The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

by Margaret Hill McCarter

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE COST OF SAFETY

  In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then.

  --LONGFELLOW.

  It was just half past one o'clock when the sweet-toned bell in thePresbyterian Church steeple began to ring. Dr. Hemingway was at the ropein the belfry. His part was to give us our signal. At the first peal thewindows of every Union home blazed with light. The doors were flung wideopen, and a song--one song--rose on the cool still night.

  O say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming! O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

  It was sung in strong, clear tones as I shall never hear it sung again;and the echoes of many voices, and the swelling music of that old churchbell, floated down the Neosho Valley, mingling with the rushing of theturbulent waters.

  It was Cam Gentry's plan, this weapon of light and song. The Lord didhave a work for him to do, as Dr. Hemingway had said.

  "Boys," he had counselled us under the oak, "we can't match 'em in apitched battle. They're armed an' ready, and you ain't and you can't donothing in the dark. But let every house be ready, just as Phil hasplanned. Warn them quietly, and when the church bell rings, let everywinder be full of light, every door wide open, and everybody sing."

  He could roar bass himself to be heard across the State line, and thatnight he fairly boomed with song.

  "They're dirty cowards, and can't work only in the dark and secretquiet. Give 'em light and song. Let 'em know we are wide awake and notafraid, an' if Gideon ever had the Midianites on the hike, you'll havethem pisen Copperheads goin'. They'll never dast to show a coil, thesarpents! cause that's not the way they fight; an' they'll be whollyonprepared, and surprised."

  Just before the ringing of the signal bell, the boys had met again byappointment under the tavern oak. Two things we had agreed upon when wemet there first. One was a pledge of secrecy as to the part of youngTell and Jim in our work and to the part of Mapleson and Conlow in theplot, for the sake of their boys, who were loyal to the town. The otherwas to say nothing of Jean's act. Marjie was the light of Springvale,and we knew what the news would mean. We must first save the homes,quietly and swiftly. Other calamities would follow fast enough. In thedarkness now, Bud Anderson put both arms around me.

  "Phil," he whispered, "you're my king. You muth go to her mother now. Inthe morning, your Aunt Candathe will come to her. Maybe in the daylightwe can find Marjie. He can't get far, unleth the river--"

  He held me tight in his arms, that manly, tender-hearted boy. Then Istaggered away like one in a dream toward the Whately house. We had notyet warned Mrs. Whately, for we knew her home was to be spared, and ourhands were full of what must be done on the instant. Time never seemedso precious to me as in those dreadful minutes when we roused thatsleeping town. I know now how Paul Revere felt when he rode toLexington.

  But now my cold knuckles fell like lead against Mrs. Whately's door, andmechanically I gave the low signal whistle I had been wont to give toMarjie. Like a mockery came the clear trill from within. But there wasno mockery in the quick opening of the casement above me, where a dimlight now gleamed, nor in the flinging up of the curtain, and it was nota spirit but a real face with a crown of curly hair that was outlined inthe gloom. And a voice, Marjie's sweet voice, called anxiously:

  "Is that you, Phil? I'll be right down." Then the light disappeared, andI heard the patter of feet on the stairs; then the front door opened andI walked straight into heaven. For there stood Marjie, safe and strong,before me--my Marjie, escaped from the grave, or from that living hellthat is worse than death, captivity in the hands of an Indian devil.

  "What's the matter, Phil?"

  "Marjie, can it be you? How did you ever get back?"

  She looked at me wonderingly.

  "Why, I was only down there at Judson's. The baby's sick and Mrs. Judsonsent for me after ten o'clock. I didn't come away till midnight. She maysend for me again at any minute,--that's why I'm not in bed. I wanted tostay with her, but she made me come home on mother's account. I ran homeby myself. I wasn't afraid. I heard a horse galloping away just beforeI got up to the gate. But what is the matter, Phil?"

  I stood there wholly sure now that I was in Paradise. Jean had not triedto get her after all. She was here, and no harm had touched her. Tellhad not understood. Jean had been in the middle of this night's businesssomewhere, I felt sure, but he had done no one any harm. After all hehad been true to his promise to be a good Indian, and Le Claire hadmisjudged him.

  "You didn't see who was on the horse, did you?"

  "No. Just as I started from Mrs. Judson's, O'mie came flying by me. Helooked so funny. He had on the waterproof cloak I loaned him last night,hood and all, and his face was just as white as milk. I thought he was agirl at first. He called to me almost in a whisper. 'Don't hurry a bit,Marjie,' he said; 'I'm taking your cloak home.' But I couldn't find itanywhere about the door. O'mie is always doing the oddest things!"

  Just then the church bell began to ring, and together we put on thelights and joined in the song. Its inspiration drove everything beforeit. I did not stay long with Marjie, however, for there was much for meto do, and I seemed to have stepped from a world of horror and darknessinto a heaven of light. How I wished O'mie would come in! I had notfound him in all that hour, ages long to us, in which we had done thismuch of our work for the town. But I was sure of O'mie.

  "He's doing good business somewhere," I said. "Bless his red head. He'llnever quit so long as there's a thing to do."

  There was no rest for anybody in Springvale that night. As Cam Gentryhad predicted, not a torch blazed; and the attacking party, thrown intoconfusion by the sudden blocking of their secret plan of assault, didnot rally. Our next task was to make sure against the Indians, therumor of whose coming grew everywhere, and the fear of a daybreakmassacre kept us all keyed to the pitch of terrible expectancy.

  The town had four strongholds, the tavern, the Whately store, thePresbyterian Church, and my father's house. All these buildings were ofstone, with walls of unusual thickness. Into these the women andchildren were gathered as soon as we felt sure the enemy in our midstwas outdone. Dr. Hemingway took command of the church. Cam Gentry at hisown door was a host.

  "I can see who goes in and out of the Cambridge House; I reckon, if Ican't tell a Reb from a Bluecoat out in a battle," he declared, as heopened his doors to the first little group of mothers and children whocame to him for protection. "I can see safety for every one of youhere," he added with that cheery laugh that made us all love him. AuntCandace was the strong guardian in our home up on Cliff Street. Welooked for O'mie to take care of the store, but he was nowhere to beseen and that duty was given to Grandpa Mead, whose fiery Union spiritdid not accord with his halting step and snowy hair.

  A patrol guard was quickly formed, and sentinels were stationed on thesouth and west. On the north and east the flooded Neosho was a perfectwall of water round about us.

  Since that Maytime, I have lived through many days of peril andsuffering, and I have more than once walked bravely as I might along thepath at whose end I knew was an open grave, but never to me has comeanother such night of terror. In all the town there were not a dozenmen, loyal supporters of the Union cause, who had a fighting strength.On the eight stalwart boys, and the quickness and shrewdness of littleO'mie, the salvation of Springvale rested. After that awful night I wasnever a boy again. Henceforth I was a man, with a man's work and a man'sspirit.

  The daylight was never so welcome before, and never a grander sunrisefilled the earth with its splendor. I was up on the bluff patrolling thenorthwest boundary when the dawn began to purple the east. Oh, many atime have I watched the sunrise beyond the Neosho Valley,
but on thisrare May morning every shaft of light, every tint of roseate beautyalong the horizon, every heap of feathery mist that decked the Plains,with the Neosho, bank-full, sweeping like molten silver below it--allthese took on a new loveliness. Eagerly, however, I scanned thesouthwest where the level beams of day were driving back the graymorning twilight, and the green prairie billows were swelling out of thegloom. Point by point, I watched every landmark take form, waiting tosee if each new blot on the landscape might not be the first of thedreaded Indian bands whose coming we so feared.

  With daybreak, came assurance. Somehow I could not believe that a landso beautiful and a village so peaceful could be threshed and stained andblackened by the fire and massacre of a savage band allied to adisloyal, rebellious host. And yet, I had lived these stormy years inKansas and the border strife has never all been told. I dared not relaxmy vigilance, so I watched the south and west, trusting to the river totake care of the east.

  And so it happened that, sentinel as I was, I had not seen the approachof a horseman from the northwest, until Father Le Claire came upon mesuddenly. His horse was jaded with travel, and he sat it wearily. Apallor overspread his brown cheeks. His garments were wet andmud-splashed.

  "Oh, Father Le Claire," I cried, "nobody except my own father could bemore welcome. Where have you been?"

  "I am not too late, then!" he exclaimed, ignoring my question. His eyesquickly took in the town. No smoke was rising from the kitchen firesthis morning, for the homes were deserted. "You are safe still?" He gavea great gasp of relief. Then he turned and looked steadily into my eyes.

  "It has been bought with a price," he said simply. "Three days ago Ileft you a boy. I come back to find you a man. Where's O'mie?"

  "D--down there, I think."

  It dawned on me suddenly that not one of us had seen or heard of O'miesince he left Tell and Jim at the shop just before midnight. Marjie hadseen him a few minutes later, and so had Cam Gentry. But where was heafter that? Much as we had needed him, we had had no time to hunt forhim. Places had to be filled by those at hand in the dreadful necessitybefore us. We could count on O'mie, of course. He was no coward, norlaggard; but where could he have kept himself?

  "What has happened, Philip?" the priest asked.

  Briefly I told him, ending with the story of the threatening terror ofan Indian invasion.

  "They will not come, Philip. Do not fear. That danger is cut off. TheKiowas, who were on their way to Springvale, have all turned back andthey are far away. I know."

  His assurance was balm to my soul. And my nerves, on the rack for thesethree days, with the culmination of the last six hours seemed suddenlyto snap within me.

  "Go home and rest now," said Father Le Claire. "I will take the wordalong the line. Come down to the tavern at nine o'clock."

  Aunt Candace had hot coffee and biscuit and maple syrup from oldVermont, with ham and eggs, all ready for me. The blessed comfort of ahome, safe from harm once more, filled me with a sense of rest. Notuntil it was lifted did I realize how heavy was the burden I had carriedthrough those May nights and days.

  Long before nine o'clock, the tavern yard was full of excited people,all eagerly talking of the events of the last few hours. We had hardlytaken our bearings yet, but we had an assurance that the perils of thenight no longer threatened us. The strange men who had filled the townthe evening before had all disappeared, but in the company here weremany whom we knew to be enemies in the dark. Yet they mingled boldlywith the others, assuming a loyalty for their own purposes. In thecrowd, too, was Jean Pahusca, impenetrable of countenance, indifferentto the occasion as a thing that could not concern him. His red blanketwas gone and his leather trousers and dark flannel shirt displayed hissuperb muscular form. There was no knife in his belt now, and he carriedno other weapon. With his soft dark hair and the ruddy color showing inhis cheeks, he was dangerously handsome to a romantic eye. Among all itsenemies, he had been loyal to Springvale. My better self rebuked mydistrust, and my heart softened toward him. His plan with the raiders toseize Marjie must have been his crude notion of saving her from a worseperil. When he knew she was safe he had dropped out of sight in thedarkness.

  The boys who had done the work of the night before suddenly becameheroes. Not all of us had come together here, however. Tell was keepingstore up at the "Last Chance," and Jim was seeing to the forge fire,while the father of each boy sauntered about in the tavern yard.

  "You won't tell anybody about father," Tell pleaded before he left us."He never planned it, indeed he didn't. It was old man Dodd and Yeagerand them other strangers."

  I can picture now the Reverend Mr. Dodd, piously serious, sitting on thetavern veranda at that moment, a disinterested listener to what laybelow his spiritual plane of life. Just above his temple was a deepbruise, and his right hand was bound with a white bandage. Five yearslater, one dark September night, by the dry bed of the Arickaree Creekin Colorado, I heard the story of that bandage and that bruise.

  "And you'll be sure to keep still about my dad, too, won't you?" JimConlow urged. "He's bad, but--" as if he could find no other excuse, headded grinning, "I don't believe he's right bright; and Tell and me doneour best anyhow."

  Their best! These two had braved the worst of foes, with those of theirown flesh and blood against them. We would keep their secret fastenough, nor should anyone know from the boys who of our own townspeoplewere in the plot. I believe now that Conlow would have killed Jim had hesuspected the boy's part in that night's work. I have never broken faithwith Jim, although Heaven knows I have had cause enough to wish never tohear the name of Conlow again.

  One more boy was not in our line, O'mie, still missing from the ranks,and now my heart was heavy. Everybody else seemed to forget him in theexcitement, however, and I hoped all was well.

  On the veranda a group was crowding about Father Le Claire, listening towhat he had to say. Nobody tried to do business in our town that day.Men and women and children stood about in groups, glad to be alive andto know that their homes were safe. It was a sight one may not seetwice in a lifetime. And the thrill within me, that I had helped alittle toward this safety, brought a pleasure unlike any other joy Ihave ever known.

  "Where's Aunt Candace?" I asked Dollie Gentry, who had grasped my arm asif she would ring it from my shoulder.

  "Hadn't you heard?" Dollie's eyes filled with tears. "Judson's baby diedthis mornin'. Judson he can't get across Fingal's Creek or some of thedraws, to get home, and the fright last night was too much for Mis'Judson. She fainted away, an' when she come to, the baby was dead. I'mcookin' a good meal for all of 'em. Land knows, carin' for the littlecorpse is all they can do without botherin' to cook."

  Good Mrs. Gentry used her one talent for everybody's comfort. And as forthe Judsons, theirs was one of the wayside tragedies that keep everalongside the line of civil strife.

  They made room for us on the veranda, six husky Kansas bred fellows,hardly more than half-way through our teens, and we fell in with thegroup about Father Le Claire. He gave us a searching glance, and hisface clouded. Good Dr. Hemingway beside him was eager for his story.

  "Tell us the whole thing," he urged. "Then we can understand our part init. Surely the arm of the Lord was not shortened for us last night."

  "It is a strange story, Dr. Hemingway, with a strange and tragicending," replied the priest. He related then the plot which O'mie hadheard set forth by the strangers in our town. "I left at once to warnthe Osages, believing I could return before last night."

  "Them Osages is a cussed ornery lot, if that Jean out on the edge ofthe crowd there is a sample," a man from the west side of town broke in.

  "They are true blue, and Jean is not an Osage; he's a Kiowa," Le Clairereplied quietly.

  "What of him ain't French," declared Cam Gentry. "That's where hisdurned meanness comes in biggest. Not but what a Kiowa's rotten enough.But sence he didn't seem to take part in this doings last night, I guesswe can stand him a little while longer."

  Fa
ther Le Claire's face flushed. Then a pallor overspread the flame.His likeness to the Indian flashed up with that flush. So had I seenPahusca flush with anger, and a paleness cover his coppery countenance.Self-mastery was a part of the good man's religion, however, and in avoice calm but full of sympathy he told us of the tragic events whoseevil promise had overshadowed our town with an awful peril.

  It was a well-planned, cold-blooded horror, this scheme of the SouthernConfederacy, to unite the fierce tribes of the Southwest against theunprotected Union frontier. And with the border raiders on the one sideand the hostile Indians on the other, small chance of life would havebeen left to any Union man, woman, or child in all this wide, beautifulKansas. In the four years of the Civil War no cruelty could haveexceeded the consequences of this conspiracy.

  Unity of purpose has ever been lacking to the red race. No federationhas been possible to it except as that federation is controlled by theEuropean brain. The controlling power in the execution of this dastardlycrime lay with desperate but eminently able white men. Their appeal tothe Osages, however, was a fruitless one. For a third of a century thefaithful Jesuits had labored with this tribe. Not in vain was theirseed-sowing.

  Le Claire reached the Osages only an hour before an emissary from theleaders of this infamous plot came to the Mission. The presence of thepriest counted so mightily, that this call to an Indian confederacy fellupon deaf ears, and the messenger departed to rejoin his superiors. Henever found them, for a sudden and tragic ending had come to theconspiracy.

  It was a busy day in Kansas annals when that company of Rebel officerscame riding up from the South to band together the lawless savages andthe outlawed raiders against a loyal commonwealth. Humboldt was the mostsouthern Union garrison in Kansas at that time. South of it the Osagesdid much scout duty for the Government, and it held them responsible forany invasion of this strip of neutral soil between the North and theSouth. Out in the Verdigris River country, in this Maytime, a littlecompany of Osage braves on the way from their village to visit theMission came face to face with this band of invaders in the neutralland. The presence of a score of strange men armed and mounted, thoughthey were dressed as Union soldiers, must be accounted for, theseIndians reasoned.

  The scouts were moved only by an unlettered loyalty to the flag. Theyhad no notion of the real purpose of these invaders. The white men hadonly contempt for the authority of a handful of red men calling them toaccount, and they foolishly fired into the Indian band. It was a fatalfoolishness. Two braves fell to the earth, pierced by their bullets. Thelittle body of red men dropped over on the sides of their ponies andwere soon beyond gun range, while their opponents went on their way. Butbriefly only, for, reinforced by a hundred painted braves, the wholefighting strength of their little village, the Osages came out forvengeance. Near a bend in the Verdigris River the two forces cametogether. Across a scope five miles wide they battled. The white menmust have died bravely, for they fought stubbornly, foot by foot, as theIndians drove them into that fatal loop of the river. It is deep andswift here. Down on the sands by its very edge they fell. Not a whiteman escaped. The Indians, after their savage fashion, gathered thebooty, leaving a score of naked, mutilated bodies by the river's side.It was a cruel bit of Western warfare, yet it held back from Kansas adiabolical outrage, whose suffering and horror only those who know theSouthwest tribes can picture. And strangely enough, the power thatstayed the evil lay with a handful of faithful Indian scouts.

  The story of the massacre soon reached the Mission. Dreadful as it was,it lifted a burden from Le Claire's mind; but the news that theComanches and the Kiowas, unable to restrain their tribes, were alreadyon the war-path, filed him with dread.

  A twenty-four hours' rain, with cloudbursts along the way, was nowsending the Neosho and Verdigris Rivers miles wide, across theirvalleys. It was impossible for him to intercept these tribes until thestream should fall. The priest perfected his plans for overtaking themby swift messengers to be sent out from the Mission at the earliestmoment, and then he turned his horse upstream toward Springvale. All dayhe rode with all speed to the northward. The ways were sodden with theheavy rains, and the smaller streams were troublesome to the horseman.Night fell long before he had come to the upper Neosho Valley. With thedarkness his anxiety deepened. A thousand chances might befall to bringdisaster before he could reach us.

  The hours of the black night dragged on, and northward still the priesthurried. It was long after midnight when he found himself on the bluffopposite the town. Between him and Springvale the Neosho rushed madly,and the oak grove of the bottom land was only black treetops above, andwater below. All hope of a safe passage across the river here vanished,for he durst not try the angry waters.

  "There must have been heavier rains here than down the stream," hethought. "Pray Heaven the messengers may reach the Kiowas before theyfall upon any of the settlements in the south. I must go farther up tocross. O God, grant that no evil may threaten that town over there!"

  Turning to look once more at the dark valley his eye caught a gleam oflight far down the river.

  "That must be Jean down at the Hermit's Hole," he said to himself. "Iwonder I never tried to follow him there. But if he's down the river itis better for Springvale, anyhow."

  All this the priest told to the eager crowd on the veranda of theCambridge House that morning. But regarding the light and his thought ofit, he did not tell us then, nor how, through all and all, his greatfear for Springvale was on account of Jean Pahusca's presence there. Heknew the Indian's power; and now that the fierce passion of love for agirl and hatred of a rival, were at fever pitch, he dared not think whatmight follow, neither did he tell us how bitterly he was upbraidinghimself for having charged O'mie with secrecy.

  He had not yet caught sight of the Irish boy; and Jean, who had himselfkept clear of the evil intent against Springvale the night before, hadstudiously kept the crowd between the priest and himself. We did notnote this then, for we were spell-bound by the story of the Confederateconspiracy and of Father Le Claire's efforts for our safety.

  "The Kiowas, who were on the war-path, have been cut off by theVerdigris," he concluded. "The waters, that kept me away from Springvaleon this side, kept them off in the southwest. The Osages did us God'sservice in our peril, albeit their means were cruel after the manner ofthe savage."

  A silence fell upon the group on the veranda, as the enormity of what wehad escaped dawned upon us.

  "Let us thank God that in his ways, past finding out, He has notforsaken his children." Dr. Hemingway spoke fervently.

  I looked out on the broad street and down toward the river shining inthe May sunlight. The air was very fresh and sweet. The oak trees, werein their heaviest green, and in the glorious light of day the commonestthings in this little frontier town looked good to me. Across my visionthere swept the picture of that wide, swift-flowing Verdigris River, andof the dead whose blood stained darkly that fatal sand-bar, their nakedbodies hacked by savage fury, waiting the coming of pitiful hands togive them shelter in the bosom of the earth. And then I thought of allthese beautiful prairies which the plough was beginning to subdue, ofthe homesteads whose chimney smoke I had seen many a morning from mywindows up on Cliff Street. I thought of the little towns andunprotected villages, and of what an Indian raid would mean tothese,--of murdered men and burning houses, and women dragged away intoa slavery too awful to picture. I thought of Marjie and of what she hadescaped. And then clear, as if he were beside me, I heard O'mie's voice:

  "Phil, oh, Phil, come, come!" it pleaded.

  I started up and stared around me.