Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Harknell,” Charlie said. He looked at Luther. “I told you, mister. It’s gonna be up to you. How’re you gonna play your hand?”

  Luther’s shoulders sagged. “You won’t have to come back. We’re packing up.”

  Harknell laughed. “I’ll be damned. God damned! A Boomer with good sense.”

  “I said I’m leaving.”

  Harknell sensed the truth in the statement. “Just don’t tarry none.”

  Charlie Ainsley said, “We’ll remember who you are, McCracken. So don’t come back no more. There won’t be no warnings next time.”

  “Let’s go!” Harknell shouted. He abruptly wheeled his horse around, and his cowboys had to move fast to follow him.

  Luther glared at the departing men for a moment, then turned to his family. “Let’s break ever’thing down and throw it back in the wagon.”

  “He called you a ‘Boomer’,” Fionna said. “What in the world is that?”

  Luther shrugged. “Prob’ly an insult of some sort they use around here. I ain’t gonna worry none about that.” He turned toward his son. “Silsby, I don’t want no more problems with you. Now you remember when you’re told to do something and then do it and do it right! I ain’t gonna keep on you ever’ minute. Get the stuff in the tent rolled up and into the wagon.”

  Silsby McCracken turned away and went into the sun-bleached canvas structure to begin packing. His sister Rebecca followed him inside to lend a hand. “I hate it when Pa whips you.”

  Silsby remained silent while he packed the extra blankets into a trunk at the foot of the bedrolls. The fifteen-year-old had his father’s dark hair, but his face favored his mother’s. He had more the look of a scholar than a farm boy. But his broad shoulders gave evidence that he would be muscular at full maturity.

  “You got to do what Pa says, Silsby,” Rebecca said. “You got to try harder at your chores.”

  Silsby closed the trunk. “Don’t worry none about me, Rebecca.”

  “But I do,” she said. “Hardly two days go by without you getting whipped. It’s like you’re asking for it.”

  “I ain’t asking for it,” Silsby said. “It’s hard for me to keep my mind on things.” He grinned slightly. “I’m just dumb, huh? As dumb as that ol’ mule of ours.”

  “You don’t pay attention to things, Silsby,” Rebecca said. She helped him fold up one of the blankets.

  “At least I don’t have to go to school no more,” Silsby remarked. “That’s saved me from a whipping or two since Pa used to light into me after the teacher switched me.”

  “Maybe when you’re older, you’ll act smarter.”

  “You do think I’m dumb, huh?”

  “You’re not dumb,” Rebecca insisted. “You’re just —” She sighed. “Please listen more careful to what Pa tells you to do, Silsby!”

  “Sure,” he said. He closed the trunk lid.

  “Silsby!” Rebecca exclaimed in a tone of exasperation. “You forgot the blankets on the other side of the tent.”

  His face reddened and he turned to get them. “Go on and help Ma.”

  Rebecca went outside. “I’ll put the cooking things in the box, Ma.”

  “Wrap up the bean pot real careful,” Fionna McCracken said. “I didn’t bring it all the way from Missouri to get it broke.” She turned to her husband. “Do you think that rancher is lying about being the legal owner here?”

  “I don’t know. He could be or maybe he does have the land legal. But it don’t matter a whip. I ain’t got a chance against a rancher and his cowboys if they decide to make me leave.” He pointed at the open land around them. “It’s all going to waste! Just sitting out here under God’s eyes and not being used for what it was intended.”

  “You wouldn’t think a rancher would mind a family out here,” Fionna said. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “This land ain’t meant for one family, Fionna,” Luther said. “It’s got to be opened up to ever’body.” He picked up the harness to carry it over to the mule that grazed nearby. “But it will be settled by farmers someday if they’s enough of us.” He stopped for a moment, then looked at her. “Maybe that’s the answer.”

  “What?”

  “What I just said about if they’s enough of us,” Luther said. He shrugged, adding, “In the meantime, let’s get on out of here before we got more troubles. I don’t want you and Rebecca caught up in nothing.”

  “Where are we going, Luther?”

  “We’ll cross back over the Kansas line,” Luther answered. “I want to find a land office to do what I gotta do to settle on a homestead.”

  “Maybe we should’ve done that before we come down here,” Fionna said.

  “You’re right,” Luther acknowledged reluctantly. “Anyhow the town of Clarkville is just north of here. We can get what information we need there.”

  Chapter Two

  Government maps issued by the United States Army’s Department of Topographical Engineers in 1885 were the first to identify the region known as the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. This area was within the Cherokee Nation and plainly identified as an integral part of that political division. It consisted of two hundred thousand acres — a bit over three hundred square miles — and ran from north to south for some eighteen miles, ending abruptly at the Kansas state line. Five miles beyond that was a small town called Clarkville.

  That community had been established in 1868 through the dissatisfaction of an irritable, nagging woman. The peevish lady was a cavalry farrier’s wife at Fort Riley, Kansas. She was extremely disenchanted with the paltry fifteen dollars a month paid her husband William Clark by the military. She pointed out to him during numerous scoldings that he was a journeyman blacksmith who could do more than simply shoe horses in army stables. He had all the skills necessary to go into civilian life and set up his own business in which he could practice all the all aspects of his trade rather than simply attach horseshoes to hooves. And he would make much more money.

  Another reason for Mrs. Clark’s desire to move into normal society was the fact she had grown sorely wearied by the drudgery of working as a company laundress, scrubbing the dirty clothes of soldiers for a few extra dollars per pay period. The social status of that work did nothing for her personal self-esteem. How much better to be the wife of a successful blacksmith than a washerwoman. The couple could even afford a hired girl after the husband’s business became well established.

  Clark, not wanting a lot of complications in his life, had been happy in the simple duties of working in the regimental stables. The routine was predictable and produced no stress or worries. Because of his contentment with that simple existence, it took the lady three years of badgering until her husband took his discharge from the Army at the end of his second enlistment. He reached the decision not to sign on for five more years of service more out of a desire for peace in his house than any entrepreneurial ambitions.

  After Clark was duly paid off, the couple headed south to an area in Kansas on the north side of the Cherokee Nation. The region had recently been opened for homesteading, and new settlers were moving in at a rapid rate. Clark set up a smithy on a section of land to serve the growing population of farmers filing claims with the government land office. He started the business with a forge and anvil he’d purchased from a crooked quartermaster sergeant at Fort Riley just after his discharge. Clark’s hand tools, inherited from his father, were sufficient enough for the new business.

  When a few more rustic merchants and tradesmen arrived, the Clarks sold bits and pieces of their property until their section of land evolved into a small mercantile center. It was a handy place for local farm families to conduct their business and socialize a bit with rarely-seen neighbors.

  By then Mr. and Mrs. Clark knew their location would eventually become a town, so they quickly dubbed the place Clarkville after themselves. The hamlet grew into an unorganized hodge-podge of dissimilar structures gathered around the circular business area.

&nbs
p; After some ten years passed, the population recognized the fact that they were a permanent fixture on the prairie. This brought about having the town officially incorporated and listed on the Kansas tax rolls under the name Mr. and Mrs. Clark had chosen. This brought in state surveyors who laid out streets and lots according to law, and a year later a bank was opened to handle the area’s financial business.

  Clarkville eventually evolved into a small, thriving frontier town whose distance from any railroad precluded further growth and prosperity. It would never be anything more than a farming community, but those merchants who remained, earned good livings with several of the businesses destined to stay in the same families through several generations.

  ~*~

  The early spring afternoon was pleasant and balmy when Luther McCracken and family rolled into Clarkville off the prairie. They had gone a short distance down the main street when Luther noticed a man sweeping off the boardwalk in front of a general store. “Say, mister,” Luther called out. “Is there any place nearby where a feller might be able to camp out?” The man looked up and laughed. Luther scowled, asking, “What’s so funny?”

  “Excuse me, mister,” the sweeper said. “You must be a stranger in these parts. If you keep moving down the street and go about a half mile past the livery barn at the edge of town, you’ll find a whole lot of folks doing nothing but camping out.”

  Luther was surprised at the information. “All right. Obliged.” A flip of the reins on the mules’ back got them moving again. They reached the livery barn and noticed numerous wagon tracks leading farther out into the open countryside. The wagon rocked as it rolled over the rutted ground, and the rattle of cooking utensils joined the rumbling sound of the wheels.

  When Luther reached the camp, he liked what he saw. The crowd there seemed to be his kind of people. He pulled on the reins, whistling at the mule to turn down a street of sorts that ran between two rows of campsites. A group of shouting boys scampered past the wagon loudly engaged in some mischievous chase game. The adult campers ignored the rowdy youngsters, and waved or nodded to the passing McCrackens as if they were all old friends or relatives at a family reunion.

  Luther, although not neighborly by nature, appreciated the gestures after being out on his own for so long. He didn’t smile, but he did go so far as to lift his hand in his own form of greeting. Fionna was overjoyed to see the people, particularly other women. She was almost giddy with delight at the prospect of being able to visit with adult females once more.

  The McCrackens noted a man walking a zigzag course toward them as he visited both sides of the camp street. He was a talkative, busy person who spoke a few words here and there as he hurried along, passing out newspapers he carried under his arm. His method of dressing – a derby hat and suit – made him stand out in the crowd that wore mostly homespun attire. Luther could tell he was no farmer. The fellow stopped when he spotted the McCracken wagon. “Hello!”

  “Howdy,” Luther said. The man obviously wanted to speak to him, so he brought his conveyance to a halt.

  “It’s easy to see you just got here,” the man said, noting the load on the vehicle. He offered his hand. “My name’s Ed Byron.”

  “Luther McCracken.” He leaned down to shake. “This is my missus.”

  “How do you do, madam?” Byron said, tipping his hat. Silsby and Rebecca stuck their heads out from the wagon’s canvas cover and looked down at the man. Byron smiled at them. “And your children, hey? Older ones, I see. I imagine they’re a lot of help.”

  “Yeah,” Luther said.

  “May I ask where you’re coming from, sir?”

  “We came over here from Missouri,” Luther said. “But we made a stop down south first.”

  “Ah, yes! That must have been on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands, hey?”

  “I reckon that’s what they call it, though it seems a strange thing to name a place.”

  “A most unusual name, indeed, Mr. McCracken,” Byron said. “Medicine bundles are what the wild Kiowa Indians have as part of their religion. The bundles are a conglomeration of items they consider magic and sacred. Evidently, the Grasslands were an important source for their big medicine.” He chuckled. “At least that’s what I’m told.”

  Luther gestured at the scene around them. “Can a feller just pick out a place to stay for a spell?”

  “Sure,” Byron said. “I hope you won’t think I’m prying, Mr. McCracken, but I was wondering if you had any sort of meeting with the cattleman who is the current resident on the Grasslands.”

  “If you’re talking about a profanity-spitting bear of a rancher, I did.”

  “That would be Dewey Harknell.”

  “He told me to get off the Grasslands,” Luther said. “Since I was alone with my family against him and his cowboys, I figured I’d better oblige him. He claimed to have legal possession but wouldn’t prove it one way or the other when I asked him to.”

  “Are you a Boomer, Mr. McCracken?”

  Fionna leaned forward. “That man and his cowboys called us that, but we don’t know what it meant. Luther didn’t know whether to take offense or not.”

  Byron laughed. “It’s not an insult to the folks around here. It just means that you’re booming for land in the Indian Nation. It’s a local colloquialism.”

  Luther wasn’t quite sure what Byron meant, but he cracked a slight grin. “Then I reckon Harknell was right. Yeah. We’re Boomers.”

  “So are all these folks,” Byron said. “Every one of them has had confrontations with Harknell and his men.”

  “That seems like an awful lot of people that’s being pushed around by one feller.”

  “We Boomers will have our day with Mr. Harknell.”

  “You’re a Boomer?”

  “Indeed I am, sir!” Byron replied. “I don’t wish to be a farmer, but I would like to see some of that land down there in the Indian Territory opened up for those of us who earn our livings in towns too. Government settlement laws allow for the establishment of communities as well as farms.”

  “What business are you in, Mr. Byron?”

  “Newspapering, sir. I am a journalist. In fact, I am the owner and operator of a Boomer publication. I call it the Boomer Gazette. I have only two editions out, but at least I’m rolling along.” He pulled one of the newspapers from the bundle he carried, handing it up to Luther. “Perhaps you’ll find the Gazette to your liking, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Luther said. He glanced at the front page that was filled with headlines demanding action from Congress to open the Indian Territory for settlement. “It looks like I got no argument with you, Mr. Byron.”

  “We’re having one of our regular meetings tonight.” Byron said. “You know that livery barn you passed about a half mile back? The Boomers get together there. An old wagon serves as the speakers’ platform. It’s not fancy, but we get our ideas across.”

  “What’s them meetings about?”

  “It’s a chance to discuss strategies that will take us in the right direction,” Byron said. “But mostly we exchange ideas. I figure a good plan of action and the men to implement it will evolve some day.”

  “I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Excellent! Just follow the crowd, Mr. McCracken.”

  “You say a feller can just set up anywhere he wants around here?”

  “Find an empty spot and it’s yours,” Byron said. “Well, I must distribute the remainder of my newspapers.” He tipped his hat again. “Good day. It was nice to have met you folks.”

  “Same here,” Luther said. “See you at the meeting.” He flipped the reins, and the wagon lurched as the mule began moving again.

  Fionna surveyed the camp. “It looks like lots of folks want to move into the Injun Territory. At least the Medicine Bundle Grasslands part of it.”

  “Yep,” Luther said. “I’d say we got comp’ny.”

  He went down to the last group of people in the irregular lines of individual camps. A man and woman with
some young children had arranged a canopy of sorts out from the side of their wagon.

  Luther waved to them and pointed to an empty space on the other side of their set-up. “Would it crowd you folks any if we moved in there?”

  “Not a bit, sir,” the man said. He walked up to the wagon with an outstretched hand. “Bob Ratner. Ohio by the way of Nebrasky.”

  “Howdy. Luther McCracken. Missouri. This here’s my missus and my young’uns.”

  A woman walked up, her smile showing bad teeth. Her appearance was that of someone who had spent a lot of her life in hard times. Ratner nodded toward her. “This is my missus, Esther.”

  Fionna said, “I’m Fionna McCracken. Most pleased to meet you.”

  “I better pull in here and get set up,” Luther said. “I want to sleep in the tent tonight instead of the wagon.” He urged the mule forward, then into a tight turn. When he had the wagon aligned he set the brake, and leaped down to the ground. “Silsby! See to the mule.”

  “Yes, Pa.” The boy helped his mother and sister off the wagon, then turned to the task.

  Ratner and Esther joined them. “Are you folks straight in from Missouri?”

  “Kind of,” Luther replied with a shake of his head. “We just got run off the Grasslands by Dewey Harknell.”

  “We went through that too,” Ratner said. “With another family. They was sore about it and said such trouble wasn’t worth a homestead.”

  Esther added, “They went back to Indiana. Or at least said they was going to. Once you leave your old home, I cain’t see going back for any reason whatsoever.”

  “It makes you look like you’re more talk than gumption,” Bob Ratner opined.

  “I ain’t going back nowhere,” Luther said in a matter-of-fact tone. He didn’t want to mention the trouble with his Confederate neighbors. “I’m bound and determined to get some of that land down there. I been told it’s got the fertilest soil on God’s earth.”