The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

by Margaret Hill McCarter

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING

  Also Time runnin' into years-- A thousand Places left be'ind; An' Men from both two 'emispheres Discussin' things of every kind; So much more near than I 'ad known, So much more great than I 'ad guessed-- An' me, like all the rest, alone, But reachin' out to all the rest!

  --KIPLING.

  "Uncle Cam, where is O'mie? I haven't seen him yet," I broke in upon theolder men in the council. "Could anything have happened to him?"

  The priest rose hurriedly.

  "I have been hoping to see him every minute," he said. "Has anybody seenhim this morning?"

  A flurry followed. Everybody thought he had seen somebody else who hadbeen with O'mie, but nobody, first hand, could report of him.

  "Why, I thought he was with the boys," Cam Gentry exclaimed. "Nobodycould keep track of nobody else last night."

  "I thought I saw him this morning," said Dr. Hemingway."But"--hesitatingly--"I do not believe I did either. I just had him inmind as I watched Henry Anderson's boys go by."

  "All three of us are not equal to one O'mie," Clayton Anderson declared.

  "What part of town did he have, Philip?" asked Le Claire.

  "No part," I answered. "We had to take the boys that were out thereunder the oak."

  Dr. Hemingway called a council at once, and all who knew anything of themissing boy reported. I could give what had been told to Aunt Candaceand myself only in a general way, in order to shield Tell Mapleson. Camhad seen O'mie only a minute, just before midnight.

  "He went racin' out draggin' somethin' after him, an' jumped over theporch railin' here," pointing to the north, "stid o' goin' down thesteps. O'mie's double-geared lightin' for quickness anyhow, but lastnight he jist made lightnin' seem slow the way he got off thereservation an' into the street. It roused me up. I was half asleepsettin' here waitin' to put them strangers to bed again. So I set up an'waited fur the boy to show up an' apologize fur his not bein' noquicker, when in comes Phil; an' ye all know the rest. I've not laid aneye on O'mie sence, but bein' short on range I took it he was here butout of sight. Oh, Lord!" Cam groaned, "can anything have happened tohim?"

  While Cam was speaking I noticed that Jean Pahusca who had been loafingabout at the far side of the crowd, was standing behind Father LeClaire. No one could have told from his set, still face what histhoughts were just then.

  The last one who had seen O'mie was Marjie.

  "I had left the door open so I could find the way better," she said. "Atthe gate O'mie came running up. I thought he was a girl, for he had mycloak around him and the hood over his head. His face was very white.

  "I supposed it was just the light behind me, made it look so, for hewasn't the least bit scared. He called to me twice. 'Don't hurry,' hesaid; 'I'm taking your cloak home.' Mrs. Judson shut the door just then,thinking I had gone on, and I ran home, but O'mie flew ahead of me. Justbefore I came around the corner I heard a horse start up and dash off tothe river. I ran in to mother and shut the door."

  "I met a horse down by the river as I ran to grandpa's after Bill. Hewas staying over there last night." It was Dave Mead who spoke. "I madea grab at the rein. I was crazy to think of such a thing, but--" Davedidn't say why he tried to stop the horse, for that would mean to repeatwhat Tell had told us, and we had to keep Tell's part to ourselves. "Thehorse knocked me twenty feet and tore off toward the river."

  And then for the first time we noticed Dave Mead's right arm in a sling.Too much was asked of us in those hours for us to note the things thatmark our common days.

  "It put my shoulder out of place," Dave said simply. "Didn't get it inagain for so long, it's pretty sore. I was too busy to think about it atfirst."

  Dave Mead never put his right hand to his head again. And to-day, if thebroad-shouldered, fine-looking American should meet you on the streetsof Hong Kong, he would offer you his left hand. For hours he forgothimself to save others. It is his like that have filled Kansas and madeher story a record of heroism like to the story of no other State in allthe nation.

  But as to O'mie we could find nothing. There was something strange andunusual about his returning the borrowed cloak at that late hour. Thewhole thing was so unlike O'mie.

  "They've killed him and put him in the river," wailed Dollie Gentry.

  "I'm afraid he's been foully dealt with. They suspected he knew toomuch," and Dr. Hemingway bowed his head in sorrow.

  "He's run straight into a coil of them pisen Copperheads an' they'vemade way with him; an' to think we hadn't missed him," sobbed Cam in hischair.

  Father Le Claire gripped his hands, and his face grew as expressionlessas the Indian's behind him. It dawned upon us now that O'mie was lost,there was no knowing how. O'mie, who belonged to the town and was lovedas few orphan boys are loved. Oh, any of us would have suffered for him,and to think that he should be made the victim of rebel hate, that theblow should fall on him who had given no offence. All his manliness, hisabounding kindness, his sunny smile and joy in living, swept up inmemory in the instant. Instinctively the boys drew near to one another,and there came back to me the memory of that pathetic look in his eyesas we talked of our troubles down in the tavern stables two nightsbefore: "Whoiver it's laid on to suffer," I could almost hear him sayingit. And then I did hear his voice, low and clear, a faint call again, asI had heard it before.

  "Phil, oh Phil, come!"

  It shot through my brain like an arrow. I turned and seized Le Claire bythe hand.

  "O'mie's not dead," I cried. "He's alive somewhere, and I'm going tofind him."

  "You bet your life he'th not dead," Bud Anderson echoed me. "Come on."

  The boys with Le Claire started in a body through the crowd; a shoutwent up, a sudden determination that O'mie must be alive seemed topossess Springvale.

  "Stay with Cam and Dollie," Le Claire turned Dr. Hemingway back with aword. "They need you now. We can do all that can be done."

  He strode ahead of us; a stalwart leader of men he would make in anyfray. It flashed into my mind that it was not the Kiowa Indian bloodthat made Jean Pahusca seem so stately and strong as he strode down thestreets of Springvale. A red blanket over Le Claire's broad shoulderswould have deceived us into thinking it was the Indian brave leading onbefore us.

  The river was falling rapidly, and the banks were slimy. Fingal's Creekwas almost at its usual level and the silt was crusting along itsbedraggled borders. Just above where it empties into the Neosho we noteda freshly broken embankment as though some weight had crushed over theside and carried a portion of the bank with it. Puddles of water andblack mud filled the little hollows everywhere. Into one of these Istepped as we were eagerly searching for a trace of the lost boy. Myfoot stuck to something soft like a garment in the puddle. I kicked itout, and a jet button shone in the ooze. I stooped and lifted the grimything. It was Marjie's cloak.

  "This is the last of O'mie," Dave Mead spoke reverently.

  "Here's where they pushed him in," said John Anderson pointing to thebreak in the bank.

  There was a buzzing in my ears, and the sunlight on the river wasdancing in ten thousand hideous curls and twists. The last of O'mie,until maybe, a bloated sodden body might be found half buried in someflood-wrought sand-bar. The May morning was a mockery, and every greengrowing leaf seemed to be using the life force that should be in him.

  "Yes, there's where he went in." It was Father Le Claire's voice now,"but he fought hard for his life."

  "Yeth, and by George, yonder'th where he come out. Thee that thaplin'on the bank? It'th thplit, but it didn't break; an' that bank'th brokener'nthith."

  Oh, blessed Bud! His tow head will always wear a crown to me.

  On the farther bank a struggle had wrenched the young trees and shrubsaway and a slide of slime marked where the victim of the waters hadfought for life. We knew how to swim, and we crossed the swollen creekin a rush. But here all trace disappeared. Something or somebody hadclimbed the bank. A horse's hoofs showe
d in the mud, but on the groundbeyond the horse's feet had not seemed to leave a track. The cruelruffians must have pushed him back when he tried to gain the bank here.We hunted and hunted, but to no avail. No other mark of O'mie's havingpassed beyond the creek could be found.

  It was nearly sunset before we came back to town. Not a mouthful hadbeen eaten, and with the tenseness of the night's excitement stretchingevery nerve, the loss of sleep, the constant searching, and theheaviness of despair, mud-stained, wearied, and haggard, we draggedourselves to the tavern again. Other searchers had been going indifferent directions. In one of these parties, useful, quick and wiselycounselling, was Jean Pahusca. His companions were loud in their praiseof his efforts. The Red Range neighborhood had received the word at noonand turned out in a mass, women and children joining in the quest. Butit was all in vain. Wild theories filled the air, stories of strangersstruggling with somebody in the dark; the sound of screams and of someone running away. But none of these stories could be substantiated. Andall the while what Tell Mapleson had said to Aunt Candace and me whenhe came to warn us, kept repeating itself to me. "They're awful againstO'mie. They think he knows too much."

  Early the next morning the search was renewed, but at nightfall nofurther trace of the lost boy had been discovered. On the secondevening, when we gathered at the Cambridge House, Dr. Hemingway urged usto take a little rest, and asked that we come later to a prayer meetingin the church.

  "O'mie is our one sacrifice beside the dear little babe of Judson's. Allthe rest of us have been spared to life, and our homes have beenprotected. We must look to the Lord for comfort now, and thank Him forHis goodness to us."

  Then the Rev. Mr. Dodd spoke sneeringly:

  "You've made a big ado for two days about a little coward who cut andrun at the first sound of danger. Disguised himself like a girl to doit. He will come sneaking in fast enough when he finds the danger isover. A lot of us around town are too wise to be deceived. The Lord didsave us," how piously he spoke, "but we should not disgrace ourselves."

  He got no further. I had been leaning limply against the veranda post,for even my strength was giving way, more under the mental strain thanthe physical tax. But at the preacher's words all the blood of myfighting ancestry took fire. There was a Baronet with Cromwell'sIronsides, the regiment that was never defeated in battle. There was aBaronet color-bearer at Bunker Hill and later at Saratoga, and it was aBaronet who waited till the last boat crossed the Delaware whenWashington led his forces to safety. There were Baronets with Perry onLake Erie, and at that moment my father was fighting for the life of anation. I cleared the space between us at a bound, and catching theReverend Dodd by throat and thigh, I lifted him clear of the railing andflung him sprawling on the blue-grass.

  "If you ever say another word against O'mie I'll break your neck," Icried, as he landed.

  Father Le Claire was beside him at once.

  "He's killed me," groaned Dodd.

  "Then he ought to bury his dead," Dr. Hemingway said coldly, which wasthe only time the good old man was ever known to speak unkindly to anyone among us.

  The fallen preacher gathered himself together and slipped away.

  Dollie Gentry had a royal supper for everybody that night. Jean Pahuscasat by Father Le Claire with us at the long table in the dining-room.Again my conscience, which upbraided me for doubting him, and myinstinct, which warned me to beware of him, had their battle within me.

  "I just had to do something or I'd have jumped into the Neosho myself,"Dollie explained in apology for the abundant meal, as if cooking weretoo worldly for that grave time. "I know now," she said, "how that poorwoman felt whose little boy was took by the Kiowas years ago out on theWest Prairie. They said she did jump into the river. Anyhow, shedisappeared."

  "Did you know her or her husband?" Father Le Claire asked quietly.

  "Yes, in a way," Dollie replied. "He was a big, fine-looking man builtsome like you, an' dark. He was a Frenchman. She was a little,small-boned woman. I saw her in the 'Last Chance' store the day she gothere from the East. She was fair and had red hair, I should say; butthey said the woman that drowned herself was a black-haired Frenchwoman. She didn't look French to me. She lived in that little cabin uparound the bend toward Red Range, poor dear! That cabin's always beenhaunted, they say."

  "Was she never heard of again?" the priest went on. We thought he waskeeping Dollie's mind off O'mie.

  "Ner him neither. He cut out west toward Santy Fee with some Mexicantraders goin' home from Westport. I heard he left 'em at Pawnee Rock,where they had a regular battle with the Kiowas; some thought he mighthave been killed by the Kiowas, and others by the Mexicans. Anyhow, henever was heard of in Springvale no more."

  "Mrs. Gentry," Le Claire asked abruptly, "where did you find O'mie?"

  "Why, we've had him so long I forget we never hadn't him." Dollie seemedconfused, for O'mie was a part of her life. "He was brought up here fromthe South by a missionary. Seems to me he found the little feller (hewas only five years old) trudgin' off alone, an' sayin' he wouldn't stayat the Mission 'cause there was Injuns there. Said the Injuns killed hisfather, an' he kicked an' squalled till the missionary just brought himup here. He was on his way to St. Mary's, up on the Kaw, an' he wastakin' the little one on with him. He stopped here with O'mie an' thelittle feller was hungry--"

  "And you fed him; naked, and you clothed him," the priest addedreverently.

  "Poor O'mie!" and Dollie made a dive for the kitchen to weep out hergrief alone.

  It seemed to settle upon Springvale that O'mie was lost; had beenovercome in some way by the murderous raiders who had infested our town.

  In sheer weariness and hopelessness I fell on my bed, that night, andsleep, the "sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care," fell uponme. Just at daybreak I woke with a start. I had not dreamed once allnight, but now, wide awake, with my face to the open east window wherethe rose tint of a grand new day was deepening into purple on thehorizon's edge, feeling and knowing everything perfectly, I saw O'mie'sface before me, white and drawn with pain, but gloriously brave. And hispleading voice, "Phil, ye'll come soon, won't ye?" sounded low and clearin my ears.

  I sprang up and dressed myself. I was so sure of O'mie, I could hardlywait to begin another search. Something seemed to impel me to speed. "Hewon't last long," was a vague, persistent thought that haunted me.

  "What is it, Phil?" my aunt called as I passed her door.

  "Aunt Candace, it's O'mie. He's not dead yet, I'm sure. But I must go atonce and hunt again."

  "Where will you go now?" she queried.

  "I don't know. I'm just being led," I replied.

  "Phil," Aunt Candace was at the door now, "have you thought of theHermit's Cave?"

  Her words went through me like a sword-thrust.

  "Why, why,--oh, Aunt Candace, let me think a minute."

  "I've been thinking for twelve hours," said my aunt. "Until you try thatplace don't give up the hunt."

  "But I don't know how to get there."

  "Then make a way. You are not less able to do impossible things than thePilgrim Fathers were. If you ever find O'mie it will be in that place. Ifeel it, I can't say why. But, Phil, you will need the boys and FatherLe Claire. Take time to get breakfast and get yourself together. Youwill need all your energy. Don't squander it the first thing."

  Dear Aunt Candace! This many a year has her grave been green in theSpringvale cemetery, but greener still is her memory in the hearts ofthose who knew her. She had what the scholars of to-day strive topossess--the power of poise.

  I ate my breakfast as calmly as I could, and before I left home AuntCandace made me read the Ninety-first Psalm. Then she kissed me good-byeand bade me God-speed. Something kept telling me to hurry, hurry, as Itried to be deliberate, and quickened my thought and my step. At thetavern Cam Gentry met us.

  "It ain't no use to try, boys, O'mie's down in the river where thecussed Copperheads put him; but you're good to keep tryin'." He sat downin a h
elpless resignation, so unlike his natural buoyant spirit it washard to believe that this was the same Cam we had always known.

  "Judson's baby's to be buried to-day, but we can't even bury O'mie. Oh,it's cruel hard." Cam groaned in his chair.

  The dew had not ceased to glitter, and the sun was hardly more thanrisen when Father Le Claire and the crowd of boys, reinforced now byTell Mapleson and Jim Conlow, started bravely out, determined to findthe boy who had been missing for what seemed ages to us.

  "If we find O'mie, we'll send word by the fastest runner, and you mustring the church bell," Le Claire arranged with Cam. "All the town canhave the word at once then."

  "We'll go to the Hermit's Cave first," I announced.

  The company agreed, but only Bud Anderson seemed to feel as I did. Tothe others it was a wasted bit of heroism, for if none of us had yetfound the way to this retreat, why should we look for O'mie there? Sothe boys argued as we hurried to the river. The Neosho was inside itsbanks again, but, deep and swift and muddy, it swept silently by us wholonged to know its secrets.

  "Philip, why do you consider the cave possible?" Le Claire asked as wefollowed the river towards the cliff.

  "Aunt Candace says so," I replied.

  "Well, it's worth the trial if only to prove a woman's intuition--orwhim," he said quietly.

  The same old cliff confronted us, although the many uprooted treesshowed a jagged outcrop this side the sheer wall. We looked uphelplessly at the height. It seemed foolish to think of O'mie being inthat inaccessible spot.

  "If he is up there," Dave Mead urged, "and we can get to him, it will beto put him alongside Judson's baby this afternoon."

  All the other boys were for turning back and hunting about Fingal'sCreek again, all except Bud. Such a pink and white boy he was, with adimple in each cheek and a blowsy tow head.

  "Will you stay with me, Bud, till I get up there?" I asked him.

  "Yeth thir! or down there. Let'th go round an' try the other thide."

  "Well, I guess we'll all stay with Phil, you cottontop," Tell Maplesonput in.

  We all began to circle round the bluff to get beyond this steep,forbidding wall. Our plan was to go down the river beyond the cave, andtry to climb up from that point. Crossing along by the edge of the bluffwe passed the steepest part and were coming again to where the treetopsand bushes that clung to the side of the high wall reached above thecrest, as they do across the street from my own home. Just ahead of us,as we hurried, I caught sight of a flat slab of the shelving rockslipped aside and barely balancing on the edge, one end of it bendingdown the treetops as if newly slid into that place. All about the stonethe thin sod of the bluff's top was cut and trampled as if a strugglehad been there. We examined it carefully. A horse's tracks were plainlyto be seen.

  "Something happened here," Le Claire said. "Looks like a horse had beenurged up to the very edge and had kept pulling back."

  "And that stone is just slipped from its place," Clayton Andersondeclared. "Something has happened here since the rains."

  As we came to the edge, we saw a pile of earth recently scraped from thestone outcrop above.

  "Somebody or something went over here not long ago," I cried.

  "Look out, Phil," Bill Mead called, "or somebody else will followsomebody before 'em--"

  Bill's warning came too late. I had stepped on the balanced slab. Ittipped and went over the side with a crash. I caught at the edge andmissed it, but the effort threw me toward the cliff and I slid twentyfeet. The bushes seemed to part as by a well-made opening and I caught astrong limb, and gained my balance. I looked back at the way I had come.And then I gave a great shout. The anxious faces peering down at mechanged a little.

  "What is it?" came the query.

  I pointed upward.

  "The nicest set of hand-holds and steps clear up," I called. "You can'tsee for the shelf. But right under there where Bud's head is, is thebest place to get a grip and there's a foothold all the way down." Istared up again. "There's a rope fastened right under there. Bend over,Bud, careful, and you'll find it. It will let you over to the steps.Swing in on it."

  In truth, a set of points for hand and foot partly natural, partly cutthere, rude but safe enough for boy climbers like ourselves, led down tomy tree lodge.

  "And what's below you?" shouted Tell.

  "Another tree like this. I don't know how far down if you jump right," Ianswered back.

  "Well, jump right, for I'm nekth. Ever thee a tow-headed flyingthquirrel?" And Bud was shinning down over the edge clawing tightly thestone points of vantage.

  Many a time in these sixty years have I seen a difficult and dreaded waygrow suddenly easy when the time came to travel it. When we were onlyboys idling away the long summer afternoons the cliff was alwaysimpossible. We had rarely tried the downward route, and from below withthe river, always dangerously deep and swift, at the base, our exploringhad brought failure. That hand-hold of leather thongs, braided into arope and fastened securely under the ledge out of sight from above, gavethe one who knew how the easy passage to the points of rock. Then fornearly a hundred feet zigzagging up stream by leaping cautiously to theright place, by clinging and swinging, the way opened before us. I tookthe first twenty feet at a slide. The others caught the leather rope,testing to see if it was securely fastened. Its two ends were tiedaround the deeply grooved stone.

  Father Le Claire and Jim Conlow stayed at the top. The one to help usback again; the other, as the swiftest-footed boy among us, to run totown with any message needful to be sent. The rest of us, taking allmanner of fearful risks, crashed down over the side of that bluff inheadlong haste.

  The Hermit's Cave opened on a narrow ledge such as runs below the"Rockport" point, where Marjie and I used to play, off Cliff Street. Wereached this ledge at last, hot and breathless, hardly able to realizethat we were really here in the place that had baffled us so long. Itwas an almost inaccessible climb to the crest above us, and the cliffhad to be taken at an angle even then. I believe any one accustomed onlyto the prairie would never have dared to try it.

  The Hermit's Cave was merely a deep recess under the overhanging shelf.It penetrated far enough to offer a retreat from the weather. The thicktangle of vines before it so concealed the place that it was difficultto find it at first. Just beyond it the rock projected over the line ofwall and overhung the river. It was on this point that the old Hermithad been wont to sit, and from which tradition says he fell to his doom.It was here we had seen Jean Pahusca on that hot August afternoon thesummer before. How long ago all that seemed now as the memory of itflashed up in my mind, and I recalled O'mie's quiet boast, "If he canget up there, so can I!"

  I was a careless boy that day. I felt myself a man now, with humandestiny resting on my shoulders. As we came to this rocky projection Iwas leading the file of cliff-climbers. The cave was concealed by thegreenery. I stared about and then I called, "O'mie! O'mie!"

  Faintly, just beside me, came the reply: "Phil, you 've come? ThankGod!"

  I tore through the bushes and vines into the deep recess. The dimnessblinded me at first. What I saw when the glare left my eyes was O'miestretched on the bare stones, bound hand and foot. His eyes were burninglike stars in the gloom. His face was white and drawn with suffering,but he looked up bravely and smiled upon me as I bent over him to lifthim. Before I could speak, Bud had cut the bands and freed him. Hecould not move, and I lifted him like a child in my strong arms.

  "Is the town safe?" he asked feebly.

  "Yes, now we've found you," Dave Mead replied.

  "How did you get here, O'mie?" Clayton Anderson asked.

  But O'mie, lying limply in my arms, murmured deliriously of the ladderby the shop, and wondered feebly if it could reach from the river up tothe Hermit's Cave. Then his head fell forward and he lay as one dead onmy knee.

  A year before we would have been a noisy crew that worked our way tothis all but inaccessible place, and we would have filled the valleywith whoops of surprise at fi
nding anything in the cavern. To-day wehardly spoke as we carried O'mie out into the light. He shivered alittle, though still unconscious, and then I felt the hot fever begin topulse throughout his body.

  Dave Mead was half way up the cliff to Father Le Claire. Out on thepoint John Anderson waved, to the crest above, the simple message,"We've found him."

  Bud dived into the cavern and brought out an empty jug, relic of JeanPahusca's habitation there.

  "What he needth ith water," Bud declared. "I'll bet he'th not had a dropfor two dayth."

  "How can you get some, Bud? We can't reach the river from here," I said.

  "Bah! all mud, anyhow. I'll climb till I find a thpring. They're allaround in the rockth. The Lord give Motheth water. I'll hunt till Hethoweth me where it ith."

  Bud put off in the bushes. Presently his tow head bobbed through thegreenery again and a jug dripping full of cool water was in his hands.

  "Thame leadin' that brought uth here done it," he lisped, moisteningO'mie's lips with the precious liquid.

  Bud had a quaint use of Bible reference, although he disclaimed Dr.Hemingway's estimate of him as the best scholar in the PresbyterianSunday-school.

  It seemed hours before relief came. I held O'mie all that time, hopingthat the gracious May sunshine might win him to us again, but hisdelirium increased. He did not know any of us, but babbled of strangethings.

  At length many shouts overhead told us that half of Springvale was aboveus, and a rude sort of hammock was being lowered. "It's the best we cando," shouted Father Le Claire. "Tie him in and we'll pull him up."

  It was rough handling even with the tenderest of care, and a verydangerous feat as well. I watched those above draw up O'mie's body and Iwas the last to leave the cave. As I turned to go, by merest chance, myeye caught sight of a knife handle protruding from a crevice in therock. I picked it up. It was the short knife Jean Pahusca always wore athis belt. As I looked closely, I saw cut in script letters across thesteel blade the name, _Jean Le Claire_.

  I put the thing in my pocket and soon overtook the other boys, who wereleaping and clinging on their way to the crest.

  That night Kansas was swept across by the very worst storm I have knownin all these sixty years. It lifted above the town and spared thebeautiful oak grove in the bottom lands beside us. Further down it sweptthe valley clean, and the bluff about the cave had not one shrub on itsrough sides. The lightning, too, played strange pranks. The thunderboltsshattered trees and rocks, up-rooting the one and rending and tumblingthe other in huge masses of debris upon the valley. It broke even therough way we had traversed to the Hermit's Cave, and a great heap offallen stone now shut the cavern in like a rock tomb. Where O'mie hadlain was sealed to the world, and it was a full quarter of a centurybefore a path was made along that dangerous cliff-side again.