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 cottonwood 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 as 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.
“If you have any more trouble let me know.”
THE wagon bumped along over the trail which ran like a parting between two hairy stretches of buffalo grass. Wild roses made a mat of color along the roadway; not a faint pink, like Platteville roses, but a vivid rose-color that was almost red. Here and there a slope of snow-on-the mountain made white waves in the sea of green, and meadow phlox were blots of violet ink in the grass. Now and then they drove by homely little houses of sod or unpainted boards, bare and lonesome looking, with nothing to shade them or soften their rude outlines. Most of them had a door and a window; some of them had pumps; each one had a section of rusty stovepipe sticking out of the roof. Wherever there were children a flock of sunburned boys and girls, with bare brown legs and faded hair, ran out to see the Linvilles pass.
One boy had a dead snake, with dust-colored checks on its back, tied to a pole. The snake looked like a huge whip-lash, as he threw it after the wagon. Near one shack was chained a coyote, with a snarling mouth and shifting eyes, and the children had to hold Bronx to keep him from leaping out for a visit. Around each small shack there was a clearing, and in each one of these fields that looked like black patches on the green, a homesteader was plowing or planting. If his ground ran up hill, his black figure looked like a shadow picture against the blue sky.
Joan regretted the stretches of breaking. They were like torn patches on skin, she said, and she was sure the prairie didn’t like being cut up, that way. “It proba’ly hates people coming out here to stick shovels into it,” she remarked, jolting about in the wagon.
“I guess it’d rather have shovels stuck into it than tomahawks,” argued Phil.
“About the same thing,” retorted his sister. “That’s what plowing is — scalping the prairie.”
Phil took a virtuous turn: “It proba’ly prefers being useful and raising corn to running wild with roses.”
“Yes, it does! Raising corn is like going to school; raising wild roses is playing Saturdays. Don’t tell me which one it perfers!”
“Quit your arguing,” said Dick from the front seat. “Don’t you kids ever get tired of scrapping?”
Phil knew the perfect retaliation. “Bronx is going to be mine,” he said, pulling the dog on to his lap.
“He’s all of ours,” retorted Joan. “Mr. Cleaver said so.” She turned the glass globe lovingly in her hands, making the snowflakes fly. “He’s not like the paper weight, which belongs just to me.”
It was long past noon when the wagon drove up in front of the house. Becky went in to get lunch while Dick unharnessed the team. She heard him call from the barn and hurried out to hear.
“Red Haw has got away,” he said. Red Haw was the cow that the children had christened the first day on the claim.
“Where did you leave her?”
“Staked out back of the barn.”
“Could she have pulled away? That stake was a long one.”
“I don’t see how; I drove it way into the ground. But stake and all are gone. Do you suppose she’s gone back home?”
“Goodness, I hope not,” said Becky, looking worried. “Maybe she followed down the creek looking for better grass. We’ll go out hunting after lunch.”
“Perhaps I ought to start now.”
But Becky insisted that they eat first. No telling how long they might have to hunt after the lost cow. After lunch Dick put a saddle on the horse and followed the course of the creek westward. Becky took the two children and climbed the hill back of the house. From there she could see for miles across the green grass. No cow was in sight. She had half suspected their troublesome neighbors, but she could see every inch of the Welp barnyard, and no animal was there.
Dick returned in an hour without the cow. No one that he had questioned had seen her.
“Did you go up by the Welps?” asked Becky.
“No, but I was telling Mr. Trainer about Red Haw’s being missing when the Welp boy rode past his gateway. Trainer called to him to know if he’d seen anything of a red cow. The Welp boy pointed at me. ‘His cow?’ he said. Trainer said ‘yes.’ ‘The cow knows enough not to stay on a claim that doesn’t belong to her,’ he said, and rode away, laughing. Guess I’d better try the east hills,” and he started in the other direction with a sinking heart. Without the cow the food question became a serious one.
Meanwhile Becky and the two children scoured the claim. Becky felt sure that they would find her in the deep slough grass that lay along the creek, but no Red Haw was there, though they followed the banks for a couple of miles.
“I’ll bet the Welps have her,” said Phil. Becky echoed the thought, but she didn’t dare admit it, even to herself.
“Perhaps she wandered back to her old home.”
“But the people who sold her said that she always came in to be milked.”
Becky did not answer. She tried to think of what hopeful things Uncle Jim would have said, but her heart felt like a weight in her chest. How would they ever get through the year without milk? And they could not afford to buy another Red Haw.
The shadows had begun to lengthen when Dick returned. He came back empty-handed and discouraged. He had ridden miles along the creek-bed, hunting and inquiring, without a crumb of comfort.
“I’m going to turn in early,” he said, as he washed his dusty face and hands before his supper was eaten. “I s’pose I’ve got to ride into Dallas tomorrow and see if that fool cow has wandered back home. That’ll be another day wasted.”
“We’ll work while you’re gone,” comforted Becky. “The children and I can finish the potatoes.”
Dick laid an old piece of sacking in the box that the children had hunted out for a home for Bronx, and called the dog.
“Oh, can’t he stay in the house,” begged Phil. “I’m afraid he’ll run off, too.”
“If he runs off he’ll have to run. I don’t expect to spend my life teaching animals where their own fireside is,” said Dick gruffly. “Besides, I want him out-of-doors to greet any sneak thieves that happen by.”
Sometime in the night Becky was awakened by a bark, followed by the sound of heavy feet swishing through the grass. She got out of bed and went to the window. A cover of blue-black sky, alight with stars, cupped the earth. The wind had gone down and the prairie was so still that she could almost hear the silence. The last quarter of a moon shone full on the slope above her, and down the white trail trotted two figures. Red Haw was ahead, and at her heels, dusty and dew-drenched, with drooping tail, came Bronx.
The girl roused Dick, who put on enough clothes to go out and receive the lost member of the family. Becky slipped on shoes and shawl, and followed him out to the barn. Red Haw was already crouched on the straw, evidently weary from her trip.
“No wandering off about that,” said Dick indignantly. “She’s been milked, and the stake and rope are gone. And it was our brand new rope. Somebody’s had a hand in that.”
“Never mind the rope as long as the cow is back. Where do you suppose they hid her?”
“Bronx knows. Probably somewhere in the deep grass, for they’re both drenched with dew.”
“But how did he find her? He never knew there was a cow here.”
“Ask me something easier. Maybe he smelled her about the place and knew she wasn’t in the barn where cows belong. Maybe he just stumbled upon her by accident. Anyway, she’s here.”
“I’m going to feel a lot safer with him around.”
“So am I.” Dick stooped down and patted the dog. Then he locked the barn door, and the three walked back to the house together. Bronx crept in on the sacking and turned himself around twice before he settled down for the night.
Becky patted his wet fur. “It isn’t going to be so easy to steal cows after this,” she said.
The frogs were still croaking when she dropped back to sleep.
CHAPTER V
The Jumping-Off Place Page 6