“You know damn well where I’ve been. I could have used some help chasing trespassers off the Grasslands, by the way.”
“Hang on to your hat, young man,” Sinclair said. “Hell is about to really break aloose.” He reached in his vest and pulled out a telegram. “This came to me from Wichita yesterday.”
“What’s the ruckus about?” Grant asked impatiently. He wanted to get back to his bride before the Widow Richardson returned from church.
“President Benjamin Harrison has issued a proclamation,” Sinclair said. “At noon on Sunday, April the twenty-second, some big parts of the Cherokee Nation is gonna be throwed open for settlement to whoever wants to move in and grab land. And that includes the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.”
Grant stared at him open-mouthed.
“Let me tell you that it’s gonna be a stampede like has never been seen nor heard-tell of before,” Sinclair said. “I’m supposed to tell you that you and me is assigned to the Grasslands. It’ll be our job to keep folks out of there ‘til the appointed hour.”
“That’s going to be dangerous,” Grant said. “There could be bloody murder down there.”
“They’s gonna be thousands of folks heading here, son. They’re gonna flood into Caldwell, Arkansas City, Wichita, and right here in Clarkville to wait for the official word to go in there and stake out their claims.”
Grant’s shoulders sagged and he moaned. “Does God have no mercy?”
“I’d get back to the wife, if’n I was you,” Sinclair said. “You ain’t gonna see much of her for the next month or so.”
Grant slammed out of the office and rushed back down the street.
Part Two
THE SETTLEMENT
1889-1890
Chapter Eighteen
The Boomer camp was gone.
The area that had been home to an inconstant population for a little more than eighteen months was no more than an empty wheel-tracked meadow. Bare patches of dead, yellow grass marked the former family living sites.
The Boomers showed their sincere appreciation for the kind tolerance of the Clarkville citizens in the best way they could. The former campers left the place as clean as possible. Sumps and latrines had been filled in, and no trash or residue was left behind. The section of land, relieved of rubbish and filth, had already begun its natural slow recovery to its previous condition.
~*~
Now Luther McCracken and his friends were poised on the Kansas State line with the new life they all craved within reach. They, along with thousands of others were in new camps where they eagerly awaited the stroke of high noon on April 22 when the signal would be given to roll down onto the Grasslands to stake homestead claims.
A few of them would go on horseback, but most would strike out in a variety of vehicles. Farm wagons, buggies, carriages, and even a few old Conestogas were in evidence. They held hopeful people filled with happy anticipation as well as a little fear at facing the reality of dreams coming true. The old adage “be careful what you wish for; you might just get it” was foremost in their minds. But, no matter the consequences, they would soon be able to legally move onto land stolen from the Indians through quasi-political pretext and lawyering.
Lieutenant Grant Hollings’ detachment of cavalry had been reinforced with another twenty men led by a young second lieutenant who had lately arrived for duty. This new officer was Bernard Glover who had received a direct commission into the Army through the influence of an uncle in Congress. But even the powerful politician could not guarantee his nephew an assignment other than one in a colored regiment. West Pointers jealously guarded their prerogatives and, though forced to accept outsiders into their cadre, they’d be damned if any would get a preferable assignment in their army.
Along with the unproven rookie officer, Grant faced a new set of antagonists. Instead of Boomers, he now had to contend with a different sort of lawbreakers called Sooners. These were people, usually working in groups, who snuck across the line to grab the choicest parcels of land before the proper signal was given. Unlike the Boomers, these were not necessarily family men who sought to establish lifestyles as farmers or merchants. Many planned on selling the illegally obtained plots at exorbitant prices to latecomers.
The violent side of these individuals first came to the soldiers’ attention during a routine patrol out in the Grasslands, when a body was found in the bottom of a draw. One of the cavalrymen had noticed a large dark splotch on the ground. It was obviously dried blood, and further investigation showed marks in the soil where something had been dragged from the location to the edge of an earthen gash. A trooper was sent down into the deep thicket where he discovered a man who had died of several gunshot wounds. Evidently a serious disagreement had broken out among the Sooners, and this one had been the loser. No identification was found on the decomposing corpse, and the soldiers buried it in an unmarked grave.
Later that same day, Corporal Rawlings came in from a scout and reported a half dozen men encamped in a grove of trees near a creek. Grant ordered his men to lock and load their carbines, then followed Rawlings back to the spot. After surrounding the small patch of woods, Grant hollered, “You in there! Come out in the name of the law! Now!” There was no reply, but the unmistakable sound of people scurrying around in the brush could be heard. “I’ll count to ten, then my men will fire a volley directly into your midst,” Grant warned them. “One! Two! Three! Four! Five —”
“Hold on!” a voice yelled back.
“Six! Seven!”
“I said to wait a minute!” the man shouted again.
“Eight! Nine!”
Suddenly six men emerged from the trees, and stood in plain sight. They looked hard at the cavalrymen. “What the hell are these niggers doing here?” one asked.
Grant ignored him. “I’m placing you under arrest for illegal entry into the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.”
“We’ll go with you, soljer boy,” another Sooner said. “But niggers ain’t supposed to be arresting white men. It just ain’t decent.”
Grant signaled to Sergeant Whitcomb. “Take those men into custody. You know what to do if they resist.” He turned to Lieutenant Glover. “The two of us will ride off a bit while these men are placed under arrest.”
“Shouldn’t we supervise?” Glover asked.
“Not in this case.”
The two officers withdrew from the scene and waited. Whitcomb and the rest of the cavalrymen moved in. Several dismounted and approached the surly Sooners. A scuffle broke out and the sounds of cursing and hollering sent echoes out over the empty countryside. It was an even fight at first with each side giving as good as it took. Then the numerical superiority of the troopers prevailed and they pressed on until their opponents had either quit or were on the ground.
When calm was restored, Sergeant Whitcomb and his men led the prisoners back to Grant and Glover. The six were handcuffed with their hands behind them. The spokesman for the group sported a bleeding nose and bruises on the side of a noticeably swollen jaw. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by his injuries. “Your niggers got us, godamn your eyes!” he sneered at Grant. “But we nailed a couple of them too.”
Grant noticed that a half dozen of the troopers showed their own wounds from the brawl. “Sergeant Whitcomb! Detail some men to conduct these prisoners to the state line. When they arrive, they’ll turn them over to Federal marshals, then rejoin us at the Harknell Ranch.”
“Hey!” the Sooner protested. “Our horses and gear is in them trees.”
“You’ll use them for the ride up north,” Grant said. “Once you’re turned over to the marshals, all your belongings will be confiscated under the provisions of Federal Law, and become the property of the United States Government.”
“You cain’t just take our stuff like ‘at!”
“You can file any complaints with the Federal court in Wichita,” Grant said. “That’s where you’ll be tried for trespassing anyway.”
Whitcomb yelled out, “Cawp’r
al Rawlings! Take Jenkins, Tomlinson, and Daniels and escort them pris’ners to the marshals at the state line. Then come on back to the ol’ Harknell place.”
Rawlings gathered his detail and within minutes the manacled Sooners began the short ride northward. At the same time Grant led his command away from the scene to continue their patrol. They moved southwest, traveling at a slow pace with point and flankers out. By mid-morning they reached the site of Dewey Harknell’s former ranch. Grant turned the detachment over to Sergeant Whitcomb while he and Glover rode into the ranch yard.
What had once been a thriving cattle operation was no more than a collection of decaying, weathered structures. An entire half of the large main corral had collapsed. The former bunkhouse, with the windows stripped out of it, had been denuded of lumber. When they reached the main house, Grant reined in. Both officers dismounted and walked up to the entrance, noting that the front door had been torn off. They stepped inside and could see where Harknell’s blood had flowed from his massive head wound to the threshold. A man from Tahlequah who had come to buy the last remaining furnishings discovered the corpse. He quickly sought out the Cherokee police to report the death.
Nolan Sinclair had been sent for because of the appearance of the murder of a white man. But the marshal’s investigation determined the cause of death to be suicide. Harknell was buried at a spot just outside the ranch yard. A marker placed on the grave eventually disappeared, as did the knowledge of the exact location of the burial. Dewey Harknell would rest for eternity like many cowboys on the prairie; alone and hidden by time and earth.
Since then, someone had looted the house, even ripping apart the rock fireplace. There was also evidence that travelers and other passersby had used the house for shelter. Stains along the wall where numerous individuals had urinated gave out an acid-like foul odor. Bullet holes pocked the walls, and all the interior doors were ripped from their hinges. Glover was disgusted. “Why would anybody just tear something up for no good reason?”
“Folks from around here tore out things they needed,” Grant said. “I would imagine most were Cherokees who could make good use of lumber and stones on their own ranches and farms.”
“Did they have to piss all over the place?”
“Could have been Sooners and other riff-raff just spending the night.”
They went back outside and Glover pointed to a spot behind what was left of the barn. “They even pushed over the outhouse.”
“It boggles the mind to consider the situation here,” Grant said, slipping into a reflective mood. “Once this was wide-open land where buffalo herds migrated and nomadic Indians trailed them. Then the Cherokees got it. More time passed and it was leased out to Dewey Harknell who turned the area into a cattle ranch.”
“Mmm,” Glover mused. “Now it appears to be returning to its original state.”
“It’ll come alive again,” Grant said. “It won’t be long before this will be a farm yard.”
“I suppose all the fields out there will be fenced in and plowed.”
“That’s what it’s coming to.”
A shout came from where the cavalrymen were brewing coffee. A trooper stood up, pointing to the north. The officers looked and saw a single soldier galloping toward the ranch. “That’s Trooper Jenkins,” Grant said as the man drew closer.
“Wasn’t he one of the men who went with Corporal Rawlings and the prisoners?”
“Yeah,” Grant said in a serious tone. “I think we’ve got something wrong here.”
The entire detachment’s attention was turned toward the rider as he galloped up to the officers. Jenkins pulled his horse to a dusty halt. “Sir! Cawp’ril Rawlings sent me to tell you we got some Sooners shooting at us. They ambushed our detail on the way back after we turned them pris’ners over to Marshall Sinclair. Trooper Tomlinson has been kilt. I’m supposed to take you back there.”
Sergeant Whitcomb heard the report and needed no orders. He set the detachment into action and they quickly mounted up as the two officers leaped into their saddles. Jenkins led the group out of the ranch yard with Grant just behind him. Lieutenant Glover and Sergeant Whitcomb trailed him as the men in their squad organizations held to a rigid double column formation. The land where Dewey Harknell’s cowboys had once ridden herd was smooth and rolling with a carpet of gamma grass, providing a fast and easy gallop for the soldiers.
After a bit more than a half-hour, they drew close enough to hear gunshots over the pounding of the horses’ hooves. As the cavalrymen approached the scene, Grant’s trained eyes immediately assessed the situation. Corporal Rawlings and another trooper were in the protection provided by some brush along the top of a low hill. A third soldier sprawled nearby, lying face up with his arms and legs spread out as a man does when shot from the saddle.
Grant ordered the detachment to dismount and stand fast under Lieutenant Glover’s command. He and Sergeant Whitcomb moved forward in a crouching run to Rawlings. “What have we got here, Corporal?” Grant asked, glancing down the hill.
“Sooners in that gully, sir.”
A volley of shots burst from the hiding place. A couple kicked up dirt nearby, then whined off as ricochets. “How many are there?” Grant asked.
“I ain’t sure, sir,” Rawlings replied. “We come over the top o’ this hill and stumbled across ’em. They started shooting right away and hit Tomlinson. I ordered Jenkins back to fetch y’all while me and Daniels returned fire. We ended up pinning ’em down.”
“Those Sooners don’t seem to be up on their tactics, Corporal,” Grant said. “They started a battle from a bad position.” He turned to Whitcomb. “Sergeant, bring the rest of the detachment up along this crest. We’ll all stay on this side. If those Sooners make a run for it, they’ll have to cross open country to our direct front. They’ll be easy to see.”
Within moments the entire group of cavalry, with carbines ready, lay in a long row across the top of the hill. Every man had a good field of fire down into the gully. As they made ready for the coming battle, Grant suddenly considered the possibility of his getting killed. Such a thought never occurred to him even during the hot and heavy actions against the Apaches in Arizona. His entire concentration had been on the fighting. But now, as a married man he considered the possibility of his death and what would become of Rebecca if he died in action. She would be a young widow forced to return to her parents. He felt a stab of regret at the thought she would likely marry again. Grant looked at the men in the detachment, wondering if the same thoughts danced through their minds. But it was obvious they were fully-concentrated on the present situation as they waited for orders. He felt disgusted with himself, and turned his attention back to the job at hand.
“You!” he hollered loudly to the gunmen in the gully. “I am ordering you to surrender in the name of the United States Government!” The answer was a renewed fusillade of bullets that whipped and clipped the air just above the soldiers’ heads. “On my command!” Grant yelled. “One round! Lock and load! Take aim! Fire!”
A volley of two dozen heavy slugs, flying like a metallic hailstorm, smashed into the vegetation in the shallow ravine. Dirt, grass, and weeds flew through the air as a couple of shouts of pain and a long shriek were heard. The trapped Sooners fought back with return fire, including a couple of shotguns that boomed loudly among the pistols and rifles.
“On my command!” Grant loudly ordered again. “Fire at will! Fire!” A staccato of shooting built up from the cavalry weapons, quickly gaining in intensity. The professional soldiers coolly worked the loading and cocking mechanisms of their carbines as they maintained a steady pounding of heavy .45 caliber bullets into the target area.
One desperate Sooner broke out of the gully and attempted to escape. He caught the attention of several troopers. Numerous slugs simultaneously slammed into the man, whipping him around like a rag doll before sprawling him to the soft prairie earth. He shuddered, then slumped in death.
Grant allowed his men to ke
ep shooting for a full two minutes. The individual shots were fired so rapidly they sounded like one solid, unending roll of thunder. “Cease fire!” Grant ordered. The soldiers immediately broke off shooting, their battered eardrums buzzing in the eerie silence that followed. “There is no escape for you!” Grant yelled at the gully. “Don’t waste your lives for nothing! Come out with your hands up!” No answer came from the bullet-splashed gully. Grant took out his pocket watch and let a period of five minutes pass. Then, with his pistol in hand, he stood up. “As skirmishers!” he yelled. The troopers got to their feet, holding carbines at the ready. Under the squad leaders’ direction they quickly dressed toward the center, waiting for the order to move out. “Advance!”
They cautiously descended the slope, ready to respond to any hostile reaction. When they reached the edge of the gully, they peered down to see battered corpses scattered around a single wagon that was shot to pieces. A team of two mules was also dead. Sergeant Whitcomb shook his head. “I’m sorry about them ol’ mules.”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “Have the men stand fast. You and Lieutenant Glover come with me.”
The three senior men of the detachment made their way down the steeply-slanted embankment until they reached the bottom. A strong smell of whiskey hung over the area. Sergeant Whitcomb went to the wagon and looked over the splintered tailgate. “Damn! We shot up a lot o’ barrels o’ likker, sir.”
Grant looked inside. “There’s gambling equipment in here too.” Next he turned his attention to the corpses. “These are rough-looking characters.”
The dead men with frozen facial expressions showing the violence of their deaths, were sprawled in undignified positions. Their clothing had been rumpled and torn by the numerous slugs that penetrated their bodies. Thick streams of blood seeped from the corpses, soaking into the soft soil.
“It’s obvious they weren’t exactly leading citizens,” Grant said. He kicked a chuck-a-luck cage lying on the ground. “I’d say they were planning on having a saloon and gambling hall ready for business when the first new folks arrived in the territory.”
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