“But my uncle filed on twenty-three last fall, the night the land was thrown open.”
“He’s pretty late in getting his residence started. Why wasn’t he around the first of March? That’s when residence began.”
“Because he was dying.”
“He should ’a’ come out here to die if he wanted the claim. He’s lost it now; funerals don’t cut no odds with the guv-ment. I been here since the first day of March, I got my crops in and witnesses to prove it, and plenty of neighbors to swear that there wasn’t a rag of you folks around here on March first. Everybody thought you’d given up. I come in and plant my corn and make my improvements, and then you show your sassy face and claim the land’s yours. You got a swell chance of proving it! My advice to you is to tell your folks to pull up stakes and git back where they come from. If they stay around here they’re likely to git something more than a contest filed agin ’em.”
The lighted doorway was full of heads. Back of the man a woman’s voice spoke a few words in a low tone.
“You shut yer click,” said her husband. “Keep out o’ what don’t concern you.” He turned to Dick. “And as fer you, young feller, you get out o’ here, quick. Keep away from that spring o’ mine, and get off my land if you want to keep out of trouble. I give you three days to pack up; if you and your stealing family ain’t out of this section by that time there’s going to be something doing around these parts!”
CHAPTER IV
TROUBLES
Becky scarcely slept that night. The next morning, early, she and Dick were on their way to the Wubber claim, which lay to the north of what they had just begun to call home. The Wubbers’ barn was built of sod, from which an occasional tuft of dried grass still waved in the breeze. The shack was of plank with a roof of corrugated iron which made a loud banging noise when the wind cut under its edges. There was a well and a chicken house and a “cave” in which the family kept their milk and butter, when Mrs. Wubber felt disposed to churn.
She was sitting in the open doorway in the only rocker—a large-framed woman, shaped very like her own churn. Gum in her mouth, an enormous man-sized pair of sandals on her stockingless feet, she was rocking and rocking and rocking. Her placidity and satisfaction with life was, somehow, an aggravation to the worried guests.
She did not rise from her chair to greet them, but her manner was cordial. “Come in, you-alls. You must be our new neighbors. Crystal, you and Autie bring two chairs. Set down and make yourselves easy-boned. Was you needin’ your east cake?”
Dick told his errand, while Mrs. Wubber rocked and listened. The tow-headed children stood in groups around the three chairs. “Run and tell your paw who’s here,” she admonished them. “You got to take me just as I am,” she told Becky, “I ain’t got started at my work, yet.” She caught Autumn around the neck, and gave him an indulgent spat. “Dirty boy, ain’t had his face washed yet,” she apologized fondly.
Mr. Wubber came in from the barn with a pail of milk in either hand. He set them in the corner, to the loud accompaniment of buzzing flies. Then he pulled up a soap box and sat down to listen to the story of the night before.
“That’s Welp, all right,” he said. “He’s a mean cuss.”
“Did you know he was living on our claim when you drove our goods out, yesterday?”
“Oh, yaas,” said Mr. Wubber easily.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I hated to start you in with bad news. I ain’t never seen his place, but I’ve seen him, and if he’s as mean as he looks he’s a terror. Trainer, his neighbor on the section south, has had a lot of trouble with him—lost chickens and tools and that kind of business.”
“Has Welp been here long?”
“Well, he come out some time during the fall, I don’t know just when. He put up such a poor kind of shack that nobody thought he was going to stick it out. When spring first came he brought his family up here from Gregory County, and did his planting, they tell me. Maybe now he intends to stay.”
“Did he file at the land office?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I heerd someone say, in the early winter, that he was going to contest your claim.”
“Do you suppose he would have a chance of winning?”
“I don’t know but he would, and I don’t know as he would,” said Mr. Wubber cheerily. “You never can tell what a president’s going to decide. What are you—Republicans or Democrats?”
“Republicans.”
“That’s in your favor.”
“I’d druther see you get it,” remarked Mrs. Wubber. “Anyone can see that you-all have some refinement and been nice-raised. And that’s the kind of neighbors I want for my childern—folks like ourselves.”
“It’s a good piece of land,” said her husband. “It’s worth fighting for. If I was you I’d scrap it out. Of course you wasn’t on the land when you should ’a’ been, this spring, but that wasn’t your fault, and you probably got the death stiffi-cate to prove it. Those Welps can make things pretty lively for you—they’ve got two cussed mean boys—but I’d stick it out if I was you.”
“I wonder what the law would say about it.”
“Dunno,” said Mr. Wubber, “I ain’t no lawyer; there ain’t a law book in the house. Why don’t you go to see someone that has one?”
“We haven’t any money to spend on legal advice.”
“Why don’t you ask Cleaver about it? He’s in the land business, as well as lumber, and has had a chance to hear of all kinds of contests. He’s a white man, too; he’ll advise you right.”
Becky and Dick looked at each other. “We really haven’t any time to spend on it,” said the girl, more to her brother than to Mr. Wubber. “We ought to get in those potatoes, today. But we’re so worried that we won’t sleep till we know if our planting is all going to be wasted. I hate to lose two days, but I do think we’d better drive in to Dallas and see him, Dick.”
“You won’t have to go to Dallas if you go today,” advised their neighbor.
“Why not?”
“Because he always spends this part of the week at Winner, ten miles north of here. He has his land office there.”
“Let’s go,” said Dick.
Mrs. Wubber rocked comfortably back and forth, keeping time to the rocker with her gum. “Always best to start right at a job if it does put you out a bit,” she approved.
“We’ll have to go back and get the children,” said Becky. “I’m afraid to leave them on the claim alone.”
“Good luck to you,” called Mr. Wubber, as they started back across the prairie. “If you get into a contest I’ll be willing to testify that I seen your uncle pass my place the night he squatted.”
* * * *
The Linville children found Mr. Cleaver in his office in the little flat town of Winner—a town set down like a toy village on the prairie. It was comforting to have an adult to consult, even though he gave them no definite encouragement.
“Too bad you’re in for a contest,” he said, when he heard their story. “I know this man Welp—he’s a worthless sort of a villain—but I didn’t know he’d squatted on your claim. If I had I’d have written your uncle advising you not to come out. You kids are too young to have a fight on your hands.”
Becky looked worried, but Dick grinned. “We’ve had a lot of experience with scraps. There are four of us, you know.”
“Not just this kind of scrap. Welp is a mean man to deal with.”
“How much chance has he of winning?”
“That’s hard to say. It’s the Department of the Interior that will decide the case on its merits. Your uncle squatted in September, didn’t he?”
“The last night of August.”
“And he filed right away?”
“Yes, he crossed the line at midnight, drove his stakes, and set up his two-by-fours. Then he rode horseback to Gregory and filed his application at the land office.”
“When did Welp come on the land?”
“We don’t k
now. I can’t believe he was here when Uncle Jim came back to build; he would certainly have seen him.”
“How much improvement has he made?”
“Nothing built but a miserable little shack, and a rickety sort of a barn. But he has quite a lot of ground broken.”
Mr. Cleaver drew circles on the blotter in front of him. “Of course you should have been on the land the first of March. The law says you must establish residence within six months of your filing.”
“On the first of March Uncle wasn’t able to speak a word.”
“No doubt about your having a valid excuse for not coming. You certainly have justice on your side. But I’ve lived long enough to know that law is not always justice.”
“What does the law say about contests?” asked Becky.
Mr. Cleaver wheeled in his chair and took down a red-bound book from the shelf.
“Are you a lawyer?” asked Phil.
“I’m a jack of all trades. I’ve been ‘doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,’ since I landed in this neck of the woods. I’ve even done plumbing and plastering and read funeral services. You have to in new country. Here we are.” He turned the pages to the place he wanted, and read aloud:
As between conflicting claims to public lands, he whose initiation is first in time, if adequately followed up, is deemed first in right.
“Well, that certainly was Uncle Jim,” said Dick.
“Yes, the initiation; but how about the ‘adequately followed up,’” asked Becky anxiously.
Mr. Cleaver went on:
…The first one acquiring actual, peaceable, physical possession of the location on unoccupied land of the United States, not reserved from such location, placing substantial improvements thereon, and continuing the same to completion…acquires the better right.
“I wouldn’t call Welp’s possession ‘peaceable’ so far,” commented Dick. “I’ll bet anything it was either he or his ole boys that broke our pump and windows.”
…If, at any time after filing the affidavit…it is proved, after due notice to the settler, to the satisfaction of the register of the land office, that the person having filed such affidavit has failed to establish residence within six months of the date of entry…the land so entered shall revert to the government.
“We never had any ‘due notice,’” said Becky. Mr. Cleaver turned back several pages:
Whenever a homestead entry has been made, followed by no settlement on the part of the one making that entry, and that homestead entry has, by lapse of time…been ended, anyone in actual possession as a settler and occupier of the land has a prior right to perfect title thereto.
“Gee,” said Dick. “That looks bad for us, if I get the hang of those theretos.”
Becky’s face was tragic. “I hope Uncle Jim doesn’t know about it.”
Joan looked up from an enchanting paper weight which had held her speechless since her entrance to the office. It was a glass globe, in the heart of which were two tiny figures under an umbrella. When you shook the weight a blizzard of snowflakes fell fast and furious on the little couple, who withstood the elements with happy smiles. She laid the fascinating thing back on Mr. Cleaver’s desk. “Are the Welpses going to take the creek away from us?” she asked.
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” said Mr. Cleaver heartily. “You’ll learn to swim in that creek yet, Joan.” Then he turned to the two older children. “Don’t begin to worry about things. I don’t have much idea that man can ever take that claim away from you. What the government wants is the assurance that the settler intends to make of the land a real homestead, and you would have no trouble proving that your uncle took up the claim with that idea. In the second place, I doubt that Welp could ever raise money enough to pay for a contest. That’s expensive business, and he’s a worthless no-account loafer, who has no credit left anywhere in this part of the country. How he got his breaking done I don’t see. I don’t think he’d ever have the energy to plow it himself. How much breaking have you got?”
“Only about fifteen acres, which were plowed last fall. Uncle Jim didn’t want us to try farming. He said that if we ran the garden and got enough corn for the animals we’d be doing well. And even if we did want to break more, we couldn’t; we have no plow and we can’t afford to hire it done. We’ll do well to take care of what we have.”
“Well,” advised Mr. Cleaver, “if you can’t prove ‘substantial improvements’ by cultivated land, you’ll have to do it in some other way. I judge from your description of the Welp shack that it’s no palace—”
“We’d call it a chicken house, back in Platteville,” said Phil.
“And their barn is probably nothing but a shanty. Unless they put in more money than I think they possess they’ll find it hard to convince Uncle Sam that it is a permanent home. I have an idea that they’ll melt away in the fall before cold weather sets in, but of course we can’t count on that. What you kids must do is to set to work to make that place of yours look like a home. Get things growing around it, and a few trees started. Maybe later in the year you can fence a small part of it. Keep your ground as neat as you can—the prairie wind will help you with that. Then if your neighbor files his contest we’ll send kodak pictures of the two places to Washington, and we’ll see Welp get it!”
“But we haven’t time to do all that, now,” said Dick. “We’re way behind with our garden, and we have to get that planted or we’ll have nothing to eat next year. We’re not settled in the house—just barely moved in; all that corn has to be planted; and the potatoes—why Mr. Cleaver, you haven’t any idea how many potatoes we four eat!”
Becky opened her eyes wider. Astonishment was written all over her face. Was this Dick Linville, the track team captain, talking about keeping the larder full next winter?
“Well, you don’t have to do everything in a minute,” comforted Mr. Linville. “Get your garden planted first, just as your uncle planned; then go at your corn. The other improvements can wait; you’ll probably be at them all summer. As for your being behind time, you may be late according to the calendar, but not much according to the weather. Dakota is not Wisconsin, you know. On the first of May we had a two days’ blizzard here last year.”
Becky looked comforted. “If we can do it a little at a time it won’t be so hard.”
“Well, that’s the way to go at it—day by day. If you start too strong in the beginning you’ll be sick, and that won’t help you along. Let the settling of your house go for a few weeks till your planting’s done. In the meantime can’t you get a tree or two started around the house? Go down to that little thicket that is on the edge of your land and see if you can’t find an aspen or a cotton-wood that is small enough to transplant. They grow rapidly, and nothing makes a place look civilized as fast as a tree.”
“I’ll get a half dozen,” promised Dick.
“Hold on, young man; wait until you’ve tried to dig a hole for them in that wild-rose-y soil. You’ll think one is enough then. Get everything around the place looking as habitable as you can, and some day, when your vines and your fig trees are started, I’ll come out and take a picture of the claim. Then if that Welp—he certainly is named right!—files a contest on us, we’ll be ready for him.”
The word “us” went straight to Becky’s heart. Dakota seemed less large and lonesome and the Linvilles less stranded if there was someone with them. “I don’t know how we can ever thank you for this advice.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Cleaver. “Who doesn’t love to give advice? Besides, you’ll probably never need it; I haven’t much fear of Welp filing a contest. My only worry is that he and his worthless family will make trouble for you all summer. Of course they can if they’re so disposed. However, we needn’t borrow any trouble. Go your own way, pay no attention to his threats, and if his kids come around your place untie the dog.”
“I wish we had one,” said Becky.
“No dog?”
“No, Uncle Jim told us to get one a
s soon as we could. We’d love a dog.”
“Well, stop worrying about things. I don’t believe we’re going to lose that claim, but of course we don’t want to be caught napping. If you want to keep it—you’re sure you do want to, aren’t you?”
“Sure!” chorused the four voices.
“Then you all set to work to make it look just as much like home as you can. You’ve had a home, and you ought to know how they look, better than the Welp family, who have never had a real one. Sister, do you like that glass blizzard?”
Joan smiled one of her rare smiles.
“Then you put it in your pocket and take it along home with you. You probably aren’t used to prairie wind, so you don’t know that no Dakota claim is complete without a paper weight.”
The children rose to go. “Hold on,” said Mr. Cleaver, “If you’ll wait for a moment I’ll drive out to the edge of town with you; I have an errand out that way.”
“We have a few errands here ourselves,” said Becky. “Table oilcloth, and safety pins and sticky fly paper; all things that are zero in shopping trips. But there are a trillion flies in the shack, and they drive us crazy.”
“All right,” said Mr. Cleaver. “Say we meet in front of my office in half an hour; that’ll give us both time.”
They found him waiting in the wagon when they returned with their bundles. He laid on Becky’s lap a number of bright-colored envelopes. “For your garden, Mistress Mary. Coreopsis and cornflowers to sow broadcast, and some cosmos to try. The coreopsis grows wild out here: it ought to do well.”
Joan gave his arm a shy squeeze. “You seem like Platteville,” she said. And Mr. Cleaver looked as though he understood.
On the outskirts of the town he went into a farm yard, leaving the children outside. When he came back a dog followed him, a large, reddish dog, with an intelligent head and bright eyes. He whistled to it, and patted the wagon box invitingly. The animal leaped in, wagging his tail at the exclamation of the children.
“There’s your dog,” said Mr. Cleaver. “Two years old; part collie and part shepherd. Well trained for cows, and safe with kids. I only hope he won’t be safe for everybody else. Now I’ll feel easier about you. Speak up, Bronx, and salute your new family; you’re going home.” And with a wave of his hand, Mr. Cleaver turned back to Winner. He stopped before he reached the turn in the road. “Hey,” he called. Dick drew up the horses.
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