the three of us. There was water at the mine. - It had rained a month before, and Frank had scooped up the water out of a - ditch. No fiction in this. Water really “keeps” out there—when - in an underground house, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had overlooked the need for candles and coffee—or - rather they were missing from the pack. Acting on Frank’s - suggestion, Myrtle went out on the mountain side, gathered leaves from the - lowly sage brush—and we had our tea. But the absence of candles was - a more serious matter. Frank hunted the underground house, and the - tunnels, finally finding a two-inch piece of candle at the far end of a - 500-foot tunnel.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The wife and I slept—no, bunked—the first - night in the underground house. To get into the place we had to hug a wall - as we approached the door to avoid dropping into a 60-foot shaft by the - side of the entrance, where Frank had taken out $65 worth of RICH silver - ore—at a cost of $500 for digging the hole.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There were mice, and probably lizards too, running - over our bed on the floor. Little lizards were very active on the outside, - in the daytime. And Frank and I had killed a rattlesnake while strolling - about over the grounds the year before. The crack under the door was big - enough to let in almost anything short of a panther.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, a big body of ore protruding from the ceiling - directly over our bed looked as if it might slip from its moorings with - the slightest jar, and there was some jarring force at work all through - the night. Grains of crushed limestone, like sand, sifted down upon us - almost continously. Myrtle spent the night lighting, blowing out, and - relighting that little piece of candle. In this way she made it last until - morning.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The next night—Sunday night—we slept, or - rather bunked, on an ore-sorting table out on the tunnel dump, under the - stars. Frank had taken his bedroll a hundred yards down the canyon to find - level “ground” on which to make his spread. I had sent an old - trunk filled with bedding including a couple of pillows the year before. - The wife</span> <span class="c2 c0">thought Frank had been a little lax in - the matter of laundering same.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/image335.jpg" alt="image335" width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/image335.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c0">After going over the mountain (at left) we</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">Myrtle and I</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">came - down the canyon to the mine. The tunnel dump shows between the two arms of - the mountain</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">about a half - mile away. Getting down from the top was tough. I had to back down much of - the way</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and have a lot of - help. Frank had said he would meet us at the mailbox</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">but he was taking lessons in French off a gramophone and - did not show up until we were well along the way to the mine. Frank’s - and Edith’s first tent house</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">part canvas</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">was - built was built on this dump.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This, of course, was before Frank had gone East to - study political economy. Also it was before he had brought back to the - mine a New England school teacher called Edith, bearing his name. There - was no laxity after Edith took charge. And, with this touch of “new - life” on the job, the mine, besides yielding rich ore, sparingly, - produced two fine little girls, Ruth and Helen—girls that grew up at - the mine. With their father a graduate of Campbell University, Holton, - Kansas, and their mother holding a teacher’s certificate, the girls - didn’t fare badly, even in semi-isolation. As a matter of fact, - district school was held for a time in their home, with their mother as - teacher.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The home at this time was a four-room house on a 5-acre - water claim—held in connection with the mining claims</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">on the edge of Mesquite Valley, one mile from the - mine. There was a 75-foot dug well, with windmill, and running water in - the house. And there were growing fruit trees, a vineyard in bearing, and a - green—very green alfalfa patch. The two Williams girls represented - two-sevenths of the possible pupils for the school.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then a little green school house was erected not more - than three hundred yards from their door—with Miss Leah Lytle as - first teacher—where all seven of the miners’ children studied - their lessons, romped and played among the sage and mesquite. While so - doing, Helen Williams was bitten by a rattlesnake. She was taken to Las - Vegas, the nearest big town, fifty miles away for treatment—and that - move spelled the end of the little green school house in the Mesquite - Valley so far as the two girls were concerned. They finished their - schooling in Las Vegas, graduating from the high school there. Then, when - Rex Ewing, Frank William’s closest mining neighbor, moved to Las - Vegas to capture some of the prevailing high wages, the school blew up. - Rex had supplied the other five pupils. The sequence of events as set down - here may be faulty—but were I able to chronicle them in order, the - result would be the same.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This, I believe, is noteworthy. Besides the single - claim purchased by Frank and me from S. C. Root, operator on Bonanza Hill, - one mile south of our holdings, Frank Williams located three more - adjoining claims, taking in practically all the surface ore croppings on - this mountain—and recorded them in one group, which meant that the - work done on any one claim of the group, if extensive enough, would - satisfy the $100 annual assessment for each claim.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">There was, however, a small showing of ore apparently - like the zinc at the Hoosier mine just outside those claims, on the west, - close to the wagon road Frank had blasted out, at considerable expense, to - get up to the tunnel he was driving. There were no other operators on that - mountain. Frank was lonesome. He wanted neighbors. Old man Ewing and son - Rex, nomad sojourners in Goodsprings, were invited to come out and try - their luck on that small cropping.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The Ewings struck pay ore almost from the start, and - began shipments, while Frank was still driving his tunnel</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">with ever increasing high hope. Frank’s wagon - road proved to be a big asset for his new neighbors. Rex Ewing also mined - commercial lead ore back on the high end of his claims, which was brought - down to the wagon road by burro pack. Large trucks now travel that wagon - road right up to Frank’s ore bin, at the mouth of the tunnel, and - take off with five tons to the load.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At this juncture I might say that though Frank has - spent fifty-five of his seventy-six years—as of this date, 1947—in - the Nevada mines, he has met with only two accidents, and neither of them - was actually in the mines. He was working alone at our Crescent claims, - and by way of a little deviation from routine work, undertook to blow open - a big boulder—just curious to see what was inside. It was not in the - way—and it would have told him nothing of advantage had he proved - his suspicion that it contained gold, for gold was showing in the ledge up - slope from which the boulder had been dislodged. What I said to Frank when - he told me he meant to waste a day in blowing open that big rock does not - matter now. Nor did it matter then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Even before Frank had started to drill the boulder, while - clearing away some loose rock, it rolled half-over, pinning him - underneath. I judged the boulder would weigh two tons, maybe more—but - a smaller rock had prevented it from crushing the life out of Frank. Two - miners were working, in sight, across the</span> <span>canyon</span> <span - class="c2 c0">about a quarter mile away—and Frank called and - hollered for seven hours without attracting them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, here is something that, from my power of - reasoning, is inexplicable. There are, however, people who would have a - ready explanation for it. Elwood Thomas, Frank’s uncle, had driven - his team of ponies from Goodsprings over to Searchlight, ten miles beyond - Crescent, and was returning late in the afternoon, aiming to go by way of - Crescent, as it was shorter and a better road.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Elwood told me that when he had come to the by-road - leading through the canyon past his nephew’s location, he naturally - thought of Frank, and as he drove on toward Crescent he began to think he - should have gone the other road. He said, “Something told me to turn - around—I wouldn’t pretend to say what it was—but it was - so strong, so insistent, that I did turn around after I had gone a mile.” - He found Frank still hollering for help—but his calls were now very - feeble. With the help of the two miners Frank had been trying to attract, - Elwood got him out from under the boulder, loaded him into the wagon, and - drove on down through the canyon and across the big flat to Nipton, the - railroad station. Frank was put on the train and taken to a hospital in - Los Angeles. He was paralyzed from the waist down. Six weeks in the - hospital fixed him up as good as ever. Frank was on his own then—that - is, had no insurance. The expense was terrific. I think Frank never did - get his curiosity satisfied about the boulder.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As his inactive partner, I cautioned Frank against - working alone in those remote places—but it did no good. He said he - was safer working alone in the mines than I was when riding the trains - between Kansas and Nevada. When I first went into the mining country, I - observed that practically all prospectors had partners. I asked an - Irishman (a miner) why was it so? He said, “And how the divvel would - a man pull his-self up out of a hole widout a partner?” But there - was a more important reason. It was for protection against accidents such - as Frank had just experienced.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Frank’s second accident, more serious than the - other one, was at our Goodsprings mine, while loading out vanadium ore on - Government contract, in more recent years. He was unable to tell how it - happened. The trucker had left with a 5-ton load, and Frank was “waiting - around” for him to come back for a second load. When the truck - driver got back from his ten-mile trip over the mountain, he found Frank - wandering around down on the road below the ore bin, in a dazed condition—really - worse than that. Frank wrote me later that he remembered standing on the - ore bin after the trucker had gone with his load, and thought he must have - fallen off—but remembered nothing more. The ore bin is built against - the slope of the mountain, having a flat top about 16x20 feet, on a level - of the tunnel, with car-track extending to the outer edge, where a drop - would be about 18 feet—and less, (to nothing), at the upper end of - the ore bin. Frank did not say where he was standing in the last moments - of consciousness—but a fall from anywhere near the upper edge would - mean a rough tumble all the way down to the road.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">When Frank was taken to the Las Vegas hospital, it was - found he had a broken collarbone, a bad head injury</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">and a touch of pneumonia. He remained two months in the - hospital, at state expense, plus $90 per month compensation</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">with final payment of $1,500, on a basis of one-fourth - incapacitation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In Nevada now you don’t have to apply for state - insurance. If you are a miner, you’ve got it, with monthly billing—unless - you have filed notice that you do not want it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Williams girls are both married and live in Las - Vegas. Helen is the wife of Vaughn Holt, a barber. When I called at her - home in 1941 she had a very sweet little girl not quite a year old. Ruth’s - husband, Charles Thomas, is a linotype operator on Frank Garside’s - Daily newspaper. He is not the Charley Thomas who grew up in Wetmore and - spent many years in Nevada. That Charley was the son of Elwood Thomas and - was Frank William’s cousin. And it so happens that Ruth now takes - her grandmother Williams’ maiden name—Ruth Thomas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Frank Garside, postmaster at Las Vegas, and publisher of - the Daily Review there, formerly lived in Atchison. His aunt, Frances - Garside—well known to me at that time</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">made a record writing “Globe Sights” for - Ed Howe’s Daily Globe, back in the “Gay Nineties.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now the panther. Maybe it was only a wildcat, but - its scream was enough to put fear in the “sleepers” out on the - tunnel dump. The varmint came yowling down the canyon, fifteen feet away - from our bunk, going on down the trail Frank had taken with his bedroll. - Frank said the thing had been heard several times before, and he was not - sure if it was a panther, or a wildcat. Panthers—called cougars in - the west—he said, were very much in evidence down on the Rim; that - is, the high bank of the Colorado river. And something very like the - cougar in habit had killed a calf in the valley, close by. Myrtle regarded - the thing as a threatening menace, and had it not been for that exposed - shaft at the entrance of the underground house, she doubtless would have - made a break for shelter. And I think that, notwithstanding my black and - blue ankle, I should have followed pronto.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, Myrtle was compensated for all this by the - fact—vouched for by Frank Williams—that she was the first - white woman to set foot on that mountain. By the same line of reasoning, - Edith Willams was, I suppose, if we can be sure Frank knows his history, - the second, and probably the last, white woman to climb Hunter mountain.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Looking across the canyon, and gesturing toward the - mountain-side where some work had been done, Myrtle laughingly said to - Frank and me, “I suppose you two old grizzled miners think that - ‘Thar’s gold in them thar hills’.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle had trod some pretty rocky ground, literally - and figuratively, since coming into camp—besides heating gallons of - water from time to time at the mine to bathe my sprained ankle—and - she certainly was entitled to indulge in a little “fun” at our - expense. Myrtle had quoted correctly, but that “grizzled” - reference belonged to quite another class of miners. And I may say this - was the first and only time I had ever heard that bewhiskered old saying - while in the mining country. It was of course a carryover from another - era. And, had she not questioned my statement about the gun-toters, I - should have told her that there are no such animals in the mining country - now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Myrtle was holding in her hand a gold nugget—real, - glittering, yellow gold</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">about - the size of a walnut, and Frank knew instantly its source. She had taken - it out of my pocket—but I doubt if Frank knew positively, until this - minute, that I had it. He said to me, “You better drop it in that - shaft over there by the underground house. There’s but one place - that it could have come from—and if exhibited around here, it might - get somebody in trouble.” He hastened to say, however, that it would - not be me; that he was sure that I had got it legitimately, though maybe a - little less openly than the $10 nugget I had secured when he and I were - exploring the depths of the famous Quartette mine at Searchlight. That’s - the place where someone had said before the camp was named that it would - take a searchlight to locate pay ore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “Yeah, drop it in the shaft and have - someone in the future find it, and then spend thousands of dollars trying - to locate its source.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">He said, “Any miner who knows his stuff would - know that it didn’t originate in this lime formation. It’s - straight out of a porphyry dike—and was, until you got hold of it, - closely guarded under lock and key.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I could have told him that I knew all this, but a more - brilliant idea struck me—leastwise just for the moment I thought it - was bright. But, then, on second thought, what if the assay on our big - body of material I had been so sure was just like the Hoosier zinc, should - prove me wrong. Well, anyway, I would “ shoot the works.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I said, “It strikes me that there are some men - around here who count themselves miners that do not exactly at all times - know their stuff.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle said, “Now, now—don’t - commence on that zinc again.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Well,” I said, “I’ll still - bet my old hat that it is zinc.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Frank said, quickly, “If it’s zinc, I’ll - eat your old hat</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and do it - with relish, too, brother.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“And in that case, if you win, smart boy, you - still stand to lose your hat,” said Myrtle, to me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I believe Frank had already begun to see the light, - sense a probability, cherish a hope. Although lead ore running 71 and 72 - per cent by the carload had been shipped, the present lean condition of - our lead mine could well stand bolstering with a big body of zinc. But of - course he would not want to admit, first off, that his “tenderfoot” - partner had stumbled onto something of such vital importance. In school, - and at countryside lyceums back home, Frank was a top negative debater—always - on the “contrary” side. And it was probably the stubborn Welsh - in him that caused him to stick by his guns now”His father had been - a miner back in Wales—in the identical neighborhood’ that - afterwards became known as the locale of the movie, “How Green Was - My Valley?”:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I do not know the result of the assay made by Harry - Riddell for Frank—but I do know that Frank wrote me, that - fortunately, I was going to be minus an old hat, someday. But, for the - present, would I send him $500 to start operations on “our lucky - zinc find?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">An assay made for me, by C. S. Cowan, whom I met on - the train, and who was assayer at W. A. Clark’s United Verde mine, - Jerome, Arizona, showed fifty-five per cent zinc. Assayer Cowan wrote me - that it was a big surprise to him. He had told me he doubted if the sample - would show any zinc.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the crude, it shipped out by the carload at - forty-three percent. But at that, it was no bonanza. Western smelters - could not handle that class of ore—and the freight rate to the zinc - smelters in the gas fields of southern Kansas, was $500 a car.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Unlike the dark sulphides of the Joplin (Mo.) and - Galena (Kans.) district, where paying mines were operating on six per cent - zinc, ours was a carbonate ore, running to high values. It was light in - color, with the richer ore comparatively light in weight. Frank said it - would likely, as she goes down, turn to sulphides and be more permanent, - with less values.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But, brother—”she” didn’t go - down.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">By way of explanation, I might say here that on the - preceding Friday, Frank and I paid a visit to the Keystone mine near the - summit, north of the Goodsprings highway. Situated in a porphyry zone, it - was the only gold mine of importance in the district—with an output - of more than a million dollars up to that time. And it might be consoling - to my partner, who at that time (1907) had spent sixteen of his - thirty-seven years working in the Nevada mines, to state here what he - already knows—in fact, he’s the source of my information—that - Jonas Taylor, working a silver deposit on his claim, allowed the Keystone - gold ledge to lay dormant for three years after he had discovered it. But - when he did finally wake up to its possibilities, three days work rewarded - him with a four-foot vein of gold ore running $1,000 to the ton—in - shipments.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Our former Wetmore citizen, Green Campbell, did not get - in on this—but he located, and his estate still owns the Golden - Chariot, adjoining. And one of Green’s associates, William Smith, - hurriedly fetched his friend Samuel Godbe over from Pioche, and after one - look at the uncovered ledge, the latter played a winning hand in a big - game without risking any chips. Mr. Godbe asked for, and received from Mr. - Taylor, a thirty day option on one-half interest for $20,000. Mr. Godbe - then rushed to San Francisco and sold half of a half-interest to Mr. - Perry, a banker acquaintance, for $20,000 cash. A few months later Mr. - Perry sold his quarter interest to Mr. Blake, of Denver, for $40,000. And - nobody had lost any money</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">yet.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had driven Sam Yount’s big sorrel mare up - Kerby gulch to the Kerby mine, owned by the Campbell estate. From there, - we walked maybe a couple of miles—a pretty rough climb—to the - Keystone, arriving at about 10 o’clock. The camp cook, the only man - above ground, thought the miners were working on the 800-foot level. Frank - said he knew his way around—that we would go down in the mine and - contact them. He had worked in the Keystone a short while before.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Like an addict bucking a slot machine always hoping for - the next turn to crack the jackpot, Frank had put his last dollar into the - development of our own prospect, and consequently had been compelled to - work in other mines to get a stake. And since it was not in the cards for - Frank to distinguish himself, as part owner of the Kansas-Nevada mine</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c0">and also, in later years, as if - finding a good mother for his “kids” while on that political - economy excursion into the East was not enough, he cashed in on that - outlay by getting himself elected for the fourth time, to the legislature</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">assembly, it is called in Nevada. - Then to Reno as Regent of the University of Nevada. Also, still later, he - started a one-man crusade against gambling. But in Nevada—well, it - was slow work.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">And, mind you, we ourselves, Frank and I, were at that - very time stuck in a mine gamble which might—and did</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">keep us feeding the “kitty” for years - before we could know whether or not we would ever be able to pull out with - a winning.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We lighted candles and started down by way of an - incline shaft. The Keystone doubtless had a vertical shaft, I believe back - on higher ground, straight down to the 1,000 foot level, with safety cage, - operated with power. Likely a standard shaft! under state supervision, - similar to the one which Frank and I were eased down to the 1100-foot - level of the Quartette mine at Searchlight—on a day off from our - inspection at Crescent. My cousin, Ella Bristow-Montgom-ery-Walter, lived - in Searchlight, and Joe Walter, her husband, had taken time off from his - barber business to show us around. Frank had seen the manager of the - Quartette, likely through the solicitation of Joe, give me a gold nugget, - worth maybe $10.,</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I did not collect these rich specimens for their - intrinsic value—but rather for study and comparison. Our hope for - gold at that time lay at Crescent, between Goodsprings and Searchlight. - The specimens from neighboring camps could be helpful in determining our - course of development.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the Keystone, we had gone down that incline shaft - to the 700-foot level before the tenderfoot in me began to assert itself. - We had walked down the incline easily enough, then climbed straight down - on a ladder for maybe twenty-five feet—and then repeated by incline - and ladder, gaining distance away from the portal, as well as in depth.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the 700-foot level, Frank had a sudden notion that - we might be heading for trouble. There were crosscuts going out from the - various levels, and the miners might be working in any one of them. And it - was about time for the shots to be fired. He said we could get out quicker - if we were above the works when the powder smoke began to come out. And I - was positive that I had had enough. The mine was dripping water—and - my nerves were shot.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">It gave me a “weak” feeling not unlike I had - experienced when Frank took me about 300 feet back into the tunnel at our - lead mine to demonstrate a drilling, and the firing of a shot. It was late - in the afternoon, almost sundown. Frank said we would have to hurry, as - daylight was running out on us, and we yet had to make our beds out on the - dump—that is, find places where the crushed rock had been trampled - down to some semblance of smoothness. He said he was drilling in soft - white lime; that the blue lime at the contact two hundred feet farther in, - for which the tunnel was projected, and where, it was confidently - believed, we would encounter a big body of lead, was hard as granite. He - drilled a hole sixteen inches deep, then cut a suitable length of fuse, - fitted a dynamite cap to one end, tapped it together lightly with his - steel drill—then shockingly gave that dynamite cap, having a - 500-pound explosive force</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">which - alone has been known to blow a man’s hand off when hit with a hammer—a - final clinch with his teeth. He had a little tool for clinching the caps, - but he didn’t want to waste the time to fetch it. He “hooted” - at my protest of that dangerous performance. We were about twelve miles - from civilization, and I didn’t relish the prospect of being left - alone out there in the night. He slit a stick of dynamite with his knife—dynamite - has been known to explode with rough handling—but he eased my fears - by saying a cow had chewed up a stick of dynamite without harm. He - inserted the capped end of the fuse in the slit, squeezed it together and - dropped it in the hole. He filled the hole with fine rock drillings, and - nonchalantly tamped it with an iron bar. He lighted the fuse with a match—and - said it was time for us to skedaddle to the portal. No report. Frank said - he would go back in the tunnel and dig it out, and fire the charge. Now, I - did protest. I told him to defer that job until morning. He thought maybe - it would be best, said that a fuse would sometimes hangfire. Dusk was upon - us. However, we found suitable spots for bedding down, and I rolled up in - nice clean blankets I had purchased in Los Angeles the day before—and, - using a “soft” white lime rock for a pillow, slept the sleep - of a budding plutocrat. And, believe it or not, that delayed shot waked me - before dawn. Frank had performed the dangerous task of digging out that - dud, and reloaded the hole. He said, “It was no job for a simpering - tenderfoot to watch. And furthermore, if you will stick around me you’ll - learn something.” And that was no boastful exaggeration.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Keystone manager took us to the administration - building, unlocked a door, and showed us five tons of very rich gold ore - piled in one corner of the office. A narrow strip of one inch and less—along - the hanging wall of a four-foot vein of $40 ore—shot with particles - of pure gold, averaging $72,000 to the ton, had produced that $360,000 - pile of Keystone wealth.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The manager was very kind to me. He pointed out some - extremely rich specimens, and watched me “eat ‘em up”</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">figuratively, of course. I knew - that it would have been unethical, if not worse, for him to have offered - to give me a specimen, especially at a time when all that “high-grading” - was going on in Nevada, particularly at the Goldfield Consolidated Mines.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Satisfied that I had been sufficiently impressed, the - manager turned to Frank—they were old associates, you know—suggesting - that he might be interested in having a look at the work-sheet, - blue-print, or something of other entertaining, on the desk. When Frank - was sufficiently absorbed, with back to me, the manager stepped out the - door, “whowhoed” and gestured—probably held up two - fingers</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">which I afterwards - interpreted to mean he was making known to someone he would have guests - for dinner. And I still think I read the signals aright. Anyway, my - hurriedly selected specimen had only the gold content of one double-eagle—and - that would have been grand larceny in my state.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I do not know if the Keystone maintained a - change-room, such as the management of the Goldfield Consolidated was - compelled to install about this time to cope with its “high-graders,” - But the Keystone had had experience with “high-graders.” Frank - said that in earlier days, off-shift miners would ride the ore-wagons down - to the mill in the Mesquite Valley near the town of Sandy, dropping rich - pieces of gold ore by the roadside for their confederates, following on - foot, to gather up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At the Consolidated Mines in Goldfield every miner on - coming off shift, besides having to shed his work clothes before he could - pass the doorkeeper to get to his street clothes, was compelled to say - “Ah!” Perhaps you can think of some other way a stripped miner - might conceal a bit of gold? The miners did. And the detection of that - unique manner of “high-grading” precipitated a riot that had - to be quelled by the state militia. The Union miners agreed, - magnanimously, to submit to the new order of things—provided that - they be permitted to name the doorkeeper from their own ranks. The - Consolidated had broken into some extremely rich ore, streaks of almost - pure gold—and the miners were averse to overlooking any bets.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back at the lead-zinc mine, Myrtle told us what she - had experienced in Goodsprings during the week when Frank and I were at - Crescent. As the wife of the partner of Frank Williams—no intent of - implying self importance—she was at once taken into the hearts of - the camp people. Perhaps her own personality was a factor. She had met, at - the hotel, Mr and Mrs. Potter, of the Columbia mine; Mr and Mrs. McCarthy, - (he was the surveyor); and Harry Riddell, the assayer—all late of - Boston. And she had really begun to love the desert, with its - ultra-sociable people. Even Mrs. Yount’s squaw cook—maybe she - was only kitchen help—a Paiute Indian woman from up Pahrump way, - Myrtle said, was friendly.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And, best of all, the camp children had supplied her - daily—except of course those two days when Mr. Springer’s Gila - Monster had the run of the camp—with a bouquet of wild flowers - gathered from the mountain slopes. She loved that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Also, she had enjoyed, particularly when with the - children, watching a reddish-brown dog resembling a cocker spaniel, ride a - horse, standing up behind a man. A prospector working a claim up near the - summit, five or six miles out, rode a bay horse daily out of Goodsprings, - to and from his work—always with the dog standing on the horse’s - back. As it was a daily occurrence, the children had become accustomed to - seeing the dog ride the horse—but they were especially anxious for - Myrtle to view the spectacle, with them. Myrtle had met, and visited with, - some of the children’s mothers. One of the women was from Soldier, - Kansas, near our home. In fact, with faithful Elwood Thomas as escort, - Myrtle had been pretty much all over the camp</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">except of course saloon row on the north side—Hobson - street I believe it was called. Elwood had told her it was not the lowest - spot in Nevada, but even so, it was no place for a lady.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Myrtle had now really caught the spirit of the West. She - was actually planning on the spending of the yet undelivered profits of - the mine, on a home in Goodsprings. Everyone had told her that we were on - the high road to a big success. Our home would be on the “bench” - near Charley Byram’s place, where we could be sure of getting water. - Bachelor Charley Byram, I believe, had the only private well, with - windmill, in Goodsprings. He was the son of August Byram, former partner - of Green Campbell, in the sensationally rich Horn Silver mine at Frisco, - Utah. Born in Atchison, Kansas, Charley was now</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">in Nevada and Los Angeles, where he lived with his mother - and sister</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">-a typical - Westerner, seemingly without the proper appreciation of a native son for - his old home town. He said to me, “The last time I was back in - Atchison, two years ago, I could have fired a shotgun down the full length - of Commercial street without hitting a soul.” To one who knows the - unobstructed and flat straightness of Commercial street, it seemed as if - he should have been able to do better than that. Charley would have to up - his sights and show marksmanship if he were to hit pay ore on his claims - up in the porphyry zone. I believe he missed in this.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Myrtle said she wanted flowers, lots of roses, and - green grass—a show spot, sort of oasis in the desert as it were. - Something that everybody else didn’t have. Well, I too had been - caught by the spell. Why not let her have them? Contingent, however, on - one little reservation. Only if, and when, the lead-zinc mine should give - up its treasure. We couldn’t spend all that money living a prosaic - life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Before leaving Goodsprings for California, Myrtle said - to me, “Let’s come back this way. I’d love it. And since - you think you are so good at discovering zinc overlooked by your partner, - maybe YOU could, after all, find gold in ‘them thar hills’.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Might say here that eight years later Myrtle had the - chance to repay the old miner, Elwood Thomas, for his kindness by - entertaining him in our home. Elwood</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c0">just in from Nevada</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">came - into the Wetmore hotel one evening about eight o’clock when I - happened to be present. Also, Henry McCreery—sometimes - affectionately called “Henry Contrary”—Elwood’s - brother-in-law, was in the hotel office at the time. We had a good visit - together. When Henry was ready to go home he said, “Well, Elwood, I’d - like to ask you to go home with me for the night</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">but I’m afraid Becky wouldn’t like it.” - Becky Thornton was Henry’s sister and housekeeper—his wife - Patience, Elwood’s sister, having passed on some years earlier. - Elwood said, “Oh, it’s all right. Maybe I ought to go out and - see the Old Man”</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">meaning - his bachelor brother Manning, living a half mile east of town. Elwood was - the oldest and Manning was the youngest in a family of seven children—but - the older one was the younger in appearance. I said, “Come along - with me, Elwood—I know Myrtle will be glad to see you.” And - she was. They had done Goodsprings all over again before retiring that - night. And, sadly, we were to see our very fine old friend laid to rest in - the Wetmore cemetery within the week. He was fatally injured in a - horse-and-buggy accident while visiting his daughter, Mrs. Maude Ralston, - in Holton.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Elwood had told us that he had a message from a miner in - Goodsprings to deliver to a woman in Wetmore, but he could not remember - her name. The wife and I put in a portion of the night trying to figure - out who it might be with a connection out there. The next morning after - breakfast, I went with Elwood down to the Spectator office. Editor - Turrentine gave him a personal, with comment, naming the man in - Goodsprings whose message Elwood would like to deliver, if he could find - the woman. It brought results. Mrs. Nels Rasmus drove over to Holton the - day following publication</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">and - received her message. Mr. Thomas had gone over there to visit his - daughter. Mrs. Rasmus had lived in the home of P. T. Casey, the Corning - banker. I believe she was an adopted child. The Good-springs miner was - connected in some way with one or the other of the two Corning families.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Two years later—1917—I chanced to meet this - man with a stalled Model T Ford near the summit west of Goodsprings, on a - very slippery road, deep in snow and slush. In the car with me, were Joe - Walter, Frank and John Williams, and the driver. We were coming down the - grade, and he had been going up. Recognizing the name on introduction, I - asked him—just to be sociable—what was wrong with his car? He - answered rather smartly, “If I knew I wouldn’t be here.” - It was probably a very correct answer</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">but I thought it was no way to dismiss a fellow who had a - message from Mrs. Rasmus for him.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">NOTE—Frank Williams died in a hospital in Las - Vegas. Nevada, December 19, 1947. This story is printed, without change, - just as it was written prior to his death.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.g0putm51w0yi"> - <span class="c8 c0">MONEY MUSK</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator—</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">January 24, 1936.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The deep snows of the past month recall the winters - back a half century, and more. It seems there was always snow on the - ground in the winter months then.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the early days, besides making boots and shoes, my - father, William Bristow, hunted and trapped a good deal, whenever he could - spare the time from his business. Always one or more of his boys would go - with him on those outings. We all loved the outdoors—and with my - father we were like pals.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Among his catches were mink, raccoons, lynx, bobcats, - and sometimes a catamount. The catamount was an overgrown wildcat between - the bobcat and the cougar in size. The largest one he ever caught weighed - sixty-seven pounds. There are none here now.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father did not trap for the little fur-bearing, - stink-throwing skunk, but often one would be found in one of his mink - traps. Then, from a safe distance, he would shoot the skunk, carefully - remove it, and deodorize the steel trap by burning before making another - set.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The time came, though, when my father thought he might - just as well save the skunk pelts. Skunk fur was in demand at a good - price, the best skins bringing around four dollars. My father was not - avaricious. But times were close—and he had many mouths to feed. And - four dollars was four dollars.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother, of course, did not like to have her home - polluted with skunk essence—and her boys refused to help with the - skinning. So, when my father would find a well-marked skunk in one of his - mink traps he would say, rather sadly, as he tossed it aside, “That’s - four dollars thrown away.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, one Sunday when William Peters was along—he - was called Methuselah, or Thuse, for short—my father found a big - skunk in one of his traps. It had fine markings. He said, “I’ll - skin this one, if Thuse will help me.” Thuse said he didn’t - mind; he had trapped and skinned a lot of them without getting stunk up.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was a cold day—ice and snow everywhere. And - while they skinned that skunk my brother Charley and I built a roaring - fire with the scaley bark ripped off standing shell-bark hickory trees, - and some fallen dead tree limbs picked out of the deep snow.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When they had finished skinning the skunk my father - walked over to the fire and threw the carcass into the flames. He and - Thuse then went over to an open spring that came out from under the roots - of a big elm tree on the Theodore Wolfley farm west of town, and washed - their hands. They had returned to the fire and were bending over the blaze - drying their hands, when my father said, “So you boys think you’re - too nice to help your old daddy skin a skunk.” He laughed. - Methuselah chuckled. Then, spreading his hands with a sort of satisfied - air, my father said, “It’s as easy as falling off a log when - you know how.” Thuse chuckled again, and said, “Pshaw—of - course it is!” And then, as if giving instructions for his sons to - note, my father went on, “I shot him in the head before he had time - to kick up a stink and of course we were careful not to cut into the - stink-sack.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley said, “Smart guys—you two.” - Father gave him a withering look, but said nothing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thus chagrined, Charley and I started away to gather - some more fuel. Then there was a sharp pop—a sort of explosion, as - it were—in the fire. We looked around into an atmosphere suddenly - made blue with sickening fumes and sulphurous words of condemnation. We - saw Pop clawing frantically at his whiskers—he wore a full beard - then—and the two Willies were dancing around the fire like Comanche - Indians.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was all so sudden. That darned skunk carcass, as if - in a last noble effort of defense, had exploded and the contents of that - carefully handled stink-sack was hurled at those two self-assured - skinners, with my father’s whiskers as the central target for some - of the solids. Pugh! It was awful!</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Adopting Indian lingo, Charley laughed, “Heap - brave skunk-skinners!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Father said, “I don’t like the way you - said that, young man. One more crack out of you—and I’ll tan - your hide.” But he wouldn’t have done that. Charley was a - model of perfection, and no one appreciated that fact more than did his - daddy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, have a look at Thuse. A weazened little wisp of a - man in his twenties—wrinkled, uncouth, slouched in his clothes - always much too big for him, he looked as if he had already lived a goodly - portion of the long span of years accredited to the ancient Methuselah.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On the way home, Methuselah, speaking to my father, - said, “They’ll want to run us out of town, Bill, when we get - back to Wetmore.” My father said he could bury his clothes, but - still he was greatly worried about his whiskers. And, naturally, he was - thinking about my mother, too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley said, soothingly, “Oh, just go on home - Dad, and play her Money Musk, and everything will be fine. Money talks, - you know. You’ve got as good as four dollars in your game sack, and - God only knows how much musk, if you want to call it that, you and Thuse - have got on your own hides.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father played the fiddle, and while “Over the - Ocean Waves” was his favorite, he played equally well another tune - called “Money Musk.” He would entertain his family in the home - of evenings with his old-time fiddling.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We reached home about dusk, purposely timed. My father - and Thuse were both increasingly worried. Thinking that it might be more - satisfactory to let father face his problem alone, or with only Thuse - present—and for other reasons—Charley and I went out to the - woodpile and stalled around a bit. Old Piute and Queenie came out of the - doghouse to greet us. Father never took the dogs along when running his - trap line.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My mother came to the door and called in her gentle, - sweet voice—she was always gentle and sweet with her boys—”Come - on in here, you little stinkers, and get your suppers!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">My father was not at the festive board that Sunday night. - He was nowhere about the house, that we could see</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and we ate our supper in comparative silence.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Occasionally, my mother would sniff at us, but she - offered no protest. Doubtless her two darling boys carried more than a - suspicion of the polecat’s pollution, but, having just had a whiff - of those two Willies, her keen nose was unable to separate the real from - the imaginary.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was almost two hours later when father came home. - Methuselah was with him. They were both appreciably slicked up—but - not really so good. Father was, more or less, shorn of his beard, and - looked “funnier” than his boys had ever before seen him. And, - would you believe it, the first thing he did was to pick up his fiddle and - play Money Musk. I looked at my mother—then turned to Charley, - giggled, and whispered, “I don’t believe it’s going to - work.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley giggled, too, and said out loud, “I - betcha I could name some slick skunk-skinners who are maybe going to have - to sleep out in the doghouse tonight.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Sitting ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, with - a hitherto wordless dead-pan expression, my mother said, “You tell - ‘em, kid.” That did it. Dad snapped, “You don’t - smell so darned nice, yourself, young man!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">William Peters could play the fiddle almost as well as - father. They teamed well in furnishing music for the town dances, in the - old days. They now played as if there was urgent need for prolonging the - agony. Nero blithely fiddled while Rome burned. And likewise those two - Willies fiddled well into the night while my mother stewed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.k62efezfs3d2"> - <span class="c8 c0">GONE WITH THE WIND</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator,</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">January—1943.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I have been asked to “write up” the - Kickapoo Indians. This I cannot do satisfactorily without more data. I do - not know the history of the tribe and, at this late date, I do not choose - to waste time in acquainting myself with the particulars. It takes a lot - of research to do a story of that nature. And, historically written, it - would be rather drab. Anyway, this is a hurry-up assignment I am writing - now to help out Carl, The Spectator Editor, while he is playing a lone - hand during his father’s sickness.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">WANTS WRITEUP OP KICKAPOO INDIANS</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">From Porterville, California, George J. Remsburg, who - formerly lived in Atchison, and years ago had some excellent historical - articles pertaining to Northeast Kansas printed in the Atchison Daily - Globe, writes:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“A while back I received from you a copy of the - Spectator containing your article, Turning Back the Pages. You have given - us a splendid story of the Old Trail days in Northeast Kansas. I read - every word of it with intense interest, and am preserving it for future - reference. Also accept my thanks for copies of the Spectator containing - your Memory’s Storehouse Unlocked. It is a most interesting - narrative, and I am glad to have it for my historical collection.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">“Why don’t you write up some recollections of - the Kickapoo Indians?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of your town, is my much - beloved cousin—as good a girl as ever lived.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">Marysville, Kansas, Dec. 18, 1938. Dear Mr. Bristow:</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I have just received the Diamond Jubilee number of - the Seneca Courier-Tribune, and among other feature articles read your - article on “Green Campbell.” I want to congratulate you on - this product of your able pen. It presents the theme in a fascinating, - interesting manner; and incidentally garnishes the subject with a lot of - worthwhile pioneer history.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c6 c0">It is too bad that persons with your ability to write—to - draw word pictures</span> <span class="c6">—</span> <span - class="c6 c0">with words from an apt, concise, and well-stocked - vocabulary, should lay down the pen. Those products, tho very interesting - now, with the passing of years become literary gems. So keep on writing, - Mr. Bristow; we love the articles of your able mind and eloquent pen.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">I don’t believe you have ever written up the - Kickapoo Indians—right at your door? Why not reconsider—and do - it now?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">Under separate cover I am mailing you one of my - latest books, “The Jay-hawkers of Death Valley.” I want to - give you the opportunity to read it. You need not buy it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1 c5"></p> - <p class="c3 c5"> - <span class="c13 c6 c0">John G. Ellenbecher.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Mr. Ellenbecher has been writing historic articles for - many years—principally about the old Overland Trail. In company with - Abe Eley, formerly of Wetmore, Mr. Ellenbecker called on me when I was - writing the Green Campbell story. I told them that it would be my last. - But it was not. I reconsidered. Twelve of the stories in this book have - been written since. And I may write still another one.—J. T. B.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">However, there are some incidents having Indian - connections which might make fairly readable matter. The Kickapoos were, I - judge, just like other Indians</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">pushed out of civilization to make room for the whites. They - had come here before the white settlement, of course. Where they came from - I do not know—Michigan, maybe.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Kickapoos did not war with other tribes. Nor did - they molest the whites. Still, they were Indians, and it was hard for the - early settlers to believe that they would have a lasting record as such—since - hostile Indians roamed the country west of the Blue river. Back in the - early 90’s when the Kickapoos took up the Sioux “Ghost Dance, - or Messiah Craze,” as it was called, and held all-night pow-wows for - several weeks, there was some nervousness among the whites.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the early 70’s the Kickapoos came to Wetmore - to do their trading. They had Government money and were good customers of - the two general stores. Later they did their trading at Netawaka, and - still later at Horton. My father, a shoemaker, came to know some of them - rather intimately. I knew many of them too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Masquequah was Chief then. Many are the times I have - sold him white sugar and red calico—the Indians would not buy brown - sugar if they could get white sugar. This was when I was a clerk in Than - Morris’ store. Associated with me then were Curt Shuemaker, George - Cawood and “Chuck” Cawood. In the good old days we often piled - up a thousand dollar sales of a Saturday.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I should, perhaps, amplify this assertion about the - sugar. We sold at that time about four times as much brown sugar which - came in barrels marked “C” sugar, as we did white sugar. One - day the boss said, “The town’s full of Indians; sell no white - sugar to anyone until after the Indians leave.” When I told the - Chief we had no white sugar, he said, “Ugh, Indian’s money - good as white man’s money—maybe. Indians go Netawaka buy white - sugar.” And that is what they did. Sorry, I can’t tell you why - Morris did not want to sell the Indians white sugar that day. It could - hardly have been because it consumed more time-it was a busy Saturday—to - “tie-up” white sugar. We had no paper sacks then. The system - was to weigh-up the sugar, lay a piece of wrapping paper flat down on the - counter, empty the sugar onto it; then tie it up—if you could. A - green clerk like myself could waste a lot of time trying to wrap up a - dollar’s worth of granulated sugar. Brown sugar would pack together, - and wrap more easily.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The story got out that the Netawaka merchant would - sell the Indian a bill of groceries, put it in a box, and a clerk would - obligingly carry it to the Indian’s wagon—and then, while the - Indian was loitering in the store, the clerk would slip out and rob the - box, in the interest of the merchant. But, if this were true, the Indians - seemed to like it. They followed the Netawaka merchant to Horton when that - town got started in 1886. Also, it was said, a certain white farmer living - near the southwest corner of the reservation, would sometimes ride out - from Netawaka with one of his Indian friends, letting his hired hand - follow up with his own rig. At opportune times, the white man would reach - back and throw out packages for the hired hand to gather up. Methinks Sam - would have had hard luck in fishing out a package of granulated sugar such - as those tied-up by me.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The old, old Indians are, I believe, all dead now. Of - the younger generations, I know little—except that they are the - descendants of a once relatively large tribe, and that their once large - domain has been reduced to thirty sections, and that much of the land - within the boundaries of the reservation is now owned by white people.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">H. A. Hogard, Educational Field Agent, and Grover - Allen, Indian, were in Wetmore last Sunday practicing archery with George - Grubb and Ollie Woodman. They told me the Indian population now numbers - about 280. There are about fifty families.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">For my first episode I shall tell you about a - deer-hunt my father and I had with the Indians. In a former article I told - you about an Indian with a party of deer-hunters we chanced to meet in the - John Wolfley timber, whom my father named Eagle Eye. His Indian name was - far from that, however.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was Eagle Eye who had arranged this hunt. He - brought along from the reservation, eight miles northeast of here, two - extra ponies—one of normal size and not too large at that, and a - little one for me to ride. While putting the saddle on the little pony my - father asked the Indians if it were a gentle pony. Eagle Eye said, “Him - heap gentle like lazy squaw.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It had snowed during the night and was still snowing - when the Indians arrived at day-break. Two deer-runs were to be covered - and it would take a full day to do it. Then, too, our party wanted to, if - possible, get onto the grounds ahead of other hunters. It was not very - cold, and my father was pleased with the snow. Tracking would be good. A - natural born hunter, snow always appealed to him. He had killed a great - many deer in his native Tennessee.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the old days in Tennessee there was hardly ever - enough snow to do a good job of tracking. However, hunters down there this - winter would have had snow aplenty to track deer—if deer still - remain to be tracked. A foot of snow and thirteen degrees below zero was - recorded January 19th at Nashville—where I was born, the second son - of a tanner, at 11:30 p. m., December 31, 1861.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also in our hunting party, riding a small pony, was a - little Indian boy whom they called—shall I say—Nish-a-shin. - This might not be correct. When we got lined out, Eagle Eye rode first, - then my father. I was third in line and Nish-a-shin was fourth. Three - Indians followed in single-file formation with long rifles carried - crosswise in front of them. The Indians all rode bareback, even - Nish-a-shin. My father had secured two saddles for us.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the gray of that early Sunday morning after the - storm abated and the white prairie lay still, Eagle Eye headed west toward - the John Wolfley timber. We traveled in silence, never out of a walk. From - the head of Spring creek we went across to Elk creek and Soldier creek.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time the whole southwest country was - practically virgin prairie. The Dixon 40-acres where Maurice Savage now - lives, and the Bill Rudy land where Joe Pfrang’s home now is, were - the only fenced tracts in that section of the country. Bill Rudy went to - California. Years later when my father went out there they renewed their - friendship. And one time when I was visiting in Fresno my father took me - to see Mr. Rudy. He owned an 80-acre ranch and seemed to be well pleased - with the change he had made. He had much to say about the intense cold - weather he had endured on his homestead here. The winters Mr. Rudy - experienced in Kansas were very much like the one we are now having, only - in the old days real blizzards were the rule.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">On October seventeenth, 1898, Jack Hayden lost nineteen - head of cattle, in a pasture north of the Rudy</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">or Pfrang</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">place, - in an unusually early and unusually severe blizzard. The cattle drifted - with the blinding snow-storm over a bank and piled up in a ditch. I was in - Chicago at the time. It rained in Chicago, but coming home on the - Burlington, the first snow appeared near the north line of Missouri, got - heavier toward Atchison, and from Atchison west on the Central Branch, it - was really heavy. That snow, and succeeding falls, kept the ground here - covered in a sea of white until spring.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Those Indians called me “paleface papoose.” - I was, of course, beyond the normal age of a papoose, but your old Indian - was no fool. They probably reasoned that whiteman would not understand - Indian’s word for youth. Eagle Eye had started calling me “paleface - papoose” when my father was saddling the pony. Maybe it was because - I had to have a saddle. Little Nish-a-shin you know rode bareback. He did - not make much talk.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was in the wilds of Soldier creek, in the big - timber, where we made camp for dinner. One of the Indians carried a - stew-kettle in a grain-sack and I carried a flour-sack having in it - several loaves of bread baked by my mother, and maybe four or five links - of butcher-shop bologna. Also two tin-cups, two tin-plates, with knives - and forks for two. My mother did not think to put in spoons, but then of - course she could not know the kind of mess we were in for.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With fallen deadwood dug up out of the snow a rousing - fire was made—and the kettle put on. When the Indian dish - corresponding to the whiteman’s mulligan was ready, all hands - squatted down around the fire and devoured the food ravenishly, including - my mother’s nice brown loaves of bread and the store bologna. My - father had told me that I would be expected to eat of the Indian’s - food and that I should pass our bread and meat around, as a token of - friendship.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">I cannot say now what kind of meat it was those Indians - cooked in that kettle, but it was something which they had brought along. - They had not killed anything on the hunt that day. However, I do not - believe it was dogmeat. Surely Eagle Eye would not have done that to us. - But maybe it was just as well that I didn’t then know anything about - the accredited habits of Indians in general as with respect to their dogs. - I can however truthfully say this much for the Indian’s stew. That - dish—dog or no dog—didn’t gag me nearly so much as the - bowl of Chinese noodles my father and my brother Frank cajoled me into - eating with them and other members of their party</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c0">Harry Maxwell, a former Wetmore boy, and Dan Conner</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">while seeing Fresno’s - Chinatown.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">After traveling all day through the woods, following - cow-paths and never deviating once from the single-file formation which - characterized the start on that white morning away back in the 70’s - we got back home at dusk. From sun-up until sun-down we had traveled, and - not one deer did we see. Some tracks in the fresh snow were followed for - miles. Only once did the Indians dismount and hunt a clump of woods - hurriedly on foot, spreading out fanwise. They had glimpsed something - moving among the trees—something which they did not locate. It was - then I learned why they had brought the incommunicative Nish-a-shin along. - Quickly he began gathering up the reins of the deserted ponies. I learned - something else too. Pronto paleface papoose became a second edition of - Nish-a-shin.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Starting up near Goff, the Spring creek deer-run came - down to within a half mile of Wetmore, then went southeast across the - prairie to Mosquito creek, thence up Mosquito creek nearly to Bancroft and - across the prairie again to the head of Spring creek.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Three deer were the most ever seen at one time on this - run. They came into a flock of 4,000 sheep I was herding for old Morgan on - the Dan Williams place a mile south of town, where Clyde Ely now lives. - The sheep were frightened and divided themselves into two bunches as the - deer loped gaily through the flock.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">If you don’t know, a deer-run is the feeding - grounds of those ruminants. As long as the deer remain in the country they - travel the same route closely. In the winter—in the old days here—they - fed largely on hazel-brush and Other tender twigs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We observed in our early hunts that the deer when - feeding always traveled the circle in the same way, never reversing. - Sometimes however when routed suddenly they would backtrack. And when - pressed they would usually run with the wind. Probably that was not so - much to gain speed as it was to camouflage the trail of their own scent - and to more readily themselves catch the scent of their pursuers. When - hard pressed they would sometimes take off with the wind and go ten or - twelve miles off the run—in one instance, nearly to Sabetha. - Whenever a deer would turn tail to wind we were ready to go home. I have - seen them break out against the wind and then when off a reasonable - distance circle around and go the other way. At such times my father would - say, “Ah damn it, now he’s gone with the wind!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Since I am employing a rather broad drag-line brand of - technique, there is one more thing I might amplify here. In the beginning - I said it would entail a lot of research to do a good Indian story, - historically complete. Reliable information is hard to obtain. The old - Indians—the Indians I knew—have all gone to their “happy - hunting grounds.” The present generation does not seem to have a - very clear picture of the old days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">For instance, I made two trips to the reservation about - five years ago and interviewed a number of the older ones</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">second generation, of course—in a vain effort to - obtain just one Indian word. You may recall that the tanyard story was, I - might say, predicated on the Indian’s name of sumac. When a small - boy, I had understood Eagle Eye to call it “sequaw.” I wanted - to be accurate, as that flaming little bush played an important part in - the story as well as in the tannery. Not one of them could tell me the - Indian name.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I found one Indian, Henry Rhodd, 64 years old at that - time, who said he could not tell me the Indian name for sumac, but he knew - what their fathers used it for. He said they tanned their deer skins with - it. That was the same thing Eagle Eye had so dexterously managed to convey - to my father and me up in the Wolfley timber sixty-odd years earlier. - Henry, whom I would judge carries a mite of French blood in his veins, - sniffed as if he were inhaling the perfume of a fragrant rose, and said, - “And oh it smelled so good.” This, however, did not coincide - with my findings as a tanner’s helper. Still, I have seen my father - sniff his newly tanned calf skins and say the same thing. Our tan-yard was - just about the “stinkenist” place on earth.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In this connection I might mention that some years - later I, myself, shot a deer on lower Mosquito creek. My brother Sam and I - had started out one afternoon, the two of us riding our old roan mare, - Pet. We struck a fresh trail south of town about where the three deer and - the four thousand sheep had mixed. We followed the tracks to the Frank - Purcell timber. There we ran onto John Dixon and “Dore” - Thornton. They said they had been trailing the deer on foot all day.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">John Dixon told me to go around to the south side of - the timber; that they would follow the tracks through the woods. The deer - came out running fast, and I shot it. The charge of buckshot from my - muzzle-loading shotgun hit a little too far back to make a clean kill.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We trailed that crippled deer—it was shot - through the body as evidenced by blood on either side of the trail—for - a distance of ten miles to the very spot where it had been started in the - morning. At the line between the John Wolfley place and the Mary Morris - place, now owned by R. M. Emery, the following morning, we lost the trail - because of melting snow and cattle tracks. The deer was found dead a few - days later only a quarter of a mile away.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">After it had been shot that deer laid down three times</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">at the Joe Boyce place, at the - Bill Rudy place, and on the commons where the Ben Walters place is now. - The first time it laid down the warm blood from the wound bored a hole in - the snow. Darkness caught us at the old Dixon or Savage place. It was then - we remembered the old roan mare was still tied back in the Purcell timber.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">What boy is there who would not have been proud of - that feat of marksmanship—plugging his first deer through and - through as it ran past at almost lightning speed in its mad flight for - life? Did I glory in the feat? I did. At first. As a big-game hunter I - had, in my own estimation, scored high. Following in the footsteps of my - father, a born hunter of big game, I had all but arrived. Plugged my first - deer! I was the “toast” of the town! Or at least I could - imagine I was. It would still be interesting to know just what would have - happened had I brought home the venison. But I cannot now begin to tell - you how adversely I was moved when the deer was found dead.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In a flash I saw it all—how I had dropped back - into a crook of the old worm fence on the Roger O’Mera farm and - waited for the deer, driven out of the Purcell timber by the three other - hunters, to come within gunshot; how, as if it had wings, the deer, after - being shot, cleared that high rail fence; and how its life-blood spurting - two ways stained the fresh white snow where the little animal lit on the - opposite side of the rails; how every few miles we saw it jump up from a - brief rest and run on again, leaving more red on the white; and how, as we - discovered the next morning after leaving the trail at dusk, that a wolf - had taken up the chase and had sent the tired deer on and on without more - rest back to the big timber from whence it had come and where, perhaps, in - the throes of great agony, it sought its mate. And how, still pursued by - the wolf, it had cleared in one great leap—its last grand leap—on - a down-hill slope, a thirty foot hazel thicket.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Something indefinable, something unforgettable, made - an impression on me then. And that something put the “kibosh” - on my big-game hunting aspirations. I do not now count it a weakness. - Though there were no game laws then, that crime was made all the worse - because it was a doe.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My brother Sam, who rode with me that day, later, - really brought home the venison, eclipsing all my past glory. But it took - two trips all the way to Arkansas in a horse-drawn covered wagon to do it. - The first and unsuccessful time he had for hunting companions Alex - McCreery, John E. Thomas, and my father. Their bag was a few wild turkeys. - The second trip Sam made with Roy Shumaker. This time they killed two - deer. Then, for the first time, the sons whose father was a veteran - deer-hunter, were to know the taste of venison.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, I used to chase wolves and jack rabbits with my - horse and the hounds, and enjoy it—until one particular rabbit chase - which spoiled the “sport” for me. It was on a Sunday afternoon - in the quarter section adjoining town on the northeast—the south - half of which is now owned by-Bill Davis. No horses were in this chase. - The crowd from town, with several trucks, were stationed on the ridge near - the southwest corner. The gray hounds started the rabbit over near the - east line, and it ran north down a draw, out of sight. It swung to the - left and topped the ridge north of the crowd, with the dogs in close - pursuit. The rabbit turned south heading straight for the crowd, and - jumped up into Frank Ducker’s truck, right at my feet. One of the - men standing in the truck grabbed it while the dogs were on both sides of - the truck. The rabbit squealed pitifully. The captor said its sides were - thumping like a trip-hammer. Most of the men thought the rabbit had earned - its freedom—but not so with some of the “sports.” - Expecting to see another chase, they dropped the rabbit on the ground - about two rods in front of the dogs, but when the rabbit saw the dogs it - began squealing again—and the grayhounds rushed in and nabbed both - rabbit and squeal before it realized that it must run again for its life. - Every time after this when a rabbit chase was proposed, I could hear that - frightened jack rabbit’s pitiful squeal.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But I never experienced any sickening wolf chases.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">We had grayhounds and trail hounds under foot when we - lived on the Hazeltine farm—but not one that I could call my own. I - bought a yellow half-breed grayhound named Tuck from a farm hand on the - Zeke Jennings place for one dollar, that proved to be a wonder. The - unknown half of him was supposed to be bull dog. With Alex McCreery and - his pack of trail hounds, and a half dozen other horseback riders and some - grayhounds, a wolf was started out of an isolated clump of brush on the - south end of the Len Jones farm, two miles west of Wetmore. I happened to - be on the east side of the brush patch with my dog, while the other riders - with the pack were on the west side. The wolf came out about a rod in - front of my position, and Tuck got an almost even start in the chase. I - had a pretty fast horse, but the chase led across a slough, and I lost - some ground in heading this wash—but even so, I was on hand soon - after the kill, one mile from the start, before Alex and the other riders - and the dogs arrived. Alex said, “You and old Tuck was - to-hell-and-gone before we caught sight of you.” Tuck had caught the - wolf—and drowned it in an eighteen-inch pool of water, along the - branch. I found him sitting on his tail at the edge of the pool—looking - very pleased. In those days it was a boy’s greatest ambition to own - a fast horse, and a fast dog. Now I had both. The only flaw was that I was - no longer a boy.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Tuck also caught a deer in the big bottom south of - spring creek on the Mary Morris farm four miles west of Wetmore. In this - chase I was trailing pretty close, on my horse, when the dog grabbed the - deer’s hind leg, causing both to tumble end-over-end. In the midst - of this spill, it seemed to me as if deer and yellow dogs were scattered - all over the ground. The deer got up first, and ran west toward the John - Wolfley timber. My prized hound did not seem to have the heart to follow - after it. I think there were moments now when Tuck did not know east from - west.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, a last word about the Indians—and the Ghost - Dance or Messiah Craze as participated in by the Kickapoos. The “craze” - was a sort of spiritual delusion starting with the Sioux Indians, the same - blood-thirsty red devils who got credit for the ghastly Custer massacre in - 1876. This, and other depredations, were still fresh in the minds of the - people, and there was widespread alarm among the citizens whenever the - craze had taken hold. However, the craze was short-lived. I do not think - the Kickapoos repeated after the first year. The dance that time at the - Mission was kept going for three weeks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I do not recall in what way this dance differed from - the Green Corn Dance held annually by the Kickapoos, or other tribal - dances. But undoubtedly it carried a threat to the whites. Except for - brandishing tomahawks at certain periods of the dance—it looked to - the casual observer like other Indian dances. Old Sitting Bull, of the - Sioux, had made much bad medicine, and the threat was in the air, if not - actually in the dance. Gold had been discovered earlier in the Black Hills - country. The Government had withdrawn a part of the Indian lands for - development by the whites. This the Sioux resented. There was fear among - the Indians in general that their lands might be taken away from them. I - cannot now be sure of this, but I believe the Government took a hand in - suppressing the Ghost Dance.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I can best explain things with a reprint of what I - wrote for the Spectator at the time. Incidentally, I might say that in - looking up the old files I observe now that this story appeared in the - first issue of The Spectator after I became its owner. Also, that the - article was illustrated with a splendid woodcut engraved by my brother - Sam. Illustrations in that day were engraved on cross-grain box-wood - blocks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The following excerpt is copied from the issue of - December 12, 1890: During the past week or ten days, our people have - visited the Indian Mission, eight miles northwest of Wetmore to witness - the Indian pow-wow which has been in progress for several weeks. Although - a more civilized tribe than the Sioux with which the “Ghost Dance” - originated, the Kickapoos have caught the “Messiah Craze” and - have made things lively for a while. The dance has been watched with - considerable interest and no little alarm by many visitors and citizens - living near the reservation. However, the conclusion now is that there - will be no outbreak. The neighbors along the line look upon their actions - merely as a curious freak of superstition.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When asked how long the Indians kept up the dance, an - old Indian who was too feeble to participate in the festivities, in broken - English, said, “Messiah come at sunrise.” It was afterwards - learned that the Indians continued dancing all night with the expectation - of seeing Christ, or the Messiah, at sunrise. This is, in a manner, - following the custom of the ancient Aztec sun-worshipers of Mexico, who - years ago builded mounds, some of them 600 and 800 feet high, where they - would assemble at sunrise and carry on their festivities in the - anticipation of the coming of some great divinity.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Two Sioux Indians got an inspiration from on High—or - elsewhere. It was only a dream, of course—but then why should not - the Indian be allowed to dream as well as the white man? He has proven his - capability, and has gone the present generation of white men one better.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">A careful study of ancient recorded stories shows this - one to be no more fantastic than the feat accredited to Moses, who, with - an outstretched hand caused the waters of the Red Sea to part so that the - Children of Israel might walk across on dry land. But, I believe, Moses - credited the Lord</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">collaborating - no doubt—with making the big wind which actually drove the water out - of their path. Our Kickapoos were not much on the big blow—but it - seems that a couple of Sioux, in this instance, made a heap lot of big - wind.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">According to a recent writer on the subject, the - Messiah craze is the out-growth of a startling story related by two Sioux - Indians, which, in substance, lays bare the assertion that Jesus had come - down upon earth again and had appeared to the Indians. According to the - report He was discovered by two Indians who had followed a light in the - sky for 18 days over a country destitute of water. The most peculiar part - of the story is that at each camping place they were supplied with water - from a little pool that came up out of the ground and furnished just - enough for their needs and no more. At the end of the 18 days journey they - came to a secluded place near a mountain, and there they found a hut, - built of bull-rushes, and on entering they saw Jesus, who told them that - He had come once to save the white men and they had crucified Him—and - this time He had appeared to the Indians and that they should go back and - bear the news to the other Indians. The two Indians were then borne up in - a cloud and in a very short time were set down at their home where they - related what they had seen.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.plvp0vtqb2mf"> - <span class="c8 c0">WHITE CHRISTMAS</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator, and</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Seneca Courier-Tribune, January—1943</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">COURIER-TRIBUNE Editor’s Note:—History can - be dry or it can be interesting. When it is colorful, filled with the - lives of people, it will be remembered far longer than if but dry facts - are presented. We think that this true story by John Bristow of Wetmore is - one that will make the English Colony of old Nemaha County days long - remembered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Although at the outset you will likely be thinking of - a current and very popular song hit, you must read far into this - contribution before you can put your finger on the line from which the - above caption stems. Also, for a clear picture of it all, you must go back - with me three score and five years to a favorite hunting grounds in the - upper reaches of Spring creek.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">My father had bought a coon-dog from a traveler. This - night—Christmas Eve—was to have been the try-out but the way - it turned out, Dad could not know then how badly he had been “skinned.” - That came later. Old Drum had a wonderful voice, and though he “lied” - a few times on later occasions, he never did tree a coon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the party were Roland Van Amburg, Bill (Thuse) - Peters, Jim Scanlan, Bob Graham, my father and myself. Incidentally, Van - Amburg was the last man to take up a homestead in these parts. He - homesteaded the 80 acres now owned by Ambrose McConwell, almost adjoining - town, in the middle 70’s. He was a happy-go-lucky, clownish sort of - man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Well, Van was not exactly the last one to file on a - homestead here, but he was the last one to do it in the regular way. - Lawyer F. M. Jefferies, while publishing the Spectator in Wetmore in the - 80’s filed on a quarter a few miles northwest of town—but it - developed that the land was improved and occupied by Eli Swerdfeger, who - had by mistake filed on another number. When Eli’s neighbor - threatened to do mayhem to Lawyer Jefferies, he relinquished</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and Swerdfeger’s correct filing was even later - than Van’s. They called it “claim jumping”—though - it was hardly that, in the true sense of the term. There had, however, - been some claim jumping earlier, where settlers were negligent in - fulfilling the lawful requirements. A claim jumper in the old days was - held in about the same degree of contempt as is now the “scab” - workman in a unionized community.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">With team and wagon and dog, we reached the timber - about dusk, barely ahead of a blizzard. Owing to the storm, the projected - coon-hunt did not take place. The whole night was spent around a bonfire - out there in the deep wood. The men talked about going home, but the - intervening six miles of unbroken prairie would have been hard to - negotiate with a team on a night like that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fortunately for us, it was not very cold. Disagreeably - cold, to be sure, but in severity—low temperature—it did not - compare with the blizzard which blew in upon us last Monday (Jan. 18, - 1943) with a temperature of 10 degrees below zero, to be followed the next - morning with 22 degrees below.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The campfire, built in a sheltered spot, was near a - tree which had some holes cut in a big limb, old choppings which were - assumed the work of Indians. Those holes started Thuse Peters to talking. - In telling of an occurrence alleged to have taken place on the Kickapoo - reservation, in which he himself had figured rather conspicuously, Thuse - graciously endowed the mate of the squaw in his story with a fine growth - of whiskers—which whiskers, however, the Redskin did not have. Or - did he? Thuse was a little wild of the mark in some of his statements, - probably all of them. Bob Graham called him for that one about the Indian’s - whiskers. “I’m surprised,” said Bob, “you living - here against the Indian reservation all your life. You should know Indians - do not have beards.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Well,” inquired Thuse, glancing toward - one of the party having heavenly hirsute adornment, “does an - Irishman have whiskers?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“What a silly question,” broke in Roland - Van Amburg. “Just take a look at Jim Scanlan over there by the - tree-trunk. I’d say an Irishman has whiskers.” Jim Scanlan was - section foreman here. There could be no mistaking his nationality.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Said Thuse, “I just wanted to be sure of that.” - He went about replenishing the waning fire. This done, he said, “That - Indian was half Irish.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One story led to another, and finally my father told - of hunting panthers in Tennessee. He said it was claimed by old woodsmen - that the panther made a noise like the cry of a woman, but he had never - heard a panther scream, and he didn’t believe it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Do you suppose, Bill that there ever was a - panther seen in this country?” This inquiry was made by Mr. Scanlan.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Maybe,” said Dad, “I once tracked a - varmint that might have been a panther through these very woods.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Van chimed in, “Did they ever learn what killed - the farmer’s stock over on Elk creek? That was believed to have been - the work of a panther. And what about that varmint on the Rudy place?” - Van was, as I knew stating facts.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was generally known here that a prowler of some - kind had killed a calf on the Bill Rudy farm, and had dragged it several - hundred yards to a hazel thicket—and after eating its fill, buried - the remaining carcass under leaves, after the habits of the panther. Bill - Rudy owned the land where Joe Pfrang now lives.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The storm grew in intensity. It had filled the woods - with voices. If you turned your imagination loose you could hear a cry, a - laugh—anything you chose. Then suddenly, astonishingly, there it - was. A woman’s scream. Or was it?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thuse said, “It’s Bill’s panther.” - Bill was my Dad. Old Drum raised his voice. He made sound enough, in the - tree-walled confines of that hunters’ paradise, to raise the dead.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bob Graham said, “I feel spooky. Think I need a - bracer.” He uncorked his bottle and took a good one.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, whatever it might have been, that thing had the - men baffled. Albeit the storm raged fiercely in the tree-tops and upon the - hillside from whence the sound came, a deadly calm settled around the - bonfire. The men looked at one another in complete silence for a tense - moment. I believe everyone was wondering if maybe Thuse had not named it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">By this time everyone was, shall I say, - panther-conscious. I would not want to say that the men actually were - waiting in expectancy for the appearance of that killer. You know how it - is. After a menacing thing has been discussed in your presence for hours, - without realizing it, you just don’t forget.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then suddenly, miraculously, there it was again—something - very like a woman’s voice coming in swells above the howl of the - storm. Van, who had repeatedly urged the men to break up camp and make a - try for home, said, “It’s the voice of an angel—an angel - come to tell us to get the hell out of here while the going is still - possible.” Dad scoffed, “An angel out here in the woods on a - night like this—man, you must be crazy!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Jim Scanlan said, “Well, anybody who don’t - believe in ghosts is maybe going to pretty soon.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">We had along a sharp axe and several good woodchoppers. - At first fuel for the fire was gleaned from old dead tree tops lying on - the ground—tops of blackoaks my father had cut some years before for - the tanbark to be used in his tannery. But as the snow became deeper, and - the puzzling voices in the woods persisted, the men—including yours - truly</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">somehow did not seem - to want to venture beyond the circle of light. They fetched fuel from a - close-in rick of cordwood—four-foot lengths. Without leave, we - burned Anna Buzan’s wood, a full cord, that night. It was wood my - brother and I had cut on shares. Adjustment could be—and was—made - later.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back there on the ridge high above us, in the thick of - that blizzard, a woman was singing, as it were, for her life.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Let me explain. Three people—a woman and two men - enroute to the old English colony, from somewhere farther south, had - bogged down in the storm two miles from home, and were desperately in need - of help.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The old road in those days, coming in from the prairie - lands on the south, followed the ridge approximately on the line between - the John Wolfley timber on the east and the Anna Buzan timber on the west, - to a crossing on Spring creek. The road was first used in bringing out - cross-ties for use in building the railroad which now skirts the woods on - the north side of the creek. Back on the ridge several old wagon trails - led into the forest. The team those Colonists were driving, to a - ramshackle old spring wagon, had wandered off the road and had floundered - in one of those side leads, upsetting the wagon. This had been the cause - of that first scream.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Having broken harness which they could not repair in - the dark, they had started on foot to where, in passing, they had seen the - light of our bonfire, hoping it would lead them to the home of a settler. - But when close enough to see it was only a bonfire, misgivings began to - assail them. What if it should prove to be an Indian camp, or maybe - horse-thieves in hiding? These facts were made known to us after they had - reached our fire.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Van’s “Angel” had come in the - flesh—her long skirt, held up in front, trailing atop the snow as - she moved in—we could see that she was not garbed in the traditional - folds of flowing gauze-like fabric, as becomes an angel. It would have - been all out of place on a night like that. As it was, I thought she was - dressed rather too thinly.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bob Graham said, “If you wouldn’t be - offended, young lady, I’d offer you a swig of my whisky.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Liquor,” she said, “I can take it,” - Bob passed the bottle to her. “O-oo, so little,” she - complained. “I ‘opes it will ‘elp.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Their names were Bill and Teddy and Minerva. Bill led - off as spokesman. He said, “When we sawer men walking around the - fire we knew there would be no ‘ouse ‘ere. And I asked Teddy - wot shall we do now?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">“Ted ‘e said,” continued Bill, - “Blast me ‘ide if I know wot would be best. Wot you think, - Minerva? Want to chawncit?” Teddy spoke for Minerva. He said, - “Minerva ‘ere,” pointing to the girl, “said to us—Now - you just ‘old your ‘orses, men I got it. I’ll sing - ‘em a song.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Let me remind you here that it was their ability and - their willingness to sing on any and all occasions that made those - Colonists extremely popular at the country school-house lyceum of that - age.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Bill talked again. He said, “Then I said - Hindians or ‘orse-theives, whichever they are, would know that - ‘appy, singing folks bode nobody ‘arm.” For the purpose - intended, Bill’s idea was not bad—but Minerva challenged it - promptly. She said, “You can just drop that ‘appy part of it, - Mr. Bill.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Their reasoning was logical. And their manner in - coping with the situation was unique. For them to have burst in upon a - band of horse-thieves in those days would, most likely, have been - suicidal. But with Indians of the times, it is my belief, they would have - had no trouble at all.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">When they had thawed out, after Minerva had obliged us - with more songs—and believe me, that girl could sing</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">Teddy said he would fetch his concertina from the - wrecked wagon. It maybe was a good thing he didn’t know anything - about all that panther discussion.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">However, after Ted had returned, Van, who, as a boy, - had lived in a panther country back east, told the newcomers about the Elk - creek incident and other periodical panther scares elaborating on the - dangers of same. He told those people they could count themselves lucky in - finding our fire. “Wild animals,” he said, “won’t - go near a fire.” I knew that this was not news to any of our party. - And I knew, too, we would keep our visitors for the duration.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Van started it. When he had guessed the hour of - midnight had arrived, he yelled so that all could hear above the roar of - the storm—”Merry Christmas!” Our English visitors - returned the greeting—though, enveloped in swirling snow, they didn’t - seem to put much heart in it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Looking up toward the high heavens in readiness to speak, - Dad was caught full in the face with a gob of dislodged snow from the - treetops. He said, clawing the snow out of his whiskers at the same time, - “It didn’t look like this could happen when we started out - yesterday afternoon</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c0">it was so - warm, almost like spring. But then maybe this snow is a godsend.” He - clawed again at his whiskers, saying “Dammit!” He probably - would have quoted the old saying, “A green Christmas presages a fat - graveyard”</span> <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">but old - Drum raised his voice again, bringing everyone to rigid attention. The dog - ran out a few paces, turned around and came back. He had not gone beyond - the circle of light.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Together, or rather alternately, Minerva and Teddy - made music against the howl of the storm until morning. They could not - team together. This nightingale who had come to us out of the storm, was - from another colony—perhaps English Ridge, south of Havensville. - Bill sang some, in a comical way. Our improvised shelter, hardly worth - mentioning, and our fire had kept them from freezing. They were grateful.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">They were of the old English Colony folk—Bill and - Ted. This is not to say they were scions of the favored six families who - occupied Llewellyn Castle on section 25, in Harrison township. They might - have been from any one—or two</span> <span>—</span> <span - class="c2 c0">of the dugouts scattered about over the prairies outside the - Colony-owned section. But they were decidedly English, and none the less - Colonists.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When at last morning had come, and we had seen our - visitors off, we drove out onto a vast prairie covered with snow, homeward - bound. We would be doing well if we reached home in time for dinner. Deep - drifts lay ahead of us and there was a sea of white on all sides as far as - one could look.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Incidentally, I might say here that the streets in - Wetmore were completely blocked by that storm. The main street in the - business section was drifted so deeply in snow that to facilitate traffic - a cut was made down the center of the street, and one standing up in a - wagon had to look up to see the top of the cut.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Van stroked old Drum’s head. He said, “Too - bad, old boy, you didn’t get a chance to show Bill how good you are. - Skunked this time, but maybe better luck next time. Wish you could tell us - what kind of a varmint you saw, heard, or scented, when you made all that - commotion back there. You wouldn’t lie to a fellow, old longears, - and you are not afraid of the dark—are you?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dad said, in a tone that indicated his great - disappointment over the bogged down coon-hunt, with maybe, also apologies - to his guests, “Well, damn it, men—it wasn’t a complete - waterhaul. We’ve got a white Christmas.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.t6e5uija2f7v"> - <span class="c8 c0">UNCLE NICK’S BOOMERANG</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">Published in Wetmore Spectator</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">March 5, 1943</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">The hunt was staged in Uncle Nick Bristow’s timber</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">way back in the 70’s. It - was on the home place over on the Rose branch, the farm now owned by Bill - Mast. The trail of the hunters would range down stream, overlapping into - the Jim Hyde and Bill Rose woods, and on down to the junction with Wolfley - creek. Ostensibly, it was to have been a coon-hunt, but it soon developed - into something bigger and better. ‘</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">There was a good moon—but to attract the hunters, a - big bonfire was built in the woods, and the men flocked in from all - directions. The interesting part of it was that three of them were from - the old English Colony, two miles west of my uncle’s farm</span> - <span>—</span> <span class="c2 c0">”Green Englishmen,” - the Wolfley creekers said they were. Couldn’t name them now—and - be sure. One of them was a stocky little man, very talkative, very - agreeable.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then there were the Porters, the Pickets, the Piatts, - the Snows, the Mayers, the Barnes boys, and others—not aiming to - overlook my Uncle Nick and his son, Burrel. The elder Mayers, Gus and - Noah, were Pennsylvania Dutch, with Holland ancestry. Gus liked his fun - while Noah liked to stay at home and mind his own business. But some of - Noah’s boys were in the gathering, as was also Peter Metzdorf, who - had a while back married Gus Mayer’s daughter, Anna. Peter was - German—the real thing. He lived in Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Of the five Porter brothers, Ambrose was the only one - that I can now positively say was present. But John and Tom and their - brothers-in-law, Bill Evans and Ben Summers, were probably around - somewhere. Bill Porter had just married my Aunt Nancy, late of Tennessee, - and he couldn’t come. And Ben Porter—well, they said he was - too contrary to appreciate a good thing like this. Ambrose wore his red - hair—it was really red—at shoulder length. He wore gold - earrings, too, and three gutta-percha rings on one finger, rings he - himself had made from old coat buttons.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It was good to have Roland Van Amburg with us. Roland - was a grand old sport. Moreover, Roland Van Amburg had much in common with - my Uncle Nick Bristow. They had both suffered, or were due to suffer, - heavy losses in large herds of Texas cattle they had bought from Dr. W. L. - Challis, of Atchison. It is barely possible that those cattle might have - been milling about on the western part of Uncle Nick’s farm that - night.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The bonfire was built on the edge of a small clearing, - with a large tree backed up by a clump of small growth on the right. In - the distance—not too distant—was a big log lying on the edge - of a ravine, with a 10-foot bank at this point. A small tree with good - height stood at the top end of the log on the left side of the clearing. - One approaching from the north would see the log only after advancing so - far, and even then only if not otherwise attracted. Had it been a plant - for a modern movie scene it could not have been a more perfect setting for - the thing that actually happened.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While yet around the bonfire the talk turned to - panthers. One had reportedly been seen, or heard, in the woods a couple of - miles away—up in the Rube Wolfley neighborhood. The men would be - careful not to hunt that timber because they didn’t want their dogs - to be torn to pieces. Uncle Nick owned a timber lot over in the panther - country.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The natives saw in this hunt a chance to have some fun - at the expense of the Englishmen. Also, they wanted to impress those - Colonists in a way that might be the means of keeping them on their own - reservation, so to speak. A lot of timber-stealing had been going on and - the Colonists were suspicioned. As a matter of fact, timber-stealing in - those days was widespread. But in that business the Colonists were no - worse than the natives, but the Colonists were always sure to get the - blame.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While people generally scoffed at the idea of panthers - roaming the woods, there were some who said it was not altogether - improbable—that one might have escaped from a menagerie. You must - understand that practically all the older men here at that time had come - from panther states back East—and, I might say, the rising - generation had more or less been steeped in panther talk.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It is written in the family records, and was generally - known here then, that the grandmother of Bill and Ben Porter was killed - and partly devoured by a panther back in Indiana. She would have been the - great-grandmother of Jim and Bill Porter, and Zada Shumaker and Harry - Porter.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, there is one man now living in Wetmore—G. - C. Swecker—who would tell you how one of those ferocious beasts - hopped upon the roof of his father’s hunting lodge, while occupied, - back in Virginia and ripped the clapboards off. He also declares that - panthers do scream like a woman. And, as one old fellow around the fire - had said, they do sometimes migrate. I myself recall that during a severe - winter in the Rocky mountains nearly a half century ago, that those - killers actually came right down into Colorado Springs.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">At that time panthers were quite numerous in the - Missouri hills across the river from Atchison—and with the Missouri - river frozen in the severe winters of the old days, it would have been an - easy matter for them to cross on the ice to this side; and then only a - distance of forty miles to get out here. And supposing—just - supposing—that, perchance, they might have come over in pairs, and - carried on in the usual cat tradition, there was the bare possibility of - our coon-hunters even running into a “family” of them. The - panther’s young stay with the mother until grown.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Let’s say, then, that there was just enough to - it to keep timid people on edge. I doubt if there ever was a night - coon-hunt in those days when some of the hunters didn’t give some - thought to that killer. The thought seemed to hit one the moment he was in - the deep woods. And on moonlight nights that thought was simply - unshakeable. A shadow in the wood—a shadow that was somehow alive—could - be highly disquieting.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Uncle Nick and the men, with the dogs on leash, took a - turn about the woods while waiting for my father and the inevitable Thuse - Peters to arrive. They would be coming out from town. I had gone out - earlier that evening with my cousin, Burrel.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Uncle Nick bade me remain at the fire so as to direct - Dad and Thuse when, and if, they should come while the hunters were away. - Ambrose Porter said, “Nick, you’re not going to leave that boy - all alone out here. I’ll- stay with him.” Uncle Nick said, - quietly, “Oh no, you won’t.” Uncle knew that Ambrose - never liked to exert himself needlessly.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">If not inclined to discount my statements</span> <span>—</span> - <span class="c2 c0">and you really should not—you are now maybe - thinking what I thought that night—that it was a darned shame to - leave a boy all alone out there in the woods like that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The hunters were now coming in from the north. Uncle - Nick and the Englishmen well in front. Uncle Nick called out, “Johnny - my boy, where are you?”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had climbed the small tree at the end of the log—as - far up as I could go. I called back, “Up here in this tree, Uncle - Nick. Look on the log—quick!”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The hunters had now advanced a couple of steps, - bringing the log into view. I glanced back in time to see them shift their - gaze from my tree-perch to the log—and I took one more look at the - log myself, just as Uncle Nick fired his rifle. In that split second I - could see two eyes shining brightly in the glare of the bonfire—and - I saw the yellowish form of the ugly thing fall off the log.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Uncle Nick was a sure shot with a rifle. And quick - too. As told in one of my former articles, he had killed a mountain lion - in the Rockies while placer mining in Colorado in 1858. The great beast - was shot in the nick of time—in midair, after that 200 pounds of - destruction had made the spring for my uncle from an overhanging limb of a - great pine.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c0">Addressing Uncle Nick, the little Englishman said, - “I say, my good man, let’s ‘ave another one soon. Over - in the big woods. Beard the lion in ‘is den, so to speak.” In - high good humor, he shook a pudgy fist at my uncle, saying, “Hand - mind you, if I am h</span> <span>ignored</span> <span class="c2 c0">I - shall be disappointed.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The one mistake of the whole evening—if one can - be sure there was a mistake—was when the hunters, after they had - “impressed” the Englishmen with the danger of the panther to - their dogs, turned the dogs loose on the trail of the pet coon they had - brought into the woods at the right movement to make a “hot trail.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It had taken four yoke of oxen to plant the log—and - my Aunt Hulda gave the men a spirited tongue-lashing for making use of one - of her hens to bloody the trail.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, imagine if you can, my uncle’s surprise - when the next time he went over to his cherished timber lot he discovered - that someone had robbed him of valuable post and rail trees. Not being - present at the time, I have no way of knowing what his immediate reactions - were. But had it been my Dad instead of my uncle, who never swore, I’m - darned sure I could name more’n half of the irreverent words he - would have employed in taking the epidermis off that stocky little - Englishman.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <h1 class="c22 c24" id="h.2d8o58tp09f"> - <span class="c8 c0">SHORT CHANGED</span> - </h1> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c12 c0">Not Hitherto Published</span> <span class="c12">—</span> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">1950</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c14 c12 c0">By John T. Bristow</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You can never tell by the caption of one of my stories - what all is going to be in it—the caption might well have been - something else—but the line that inspired the heading is sure to be - apparent to the careful reader; if he, or she, will look for it.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The oil strike on the Oreon Strahm land one mile south - of the Sabetha hospital, in August, 1950, and the two producers previously - brought in on the Mamie Strahm land three and one-half miles to the - southwest, refreshes my memory of an earlier try for oil in Nemaha County—and - some of my own experiences in this greatest of all “get-rich-quick” - opportunities.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In 1904 Dr. Joseph Haigh and Dr. A. P. Lapham secured - a block of oil leases around Wetmore, and contracted with a driller, W. H. - Hardenburg, of Oklahoma, to drill a well to the depth of 2,000 feet—or - to the Mississippi lime—for $5,000. The site was on land owned by - Dr. J. W. Graham in the west part of town; later owned by Mr. Mathews.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The drillers struck a little gas at 1700 feet, which - spurted water over the 80-foot derrick. This caused a great deal of - excitement—but after “pulling” the fire in the - coal-burning power plant and quickly taking other precautionary measures, - the drillers said “there was nothing to it.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Gas had previously been encountered in two water wells - in the north part of town—on the Cyrus Clinkenbeard property west of - the school grounds, now owned by the Thorn-burrow girls; and on the J. W. - Luce property near the cemetery, now owned by Gene Cromwell. The flow in - the Luce well was the stronger, agitating the water in a way to produce a - bubbling sound. It created a lot of excitement. But the State Geologist - said it was helium gas, which, rather than burn, would extinguish fire.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the oil test on the Graham lot, at about 1800 feet, - a hard formation was encountered, which the drillers pronounced the - Mississippi lime—but State Geologist Haworth said it was not. Then - the drillers completed the contract at 2,000 feet. Mr. Hardenburg had a - drilling contract coming up in Oklahoma, but he remained on the job here - about a week longer, at $40 a day—and the hole was put down to 2225 - feet. It was planned to have Mr. Hardenburg come back and drill the test - deeper, but he got rich in his “share-the-profits” contract in - the Tulsa oil field—and retired to a home on “easy street” - (Morningside Drive) in Kansas City.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When Hart Eyman was getting up a block of oil leases - here in 1934, I called up Mr. Hardenburg, while in Kansas City, and told - him of the activity out here. He asked me to let him know when the first - test was to be spudded in here, saying he would drive out. He said he - still had faith in this section and that he would have been glad to have - finished our test. I believe our people failed to raise the necessary - funds. The money for the original test was raised by selling stock. And it - was a clean promotion—but that is more than I can say for some of - the outside oil promotions in which our Wetmore group dipped.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In view of the recent strikes in the Strahm field, - with a 30-barrel producer in the Hunton lime at around 2800 feet; and the - Mamie Strahm number 2, rated at 1440 barrels in the Viola lime at - approximately 3600 feet; and the Oreon Strahm test, with even greater - potential production in the Hunton and Viola and still another producing - sand topping the granite at around 3900 feet, it looks as though we - Wetmore “investors” might better have kept our speculative - eggs all in one basket, so to speak, contrary to high-powered promotion - advice—and completed the Haigh-Lapham oil test. And I still believe - we overlooked our best bet right here at home.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But then we had no data to enlighten us. The nearest - and only drilling at that time was ten miles south of us. It was not deep - enough to prove or disprove anything. In the heyday of his great financial - flight—in the 1880’s—Green Campbell drilled a test to - the depth of 1,000 feet on the east edge of Circleville. I believe the - incentive was a reported seepage of oil in the creek south of the town.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, some twenty years after the Wetmore try, a - couple of promoters came out of Kansas City, with a plan to rejuvenate - interests in the Haigh-Lapham test—and “feather their own - nests.” Joe Searles’ drugstore in the east room of what is now - the First National Bank building, was the unofficial headquarters for oil - hungry “investors”—local and transient. With Joe and the - two promoters, I went over to the Matthews lot, now owned by Bert Gilbert. - Mr. Hardenburg had left the top 100 feet of casing in the well to prevent - cave-ins against the time when he might return to finish the well. - Measurements to the exhaustion of the string available showed the well - open for fifteen hundred feet—and likely all the way down to the - bottom.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Excitement began to mount again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Dr. A. P. Lapham presided over a packed gathering in - the opera house—and appointed a committee of five to confer with the - promoters. The committee met in the Thorn-burrow bank. The promoters came - up with a contract whereby they would undertake to raise the funds for the - completion of the well, against numerous and assorted requirements by - “the people” of Wetmore.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I was offered the trusteeship—but I declined to - accept it. I think the reason the committee offered it to me was because I - had been the trustee—with no part in the promotion—of a block - of eight hundred acres of oil leases in Elk and Chautauqua Counties, - purchased from Charley Cortner, salesman, of Iola, and Dr. C. E. Shaffer, - vendor, of Moline, by our Wetmore group, at $10 an acre, with further - obligation of $1.00 per acre yearly rentals, for five years, which had - been carried through to a successful termination, with no gain to the - “investors” and a loss to me of only $85—aside from my - $250 first come-in and my part of the rentals, $25 a year, through - payments of rentals in general, as trustee, in excess of collections. I - had to collect four hundred dollars twice a year from fifty-three people—and - I didn’t quite make it. I therefore regarded the trusteeship now - offered me as not a desirable recognition.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">To keep the record straight, I shall now give with a - little more enlightenment. I actually had a little velvet in the Shaffer - oil deal—leastwise it looked like velvet at the time. Not for - promotional influence—but for services rendered, and to be rendered.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I went with Charley Cortner, the salesman, and three - other Wetmore men to the Moline oil field—paid my own expenses, even - to transportation equal to railroad fare, and therefore was beholden to no - one. The Moline acreage adjoined a block of leases on which the discovery - well, a small producer, had recently been brought in. There was, however, - big production—and growing bigger every day—at Eldorado, where - we stopped on the way down to get our appetites (for oil speculation) - whetted. I wanted to go in with them, of course.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">You know, should you pass up an opportunity to go in - with the home folks on something that was to pan out big, you would always - feel that God had given you less sense than He had given your more - fortunate neighbors. And, should you strive to live down the mistake, - there would always be lucky ones to remind you of your dumbness. The hope - of oil-money was in my system. Had been hankering to get in with the home - folks on something good for a long time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When reminiscing for entertainment, as well as for - record of historic fact, with no particular theme to exploit, you will, - doubtless, agree that it is permissible—nay, oft-times necessary, to - break all the rules laid down by learned teachers; such as to never let - one incident call up another. And, if you don’t agree—you are - going to get it now, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Aside from the matter in hand, I may say that only a - short time before this, I had been denied the chance to go with a Wetmore - group on an inspection trip to another oil field in southern Kansas—because - I had not as yet signed up, as they had, for an interest in the lease. - Well, the energetic young salesman, after securing pledges enough here to - put him in the clear, went ahead of the boys to the headquarters and - bought the lease, at a discount, on partial payment, using his own money, - which, had all gone well, should have netted him more than the promised - commission. He intended, of course, to deliver the lease to the group up - here at the contract price, or rather the pledged commitments, with only a - few amounts yet to be peddled, or held in his own name, at his discretion. - But the Wetmore group—the boys who had said that to let me go with - them on the inspection trip without first making a commitment, would be - unfair to those who had signed up—turned down the deal, cold. Then, - after returning home, the group heard rumors of lawsuits—and counter - suits. The lease vendor was demanding payment in full, and the poor - boy-salesman could not raise the money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Cortner, the salesman earlier mentioned in - this writing, had been here for five or six months selling life insurance. - He was a whole-souled, persuasive, sort of man who had made many friends - here. Cortner and Dr. J. R. Purdum, in whose car the trip to Moline had - been made, went out among the people and in almost no time secured pledges - for nearly enough money to take over the Shaffer leases. They were selling - interests in $125 “units.” But, at the finish, to accommodate - all the eager applicants, some subscriptions were taken for as little as - $50 and $25—sub-divisions of a unit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When they came to me—at the corn-house, where I - had been sorting out seed corn—I surprised them (and maybe shocked - them, too) by declining to subscribe. Not that I didn’t want to get - in on the big prospect—but because, as I believe, it was an improper - if not a dangerous way to form a syndicate. Somewhere I had acquired the - notion that if fifty people chipped in and bought a thing that it would - take fifty people to sell it. But I didn’t tell them this until - after they had “flared up” and had their say. They started to - quit me, in disgust—but the Doctor, who was regarded among my best - friends, thinking to erase some of the unkind comment, said, “Well, - John, when you get through sorting your sour corn, come and see us—we’ll - save some units for you.” My corn was not “sour” corn. - It was well matured, and making an average of eighty bushels, with some - acres on grubbed ground making 125 bushels.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, for a little laughable reaction within a none too - laughable story. The Farmers Union elevator manager, a farmer not so long - out of the corn rows, refused to buy my culled corn, said it would be - unfair to his company to permit me to take out the best ears. After I had - sent several loads to the Netawaka elevator, as it accumulated in the - house, after taking out only about ten per cent, the Farmers Union manager - came over to the corn house, looked at the culled corn we were loading out - at the moment, saying he guessed maybe he had made a mistake in refusing - to buy the culled corn. The culled corn was far better than the general - run of corn brought to market that year. It was an improved strain of - Boone County White, which would shell out equal to Reid’s Yellow - Dent.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">While still at the corn-house that day of the - Purdum-Cortner call, Charley had an inspiration. He said, “Why - couldn’t you write something for us like you think we ought to have?” - I said, “I can try—but it will have to be approved by an - attorney before you can use it. I don’t want to cook up something - that might get our people in trouble.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But did I—or did I not?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley said, “Can you get at it right away?” - So the “sour” corn sorting was postponed until another day—and - I went to my home at 11:15. My typewriter and writing desk were in an - alcove up stairs. I had hardly gotten the corn-dust and the insult to my - purebred seed corn, which had been engendered within the hour at the seed - house out of my system when my wife came to the stair door and said dinner - was ready. I had no time for dinner. The necessary words had not come to - me readily. Charley came at 12:30, sat close to me, in a more pleasant - mood with occasional verbal expression indicating the reason for the - improvement. But he was careful to hold back the main reason. His presence - didn’t help in furthering the writing. However, we got away at the - appointed time—one o’clock. No dinner.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fred Woodburn, the corporation-wise member of - Wood-burn & Woodburn, lawyers, Holton, Kansas, approved my draft, as - written, with one exception. I had made provision for transfer of units. - Fred said it would break the partnership. And, may I say, before I forget - it, that I was censured for being so careless as to omit making provision - for transfers—and this, too, by an individual who, as you will - hereinafter see recorded, found fault with my correct line of reasoning in - another instance—correct as in reference to the one incident, - understand.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I’m not trying to “hand” myself a - bouquet. The agreement cooked up by me was neither “air tight” - nor “fool proof.” The Trustee had not a chance. The error was - that I did not require the subscribers to include in their checks a - sufficiency to take care of their rentals for the full life of the leases. - True, there was the chance that rental payments might be legitimately - discontinued before the expiration of the lease, as in case of production - terminating the payments, or disposition of the lease. But it would have - been a lot simpler and safer too for the Trustee to return the unearned - portion of the lease money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Charley Cortner paid the Woodburns for writing a new - draft of the agreement—and asked me, on the road home, for my - charge. I told him, “No charge.” He thanked me kindly. He felt - good of course—but I could see he had not yet got all he needed to - allay a worry, the thing that had hit them so hard at the corn-house.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Unauthorized, and unknown to me, in soliciting - subscriptions, it seems, they had carried the impression, if not the - promise, that I would be the Trustee—possibly demanded by some of - the prospects. After miles of silence on the road, Charley said, “You - know, I feel so good about this that I’m going to give you one unit; - you can have it in cash, or in stock in the syndicate.” From the - ultra pleased expression on his face when I said I would take it in stock, - I’m sure he had been holding his breath awaiting my decision.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">True, I had not as yet agreed to accept the - Trusteeship—in fact, I knew nothing about their plans—but I - was now as good as in, and they could, at least, make a plausible showing - at the called meeting in the City Hall the following night, when the - vendor would appear in person to deliver the leases. Charley’s gift - to me was acceptable grapes—equal to $4.50 a line, or 45 cents a - word for the writing. I really wanted to get in, and would have subscribed - for an interest, anyway—now that apparently a safe and workable - organization would be formed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, Doctor Shaffer spent much of his time here in my - home. He was agreeably pleased over Charley Cortner’s work, with my - assistance in preparing the agreement—and said so in no unmistakable - terms. He had a pleasant word for my wife, too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In an aside, I will say, that while in Moline on that - inspection trip, I was troubled with a slight attack of appendicitis—which - had been chronic with me for twenty years, and still is—and had - gotten temporary relief from the Doctor. Dr. Shaffer now said that should - I ever decide to have an operation, for me to come down to Moline, and - bring my wife along, that she could stay in the hospital—all free of - charge. This was by far the best offer I had ever had.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">First, I might say Dr. Sam Murbock, our old reliable, - had said he could not tell me what his charge would be until he got into - me. I told him that he would never get into me, or my pocket, without - first naming his price.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, when a guest at the Stratford hotel in Kansas - City, Dr. Pickerel, of the Stratford, went with me to the University - Hospital early one morning. He said he would sit awhile in the lobby and - he would spot the surgeons as they came in. I passed three of them, trying - to get my nerves settled.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The fourth one was more in general appearance to my - idea of what a good surgeon should look like. He was called—and we - went up stairs to a room. On examination, Dr. Jabes Jackson, Kansas City’s - top-notch surgeon, said I was just right for the operation. I asked him - what would be his charge? He said, “One thousand dollars!” I - told him that I would have to be a lot sicker before I would think of - giving up a thousand dollars. Then, Dr. Pickerel said, “He doesn’t - come under that class, doctor.” Dr. Jabes then said, “Three - hundred—that’s the lowest.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Again, while at the Byram hotel in Atchison I had a - severe attack in the night—and believed that the time had come when - I should have the old appendix taken out. I called for Atchison’s - foremost surgeon. He was in Kansas City, but would be back at one o’clock. - I went up to the Atchison hospital in the forenoon, asked for a little - “home” treatment. In bed, the nurse felt my “tummy,” - shook her head, and said, “You will have to wait for your doctor.” - The doctor said I could have the caster oil and an enema—but he told - the nurse I was to have no breakfast. In the morning, I was feeling pretty - good and was about out of the notion of having the operation. However, I - asked the doctor what would be his charge? He said, “You are most - too weak to stand it now. Come back in a week—we’ll talk it - over then.” One week later, the doctor said, “Owing to your - long residence in the state, and your standing in the community, I’ll - do it for five hundred dollars.” I recalled that our old Nemaha - County reliable had done the job for one of my friends for a very - reasonable fee, and also remembered that he had charged others less - reasonable. I said, “If and when the time comes, I’ll just - give you $150.” He said, “I’ll do it—but if you - ever tell anybody, I’ll kick your butt all over town.” You may - know that we were on quite intimate terms, having on earlier occasions met - at Atchison’s friendly club—or he wouldn’t have dared to - talk to me like that.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Back in my home again, after enthusiastically - discussing the likely prospect of the new oil field. Doctor Shaffer went - out on the street to mingle with his boys, and the prospects who were now - coming in from as far away as Holton, Circleville, Soldier, Corning, Goff, - Netawaka, Whiting, Sabetha, and intervening farms—including my - long-time friend Tommy Evans, whose farm north of Capioma had the - reputation of being the best kept and most productive in the neighborhood—saying - he (the doctor) would be back soon. My wife said, “It looked like - your promoter friends have all ready unintentionally cut you in on the big - melon should you be mindful to follow up the lead—and wish to be - bothered with the Trusteeship.” She laughed, “If you don’t - make that Doctor Shaffer cut you in for a generous slice you are not as - smart as I think you are.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, maybe I needed this tip—and maybe I didn’t.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Doctor Shaffer came back, and without more - preliminaries, proposed to cut me in for two units ($250) if I would - prepare him two copies in blank, of the agreement I had cooked up for the - home syndicate, and, incidentally, permit Cortner and Purdum to make good - on their promise to the subscribers that I would be the Trustee. He said - they were expecting it, and desired to have my acceptance before going - into the meeting. Thus, I wouldn’t rightly know to whom I was - indebted for the generous slice of the melon.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Or was it a melon?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I suspect it was as Myrtle had said, unintentionally - cooked up by the two solicitors—and that, in its final phase, it was - a joint settlement, with the solicitors having to kick back a portion of - their rake-off. Anyway, it was more unsolicited grapes for me—twice - over the $4.50 a line, or 45 cents a word for the original draft. I used a - carbon and made the two new copies at once, while Doctor Shaffer waited. - He had another sale on with a Missouri group.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Fifty-three subscribers crowded into the City Hall, - and all signed the agreement, and each set down the amount of his - subscription opposite his name—and all wrote checks. At the finish I - had fifty-three checks totaling $8,000—my own check for $250, and - Doctor Shaffer’s check for $1,000, included. Doctor Shaffer would - reimburse me for this $250 and also pay me the $125 promised by Charley - Cortner. I was instructed to send payment for the lease in two $4,000 bank - drafts. I had no intention of paying out $8,000 until those checks had - time to be cleared. In the meantime our attorney had called for complete - abstracts to the acreage instead of the certificates of title supplied by - the vendor—delaying settlement for several weeks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But the eight thousand dollar payment was made, and I - received the $375 velvet from Doctor Shaffer—I guess. For reasons of - his own, unknown to me, Dr. Shaffer had a Wichita man mail me his personal - check for $375, nothing more. I suspect one of those $4,000 drafts had - been deposited in a Wichita bank. The transaction was legitimate. I had - nothing to cover up. This payment to me had come off the salesman and the - vendor, negotiated subsequent to the pledges made by syndicate members—leaving - their full “investment” intact to work out its own salvation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">This is the God’s truth—and mine, too.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Now, kindly figure out for me, if you can, where - anyone had been worsted through my part in the transaction. Two “bright” - young clerks in the bank here—whom I shall not name—caught it - at once. That mysterious $375 check had alerted them. They put their own - erroneous construction on it—and passed the word along. Then I - caught “hail Columbia” from the younguns’ superior (in - point of banking tenure) who had “invested $125 in his wife’s - name—the idea being that a banker himself ought to have more sense - than to dabble in such matters. His “boys,” as he called them, - meant well, of course—and it didn’t take me too long to - convince the banker that I had taken no part in the promotion. But, what - if I had? It would not have been a crime. I want to say, however, that the - banker did me the favor of trying to correct the false impressions he had - helped set afloat. Once in a blue moon even the worst of us will meet such - a manful man.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In this story I only aim to hit the high spots—not, - at any time, deviating from the truth. It was not all easy sailing for the - Trustee. In a case of this kind, the conscientious person representing his - friends, does not wish to let them down because of failure to collect - rentals in full. With syndicate members widely scattered, the Trustee must - make his own decisions—and quick. He can put up the delinquent - amount himself, or he can forfeit the lease—if he does not wish to - raise the ire of his friends who have paid.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our syndicate was in reality an unfinanced holding - partnership—barred from creating indebtedness, euphoniously - christened “The Elkmore Oil and Gas Syndicate.” Here, I must - give the wife credit—if, in the long run it really merited credit—for - suggesting this expressive name, which embraces, in split infinitives, the - location of the lease holdings (Elk County) and the home (Wetmore) of the - “investors.” It pleased Dr. Shaffer—no end. I think it - got Myrtle included in that proposed free entertainment at his hospital in - Moline.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Like Doctor Purdum’s good natured crack at my - purebred seed corn, those altruistically donated helpings of “grapes” - showered on me by Cortner and Shaffer, had begun to “sour”—and, - I may say, that they deteriorated until less than nothing was left of the - windfall. It posed a perplexing dilemma.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">As there was little chance of getting action before - the expiration of the leases, aggravated by draggy collections of rentals, - a feeler was mailed to all subscribers, in ample time before the fifth - year’s payments were due. More than half of them favored dropping - the leases, and sent me their written authorization. Nearly half of the - interests remained expressionless. The four leases were canceled. The - majority of the interests wished it so. But, it was the delinquents who - hollered most, even censured me for giving up the lease—when some of - the acreage came into production several years later. It seemed not to - have occurred to them that wo would have lost out, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But, in the Moline field we got some experience which - should have taught us a lesson, that a bird in hand is worth a whole flock - in the bush—but it didn’t. We could have sold our leases at a - nice profit.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">An oil gusher was brought in on a large tract of - pasture land one mile away from our holdings. Dr. Shaffer wired me to come - down at once. He drove me out to the well. There was a terrific jam—at - the well, on the road, in Moline. Crowds of people were at the well ahead - of us that morning—Art Hough, a former Wetmore boy, and his oil-rich - partner, from Independence, among them. Excitement was running high. One - man was killed in his overturned car while rushing out from town. And I, - myself, spent the night in a Moline hospital. This fact, however, does not - necessarily pertain to the gusher—except to show that there was - genuine good-feeling all round. I was the guest of Dr. Shaffer and his - wife, who were the only other occupants of his new hospital, not yet ready - for public patronage. Dr. Shaffer owned a one-eighth interest in our - leases.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">If you have never seen an oil-gusher, you don’t - know what a thrilling sight it is—especially, if you own nearby - leases. Oil spurted in gusts at regular intervals high into the air, - spread out in all directions and arched down over the four case-setters, - stripped to the waist, encasing them in a film of oil so heavy as to - exclude them from view, at times. Art Hough and his partner, who owned - some producing wells in the shallow field near Independence, wanted to buy - our leases—but who would want to sell in the midst of all that - excitement? And, anyway, I was not in a position to deal with them on the - spot, as there were fifty-three signers in the group to an agreement which - provided for fifty-one per cent of the interests to say when to sell. We - did, however, later, arrange to sell part of the leases—carrying a - provision for drilling—and the papers were sent to the Moline bank; - but the prospective buyer was unable to come through with the money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The gusher was on land owned, or controlled, by a - Moline banker, and another man. I heard one of the partners say, not once - but many times, always the same sing-song word for word, “I just - told the Lord that since He had been so good to me, I shall never - desecrate His holy name.” If I may express myself, unbiasedly, I - would say the Lord played no favorites in the Moline field; that I think - He had nothing to do with the man’s good luck, except, possibly, in - a general way of being the creator of all things—else why would He - have destroyed the gusher with salt-water, and got the owners the threat - of a robust lawsuit to boot—for polluting a God-given stream of - fresh water?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In the matter of a fresh try to reopen the Wetmore oil - test, I protested the contract offered by the two Kansas City promoters, - maintaining that we had no valid authority to sign anything in the name of - “the people” and that liability would fall on the individual - signers. One of the committeemen who had been in various lines of business - in Wetmore, and had finally settled himself in a real estate office, said, - “Why, John—there haint a day but what I make contracts like - that.” Questioning the man’s competency in such matters, I - said, “I wouldn’t doubt it in the least—but it will take - still more plausible argument to induce me to sign this one.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The other members of the committee had caught the - spirit of the meeting in the opera house, and were anxious to see further - development of our oil prospect. They conferred the “favor” of - the trusteeship on committeeman Sam Thornburrow, cashier of the State Bank—and - they all signed the contract. Then the promoters went back to Kansas City - to await the hatching of the egg they had laid here. And in due time, Sam - got notice from a lawyer in Kansas City that he was about to be sued for - breach of contract. Then one morning as I was passing the bank Sam hailed - me. He said, “You know, those Kansas City fellows have sued me for - $1,000—what would you do about it?” Remembering how they had - “ribbed” me for refusing to sign with them, I said, “I’d - pay it.” After he had turned this over in his troubled mind a few - times, I told him to pay no attention to it—that the promoters were - most likely trying to frighten him into a settlement; that they would have - to start their action in Kansas—and that I doubted very much if they - would risk doing this, as the contract would show them up for the grafters - they were.” The Kansas City promoters did not follow through with - their claim for damages.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It took only one more throw at the get-rich-quick oil - game to convince me that it just could not be accomplished by throwing in - with the other fellow on his home grounds, after he had carried the - project to a point where any day’s drilling might bring riches. But - I’m still strong on the home-test—for that would be furthering - something for the good of all the home folks.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our Wetmore group, with “investors” at - Goff and Bancroft, contributed a sum said to be $14,350 toward the - completion of a well in a producing field east of Enid, Oklahoma, on land - owned by a Bancroft man. The headquarters of the Company was in a fair - sized city in southern Kansas, with a department store owner as president, - a physician and surgeon as secretary—and a banker deeply interested - in a covered-up sort of way. The president and the land owner had - departed with our money, supposedly to complete the well—and then we - would all most likely be “sitting pretty.” But in about a week - we got notice of a called meeting to vote $30,000 increase in capital - stock. Also, we were advised of the bringing in of a gas well of ten - million feet potential on the lease adjoining the company ground on the - south, still farther away from the known production area on the north, - proving that we were still “sitting pretty.” Had this been - reported before we joined-up with our Southern Kansas financiers, I, for - one, would have kept my money. Sane people do not let the public in on a - speculative enterprise after its success is practically assured.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Our Wetmore “investors”, gave me proxies, - and sent me down to investigate. I first went with the land-owner to the - Oklahoma field. We found no activity at the well on his land, but the rig - was still up. And the drillers were working on the reported gas strike - just across the road. They told me that they had struck a small flow of - gas—that it was not strong enough to blow your hat off the casing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I got back to the Kansas headquarters on Saturday - about noon, and went at once to the department store owned by the - president. He introduced his wife, who worked in the store, and his - father-in-law, whom I shall call Mr. Shapp—though this is not his - real name. The president insisted that I take dinner with him at his home. - I sensed something was wrong—but I couldn’t place it just yet. - I learned later that Dr. Lapham had got wise to something pertaining to - the call for an increase of capital stock, and had written him a critical - letter. Dr. Lapham told me later that it was a “scorcher”—and - I can well believe it was. They were all rather upset. Of course the - president, and the secretary, and the banker, knew some things which I - didn’t know—yet. My dinner host was a bit “jumpy” - because of that “scorcher” letter of Dr. Lap-ham’s, and - my appearance two days in advance of the called meeting. But had he known - what I had just learned at the dinner table, he could have trusted me - implicitly.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Some years prior to this I had sold, through - advertisement in the Topeka Capital, 500 shares of our mining stock to the - fictitious Monroe P. Shapp, of that address, and through him 200 shares in - the name of his daughter, Ella J. Shapp. Now, when the merchant called his - wife “Ella” I put two and two together—then I knew that - I was among old friends. And I couldn’t find it in my heart to get - rough with them.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Not that I had any apologies to make for our mine - promotion. We had used their money, as promised, in the development of the - mine, and at this time were still putting our own money into it—and - we had no intention of going out and selling a block of stock to rub out - the deficit. That would have been illegal in Nevada. But the fact remained - that we had not as yet been able to make any returns to stockholders.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">When I called on the secretary of the oil company, he - said he could not give me any time that afternoon, that he had to perform - an operation at the hospital at 4 o’clock. I said to him, in the - presence of the president, “You fellows seem to be scared about - something—but you need not be. I give you my word that I am not here - to make trouble. All I want to know is what chance you have to make good, - and if it will be to our interests for me to vote my proxies for the - increase of capital stock at the meeting Monday.” The secretary - looked at the president, and the president looked at the secretary—then - they both looked at me. The president nodded—and the secretary said, - “Come along with me.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">It seems the directors had carried on with the - drilling after company funds were exhausted, incurring personal - obligations, and stopped the drill when approximating the required depth - for a strike, with a large deficit—which, with our contribution, was - now reduced to something like $9,000. While in the office of the - physician-surgeon-secretary going over the books, the banker—of - German extraction, if not the whole thing—came in, and nodding - toward a back room, said as if in great distress, “Dokther—I’ve - got a stick in the eye.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I decided that I ought not vote for the increase of - stock—and, without leave, came home on Sunday. One of our group, an - ex-businessman, attended the meeting on his own hook to get first hand - knowledge of the situation. He wired Joe Searles Monday afternoon, saying, - “Bristow absent; could I vote the proxies?” I told Joe to wire - him, “Yes—if you have them.” I had just turned them in - to Joe. In a couple of days Searles got a long letter from him—written - by a stenographer in Kansas City—berating me for running out on - them, and boasting of the business-like interest he himself had taken in - the meeting, saying, “I stayed with them until we got in proxies - enough the next day to get the money—and I bought $250 worth more of - the stock.” He did not say—probably didn’t know—if - his purchase was of the newly voted stock, or from the old issue. I had a - strong suspicion that we had all ready bought and paid for a generous take - of the newly voted stock—and got short changed as well.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I had called on that “stick-in-the-eye” - banker a short while before, and obtained from him the log of a producing - well recently brought in by Frank Letson and associates in the Enid field—and - this, I think, might have been what had alerted the banker; or, maybe, the - president had sent his partner scurrying in to forestall an admission of - their questionable finagling. I wanted that log to compare with the log of - “our” drilling, which I had obtained from “our” - president. Then, too, Frank Letson was a younger brother of Ed and Ella - Letson who were my schoolmates in Wetmore, when their father, Bill Letson, - owned a general store here; before going to Netawaka to engage in like - business. I had called at the Fleming and Letson bank in Enid two days - before, but did not get to see either of my old acquaintances.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Fleming bank, now an imposing brick structure - having tall columns, on the east side of the square, was started on the - south side, opposite the land office, in a small frame building in the new - town after the opening of the Cherokee strip, in 1893. I also had occasion - to call at the old bank about six months after the opening, to get a paper - notarized.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Attorney Elwin Campfield, in the law office of John - Curran, formerly of Seneca, on the west side of the Enid square, filled - out relinquishing papers for me, without charge—we had been - neighbors in the Bleisener building in Wetmore—and suggested that I - wait in the Curran office a few minutes when he would have one of the - office force notarize it for me, presumedly also without charge—a - small matter hardly worth waiting for. Up here the fee for such service - was then, and still is, twenty-five cents. I told Elwin I would go over to - the Fleming bank and get it notarized, that I wanted to pay my respects to - Ollie, anyway. 01 had grabbed off, at Netawaka, a red headed girl (Ella - Letson) whom I had thought pretty nice when we were care-free kids running - wild on the streets of Wetmore in the early days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Well, 01 was sure glad to see me—and he would - gladly remember me to Ella. When he had returned the notarized paper to - me, I said, “How much, 01?” He said, “Five dollars!” - I shot him a wordless blank look. He laughed, and said, “Oh, give me - two-and-a-half.” There had been a time in that frontier town when - one could get most anything asked for services, but that time was now over - and passed—half-over, anyway.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">That officious Wetmore man was in Dr. Lapham’s - office when I reported my findings. I told the group that I had spoken - only for myself when I gave those finaglers my word that I was not there - to make trouble—that I had to do this to get them to open up. I told - the group that I had no desire to pursue the matter further, but that they - themselves were not barred; that any one of them who might wish to, could - notify the Blue Sky Board in Topeka—and the Board would do the rest.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The man who had taken matters in his own hands and - helped put over the vote for the increase of capital stock without the - formality of first finding out what it was all about, popped up and said, - “You had no right to tell them that.” He insisted that I - should make the complaint. And the surprising thing is, he had some - supporters. There were some hard losers in the group. I had not made the - investigation with the intention of filing a complaint—wouldn’t - have accepted the assignment had it carried any such provision. I don’t - like fussing.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, too, the president and the land owner had not - solicited me to buy stock, nor made promise to me that the fund would be - used to complete the well. Their contact had been with Dr. Lapham and - other members of the group. I went in with them solely because my - neighbors had invited me to join them, and because I didn’t want to - stand idly by—and watch them make a “killing.” However, - on invitation, I went up to Dr. Lapham’s office at the virtual close - of a “pep” meeting, after the check-writing had begun. I asked - for information as to how the company was organized—particularly as - to whether or not the stock was non-assessable? The president and the - land-owner really didn’t know. But they went to Topeka the next day - and secured a transcript of the incorporation papers, which were - acceptable. And I was invited to go before the adjourned meeting the - following evening, and voice my approval. Then the check writing was - resumed.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, my conscience told me, in a flash, that it would - be a rather poor spirited person who should wish to send his neighbor - “up” for the mistake of keeping bad company. It looked as if - our old farmer-neighbor had been caught in between two fires, and didn’t - know which way to “jump”—or worse still, that there was - now no open way out. Thus, it may be said, that our old Bancroft - farmer-friend, in his most uncomfortable position, was comparable to the - banker held as hostage by a bold gang of robbers who had just looted his - bank. I know. I spent two days with the dispirited old man in the oil - field.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Blue Sky Board was fostered to check on promotions - whose stocks were strongly, if not wholly, tinctured with the azure blue. - Along about 1905-06-07 questionable promotions—mostly mining—sprang - up all over the country. Kansas City had several going full blast at one - time. I had occasion to call on one of them; had arranged the meeting - through correspondence. I entered a very large room where perhaps thirty - or forty girl-typists were busily preparing literature to be sent out by - mail to inquirers secured through newspaper advertisements. The printed - portion of the literature had been prepared by “experts” - copy-writers—and it is surprising how those fellows could make an - inferior proposition appeal to the gullible.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The Fiscal Agent’s secretary, or outside girl, - stationed near his private office—he had a better looking secretary - in his office—said she believed the “boss” was not in. I - gave her my name and stated my business. She went into the private office, - and returned saying, Mr. so-and-so would see me. However, had I been a - questionable caller, the outside girl would have told me upon returning - that he was not in, and that she had learned from his inside secretary - that he had gone out of town and would not be back that day. This was the - system. The “boss” did not want to see any of his subscribers—nor - an officer of the law.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">One of those Kansas City promotion companies was - selling stock in what was called a Ten Million Dollar Development—that - is, ten million shares, par-value one dollar, sold at two cents a share, - the idea being to offer the purchaser a lot for little money, out in our - mining district in Nevada. It was highly advertised as the “Extension - of the Great (Searchlight) Quartette Vein.” The outfit was actually - sinking a shaft about a half-mile out in the valley west of the - mountain-situated Quartette mine—a rich gold producer—without - reasonable chance of picking up anything in the way of values. Too many - promotions like this were victimizing the people. The Blue Sky Board’s - function was to keep them out of Kansas.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In our own mine promotion, I did some newspaper - advertising in Topeka—but, first, I had to get a clearance from the - Blue Sky Board (in Bank Commissioner Dolley’s office) showing that - our company was on the square; that the stock was a fair risk; that - purchasers were fully and truthfully informed; and most important of all, - that the purchasers would get a run for their money—meaning that the - money so collected must not be used in paying for a “dead horse.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">On full-page advertising in a number of papers, I - received on the average one inquiry for each 3,000 circulation—but I - sold practically all of them. This was only about one-hundredth part of - the returns the Kansas City fellows were getting. And I had strong copy, - too. The newspaper boys said it was unusually strong. But I made the - mistake—from the promoter’s view point—of telling the - readers the truth, that we had not carried the proposition to a point - where we were about ready to begin handing out dividends, which was the - Kansas City boy’s big drawing card. This was costing too much—and - I discontinued selling the stock, hoping that we might yet find an Agent - who would have better luck. We used up the funds on hand; then went at it - individually again. And the six miners continued on the job, taking their - full wages in our treasury stock.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Let it be understood that the mining stock I sold was - far from being in the blue sky class—and that the job of selling it - was “wished” on me. While in the process of incorporating, our - president, Frank Williams, had made tentative arrangements with Los - Angeles “Fiscal Agents”—that’s what they called - themselves then—to sell our treasury stock, but failed to conclude a - satisfactory contract with them. He had encountered the same questionable - line of approach out there that caused me to turn down the Kansas City - “Fiscal Agents.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Might say that in the first place, on his - recommendation, I had joined Frank Williams in the purchase of the initial - lead-zinc-vanadium claim—only lead discovered then—on which - our corporation was mainly based. Included in the corporation also were - three (gold) claims in the Crescent district, owned by Frank and his - brother Tommy Williams, A. M. Harter, and Jonah Jones. These Crescent - claims were taken in on a basis of one-sixth of the combined value. Our - lead claim had the further approval of that veteran millionaire miner, - Green Campbell—indeed, had he not died suddenly of pneumonia, Green, - instead of I, would have been Frank’s partner. Frank had been with - Green Campbell, and his uncle Elwood Thomas—all three of the men - former Wetmore citizens, in the Goodsprings district for twelve years, at - that time.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Then, too, those Crescent gold claims held appeal. - What think you that your heart would have done to you, had you been able - to go out on your own holdings and scrape up dirt—disintegrated - rock, assaying $544 gold to the ton—at a time when the fabulous - production of the not too distant Comstock mines in Nevada, with less - glowing beginning, was being proclaimed all over the land as having saved - the credit of the Nation during Civil War days.</span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0"></span> - </p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And, by the way, isn’t it about time for us to - dig again?</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Please—somebody, anybody, everybody—pray - with me for a redeeming Comstock as of yore, only let it be such stepped - up magnitude as to save, beyond the possibility of a slip, the credit of - our Uncle Sam, even in his magnanimous undertaking to tide, piggyback, all - those unstable old country states over the troubled waters of world unrest—in - an effort to convince a certain belligerent-minded Old World character - that war is, a la Sherman, indeed “hell.”</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">But remember, mines are made—not found.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Before incorporating, we (Frank and I), worked the - lead claim for nearly two years—or rather, Frank did the work and I - paid him one-half of the prevailing miner’s wage. We were trying our - best to make a paying mine of it—and may I say that, encouraged by - occasional shipments, there were times when we believed we were right at - the door of accomplishment.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The point I’m trying to stress here is, that we - did not acquire the mining claims for the purpose of launching a - stock-selling enterprise, as was so of ter done about that time. But we - learned that more often than not even promising mining prospects require - the expenditure of more money than we, as individuals, could devote to it—hence - the incorporation.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Thus it is that, in the fullness of Time, I have tried - mining—to the tune of Six Thousand Dollars, plus; out of pocket—and - I’ve tried oil, not once but three times; and I’ve even tried - real estate speculation in the boom days of Port Arthur, Texas—all - avenues leading up to the coveted get-rich-quick-field—and so help - me, I have never taken down a dollar.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">I promised my companion of the day that I wouldn’t - tell about our “investments” in Port Arthur town lots. But - that was a long time ago, between the time he was elected Governor of - Kansas, from Nemaha County, and the time he served as Governor of the - Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City, Missouri. So I opine that it doesn’t - matter now, since he is safely beyond the pale of political patronage. In - the new boom town of Port Arthur that warm January day about the turn of - the century, the “boomers” showed us the location, with rock - foundation all ready in place, for a bank building, with brick enough - piled on the site to build an edifice big enough to house all the money in - the world. But the most revealing report I ever got from my friend, the - Governor, on our investments, was that the restless bank foundation and - its companion brick pile had gone on the prowl, virtually slipped from one - end of the plotted business section to the other end, taking now and then - a rest period.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">The old regulars in our group of “investors” - are about all dead now—or have dropped the Big Idea. Joe Searles, at - present prescription clerk in a Sabetha drugstore, never in too deeply - with the old group, is in line to get his now. He has taken on both leases - and royalties in the Strahm field. The development so far has been done by - the Carter Oil Company, holding most of the leases. But private interests - are trafficking in royalties in a big way. Should Joe make good—that - is, break into the big money where the Internal Revenue take would warrant - him in throwing away a portion of his winnings in “wildcatting,” - I suggest that he come home—and finish the Haigh-Lapham oil test. - This—and other betterments for the old home town—is what I - planned on doing, had I become burdened with mine-made money.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">Also, let it be understood that I took no part in the - organization of our group of “investors,” or the promotion of - any of our oil speculations.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">And now a last word.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3" id="h.gjdgxs"> - <span class="c2 c0">Since it appeared that our Southern Kansas co-partners - had risked their own money, or more likely their credit, in completing the - drilling, incurring disappointment—and, crowded by an unseen hand, - (which I believe I could have put my finger on), had taken the wrong way - out of the dilemma, and if I were not mistaken they yet had a long, long - way to go to get out of the woods; so then, let us be lenient. Why say an - unkind word about your neighbor—when it gets you nothing? Don’t - know if they ever sold any more of the newly voted stock, or if they did - any more drilling. Never heard from them again.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <p class="c3"> - <span class="c2 c0">In tolerance of human frailty, let me say that our old - Bancroft farmer-friend, allied with keener personalities, had always been - a reputable man—that the doctor-secretary, and the merchant-prince - apparently stood high among their fellowmen—and then there was Ella - J., holder of some mining stock. But, even so, had I not lost interest in - the investigation, considered it hopeless, I believe I could have found - “sticks” in more than one eye.</span> - </p> - <p class="c1"></p> - <div> - <p class="c24 c27 c29"></p> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True -Stories, by John T. Bristow - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORY'S STOREHOUSE *** - -***** This file should be named 60844-h.htm or 60844-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/8/4/60844/ - -Produced by Allan Shumaker - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - - </body> -</html> |