The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

by Margaret Hill McCarter

  CHAPTER XI

  GOLDEN DAYS

  There are days that are kind As a mother to man, showing pathways that wind Out and in, like a dream, by some stream of delight; Never hinting of aught that they hold to affright; Only luring us on, since the way must be trod, Over meadows of green with their velvety sod, To the steeps, that are harder to climb, far before. There are nights so enchanting, they seem to restore The original beauty of Eden; so tender, They woo every soul to a willing surrender Of feverish longing; so holy withal, That a broad benediction seems sweetly to fall On the world.

  We were a busy folk in those years that followed the close of the war.The prairies were boundless, and the constant line of movers' wagonsreaching out endlessly on the old trail, with fathers and mothers andchildren, children, children, like the ghosts of Banquo's lineal issueto King Macbeth, seemed numerous enough to people the world and put tothe plough every foot of the virgin soil of the beautiful Plains. Withthe downfall of slavery the strife for commercial supremacy began inearnest here, and there are no idle days in Kansas.

  When I returned home after two years' schooling in Massachusetts, Ifound many changes. I had beaten my bars like a caged thing all thosetwo years. Rockport, where I made my home and spent much of my time,was so unlike Springvale, so wofully and pridefully ignorant of allKansas, so unable to get any notion of my beautiful prairies and of thefree-spirited, cultured folk I knew there, that I suffered out my timethere and was let off a little early for good behavior. Only one persondid I know who had any real interest in my West, a tall, dark-eyed,haughty young lady, to whom I talked of Kansas by the hour. Her mother,who was officiously courteous to me, didn't approve of that subject, butthe daughter listened eagerly.

  When I left Rockport, Rachel--that was her name, Rachel Melrose--askedme when I was coming back. I assured her, never, and then courteouslyadded if she would come to Kansas.

  "Well, I may go," she replied, "not to your Springvale, but to my auntin Topeka for a visit next Fall. Will you come up to Topeka?"

  Of course, I would go to Topeka, but might she not come to Springvale?There were the best people on earth in Springvale. I could introduce herto boys who were gentlemen to the core. I'd lived and laughed andsuffered with them, and I knew.

  "But I shouldn't care for any of them except you." Rachel's voicetrembled and I couldn't help seeing the tears in her proud dark eyes.

  "Oh, I've a girl of my own there," I said impulsively, for I was alwayslonging for Marjie, "but Clayton Anderson and Dave Mead are both collegemen now." And then I saw how needlessly rude I had been.

  "Of course I want you to come to Springvale. Come to our house. AuntCandace will make you royally welcome. The Baronets and Melroses havebeen friends for generations. I only wanted the boys to know you; Ishould be proud to present my friend to them. I would take care of you.You have been so kind to me this year, I should be glad to do much foryou." I had taken her hand to say good-bye.

  "And you would let that other girl take care of herself, wouldn't you,while I was there? Promise me that when I go to Kansas you will come upto Topeka to see me, and when I go to your town, if I do, you will notneglect me but will let that Springvale girl entirely alone."

  I did not know much of women then--nor now--although I thought then Iknew everything. I might have read behind that fine aristocratic face asupremely selfish nature, a nature whose pleasure increased only as herneighbor's pleasure decreased. There are such minds in the world.

  I turned to her, and taking both of her willing hands in mine, I saidfrankly: "When you visit your aunt, I'll be glad to see you there. Ifyou visit my aunt I would be proud to show you every courtesy. As forthat little girl, well, when you see her you will understand. She has aplace all her own with me." I looked straight into her eyes as I saidthis.

  She smiled coquettishly. "Oh, I'm not afraid of her," she saidindifferently; "I can hold my own with any Kansas, girl, I'm sure."

  She was dangerously handsome, with a responsive face, a winning smileand gracious manners. She seemed never to accept anything as a gift, butto take what was her inherent right of admiration and devotion. When Ibade her good-bye a look of sadness was in her eyes. It rebuked myspirit somehow, although Heaven knows I had given her no cause to missme. But my carriage was waiting and I hurried away. For a moment onlyher image lingered with me, and then I forgot her entirely; for everyturn of the wheel was bringing me to Kansas, to the prairies, to thebeautiful Neosho Valley, to the boys again, to my father and home, butmost of all to Marjie.

  It was twenty months since I had seen her. She had spent a year in Ohioin the Girls' College at Glendale, and had written me she would reachSpringvale a month before I did. After that I had not heard from herexcept through a marked copy of the _Springvale Weekly Press_, tellingof her return. She had not marked that item, but had pencilled the newsthat "Philip Baronet would return in three weeks from Massachusetts,where he had been enjoying the past two years in school."

  Enjoying! Under this Marjie had written in girlish hand, "Hurry up,Phil."

  On the last stage of my journey I was wild with delight. It wasspringtime on the prairies, and a verdure clothed them with its richestgarments. I did not note the growing crops, and the many littlefreeholds now, where there had been only open unclaimed land two yearsbefore. I was longing for the Plains again, for one more ride, recklessand free, across their broad stretches, for one more gorgeous sunset outon Red Range, one more soft, iridescent twilight purpling down to theevening darkness as I had seen it on "Rockport" all those years. How thereal Rockport, the Massachusetts town, faded from me, and the sea, andthe college halls, and city buildings. The steam and steel and brick andmarble of an older civilization, all gave place to Nature's broadhandiwork and the generous-hearted, capable, unprejudiced people of thisnew West. However crude and plain Springvale might have seemed to anEastern boy suddenly transplanted here, it was fair and full of delightfor me.

  The stage driver, Dever, by name, was a stranger to me, but he knew allabout my coming. Also he was proud to be the first to give me thefreshest town gossip. That's the stage-driver's right divine always. Iwas eager to hear of everybody and in this forty miles' ride I wascompletely informed. The story rambled somewhat aimlessly from topic totopic, but it never lagged.

  "Did I know Judson? He'd got a controlling interest now in Whately'sstore. He was great after money, Judson was. They do say he's been alittle off the square getting hold of the store. The widder Whately keptonly about one-third, or maybe one-fourth of the stock. Mrs. Whately,she wa'n't no manager. Marjie'd do better, but Marjie wa'n't twenty yet.And yet if all they say's true she wouldn't need to manage. Judson isabout the sprucest widower in town, though he did seem to take it sohard when poor Mis' Judson was taken." She never overcame the loss ofher baby, and the next Summer they put her out in the prairie graveyardbeside it. "But Judson now, he's shyin' round Marjie real coltish.

  "It'd be fine fur her, of course," my driver went on, "an' she was olda-plenty to marry. Marjie was a mighty purty girl. The boys was nighcrazy about her. Did I know her?"

  I did; oh, yes, I remembered her.

  "They's another chap hangin' round her, too; his name's--lemme see,uh--common enough name when I was a boy back in Kentucky--uh--Tillhurst,Richard Tillhurst. Tall, peaked, thin-visaged feller. Come out fromVirginny to Illinois. Got near dead with consumption 'nd come on toKansas to die. Saw Springvale 'nd thought better of it right away. Wasteachin' school and payin' plenty of attention to the girls, especiallyMarjie. They was an old man Tillhurst when I was a boy. He was fromVirginny, too--" but I pass that story.

  "Tell Mapleson's pickin' up sence he's got the post-office up in the'Last Chance'; put that doggery out'n his sullar, had in wall paper now,an' drugs an' seeds, an' nobody was right sure where he got his funds tostock up, so--they was some sort of story goin' about a half-breed namedPahusky when I first come here, bein' 'sociated with Mapleson--CamGentry's same old Cam, squintin' round an' jolly as
ever. O'mie? Oh,he's leadin' the band now. By jinks, that band of his'n will just takethe cake when it goes up to Topeky this Fall to the big politicalspeak-in's." On and on the driver went, world without end, until wecaught the first faint line along the west that marked the treetops ofthe Neosho Valley. We were on the Santa Fe Trail now, and we were comingto the east bluff where I had first seen the little Whately girl climbout of the big wagon and stretch the stiffness out of her fat littlelegs. The stage horses were bracing for the triumphal entry into town,when a gang of young outlaws rushed up over the crest of the east slope.They turned our team square across the way and in mock stage-robberystyle called a halt. The driver threw up his hands in mock terror andbegged for mercy, which was granted if he would deliver up one PhilipBaronet, student and tenderfoot. But I was already down from the stageand O'mie was hugging me hard until Bud Anderson pulled him away and allthe boys and girls were around me. Oh, it was good to see them allagain, but best of all was it to see Marjie. She had been a prettypicture of a young girl. She was beautiful now. No wonder she had manyadmirers. She was last among the girls to greet me. I took her hand andour eyes met. Oh, I had no fear of widower nor of school-teacher, as Ihelped her to a seat beside me in the stage.

  "I'm so glad to see you again, Phil," she looked up into my face. "Youare bigger than ever."

  "And you are just the same Marjie."

  The crowd piled promiscuously about us and we bumped down the slope andinto the gurgling Neosho, laughing and happy.

  With all the rough and tumble years of a boyhood and youth on thefrontier, the West has been good to me, and I look back along the wayglad that mine was the pioneer's time, and that the experiences of thoseearly days welded into my building and being something of theirsimplicity, and strength, and capacity for enjoyment. But of all theseasons along the way of these sixty years, of all the successes andpleasures, I remember best and treasure most that glorious summer aftermy return from the East. My father was on the Judge's bench now and hislegal interests and property interests were growing. I began the studyof law under him at once, and my duties were many, for he putresponsibility on me from the first. But I was in the very heyday oflife, and had no wish ungratified.

  "Phil, I want you to go up the river and take a look at two quarters ofSection 29, range 14, this afternoon. It lies just this side of the bigcottonwood," my father said to me one June day.

  "Make a special note of the land, and its natural appurtenances. I wantthe information at once, or you needn't go out on such a hot day. It'slike a furnace in the courthouse. It may be cooler out that way." Hefanned his face with his straw hat, and the light breeze coming up thevalley lifted the damp hair about his temples.

  "There's a bridle path over the bluff a mile or so out, where you canride a horse down and go up the river in the bottom. It's a much shorterway, but you'd better go out the Red Range road and turn north at thethird draw well on to the divide. It gets pretty steep near the river,so you have to keep to the west and turn square at the draw. If itwasn't so warm you might go on to Red Range for some depositions for me.But never mind, Dave Mead is going up there Monday, anyhow. Will youride the pony?"

  "No, I'll go out in the buggy."

  "And take some girl along? Well, don't forget your errand. Be sure tonote the lay of the land. There's no building, I believe, but a littlestone cabin and it's been empty for years; but you can see. Be sure toexamine everything in that cabin carefully. Stop at the courthouse asyou go out, and get the surveyor's map and some other directions."

  It was a hot summer day, with that thin, dry burning in the air that thelight Kansas zephyr fanned back in little rippling waves. My horses wereof the Indian pony breed, able to go in heat or cold. Most enduring andleast handsome of the whole horse family, with temper ranging frommoderately vicious to supremely devilish, is this Indian pony of thePlains.

  Marjie was in the buggy beside me when I stopped at the courthouse forinstructions. Lettie Conlow was passing and came to the buggy's side.

  "Where are you going, Marjie?" she asked. There was a sullen minor tonein her voice.

  "With Phil, out somewhere. Where is it you are going, Phil?"

  I was tying the ponies. They never learned how to stand unanchored aminute.

  "Out north on the Red Range prairie to buy a couple of quarters," Ireplied carelessly and ran up the courthouse steps.

  "Well, well, well," Cam Gentry roared as he ambled up to the buggy.Cam's voice was loud in proportion as his range of vision was short."You two gettin' ready to elope? An' he's goin' to git his dad to backhim up gettin' a farm. Now, Marjie, why'd you run off? Let us see theperformance an' hear Dr. Hemingway say the words in the PresbyterianChurch. Or maybe you're goin' to hunt up Dodd. He went toward Santy Feewhen he put out of here after the War."

  Cam could be heard in every corner of the public square. I was at theopen window of my father's office. Looking out, I saw Lettie staringangrily at Cam, who couldn't see her face. She had never seemed lessattractive to me. She had a flashy coloring, and she made the most ofornaments. Some people called her good-looking. Beside Marjie, she wasas the wild yoncopin to the calla lily. Marjie knew how to dress.To-day, shaded by the buggy-top, in her dainty light blue lawn, with thesoft pink of her cheeks and her clear white brow and throat, she was amost delicious thing to look upon in that hot summer street. Poor Lettiesuffered by contrast. Her cheeks were blazing, and her hair, wet withperspiration, was adorned with a bow of bright purple ribbon tiedbutterfly-fashion, and fastened on with a pin set with flashingbrilliants.

  "Oh, Uncle Cam," Marjie cried, blushing like the pink rambler rosesclimbing the tavern veranda, "Phil's just going out to look at some landfor his father. It's up the river somewhere and I'm going to hold theponies while he looks."

  "Well, he'd ort to have somebody holdin' 'em fur him. I'll bet ye I'dwant a hostler if I had the lookin' to do. Land's a mighty small thingan' hard to look at, sometimes; 'specially when a feller's head's in theclouds an' he's walkin' on air. Goin' northwest? Look out, they's aha'nted house up there. But, by hen, I'd never see a ha'nt long's I hadsomethin' better to look at."

  I saw Lettie turn quickly and disappear around the corner. My father wasbusy, so I sat in the office window and whistled and waited, watchingthe ponies switch lazily at the flies.

  When we were clear of town, and the open plain swept by the summerbreezes gave freedom from the heat, Marjie asked:

  "Where is Lettie Conlow going on such a hot afternoon?"

  "Nowhere, is she? She was talking to you at the courthouse."

  "But she rushed away while Uncle Cam was joking, and I saw her cross thealley back of the courthouse on Tell's pony, and in a minute she wasjust flying up toward Cliff Street. She doesn't ride very well. Ithought she was afraid of that pony. But she was making it go sailingout toward the bluff above town."

  "Well, let her go, Marjie. She always wears on my nerves."

  "Phil, she likes you, I know. Everybody knows."

  "Well, I know and everybody knows that I never give her reason to. Iwish she would listen to Tell. I thought when I first came home theywere engaged."

  "Before he went up to Wyandotte to work they were--he said so, anyhow."

  Then we forgot Lettie. She wasn't necessary to us that day, for therewere only two in our world.

  "Baronet, I think we are marching straight into Hell'sjaws"]

  Out on the prairie trail a mile or more is the point where the bridlepath leading to the river turns northwest, and passing over a sidlingnarrow way down the bluff, it follows the bottom lands upstream. As wepassed this point we did not notice Tell Mapleson's black pony justmaking the top from the sidling bluff way, nor how quickly its riderwheeled and headed back again down beyond sight of the level prairieroad. We had forgotten Lettie Conlow and everybody else.

  The draw was the same old verdant ripple in the surface of the Plains.The grasses were fresh and green. Toward the river the cottonwoods weremaking a cool, shady way, delightfully r
efreshing in this summersunshine.

  We did not hurry, for the draw was full of happy memories for us.

  "I'll corral these bronchos up under the big cottonwood, and we'llexplore appurtenances down by the river later," I said. "Father saysevery foot of the half-section ought to be viewed from that tree, exceptwhat's in the little clump about the cabin."

  We drove up to the open prairie again and let the horses rest in theshade of this huge pioneer tree of the Plains. How it had escaped theprairie fires through its years of sturdy growth is a marvel, for itcommanded the highest point of the whole divide. Its shade was deliciousafter the glare of the trail.

  For once the ponies seemed willing to stand quiet, and Marjie and Ilooked long at the magnificent stretch of sky and earth. There were afew white clouds overhead, deepening to a dull gray in the southwest.All the sunny land was swathed in the midsummer yellow green, darkeningin verdure along the river and creeks, and in the deepest draws. Even aswe rested there the clouds rolled over the horizon's edge, piling higherand higher, till they hid the afternoon sun, and the world was cool andgray. Then down the land sped a summer shower; and the sweet damp odorof its refreshing the south wind bore to us, who saw it all. Sheetafter sheet of glittering raindrops, wind-driven, swept across theprairie, and the cool green and the silvery mist made a scene a mastercould joy to copy.

  I didn't forget my errand, but it was not until the afternoon wasgrowing late that we left the higher ground and drove down the shadydraw toward the river. The Neosho is a picture here, with still expansesthat mirror the trees along its banks, and stony shallows where thewater, even in midsummer, prattles merrily in the sunshine, as ithurries toward the deep stillnesses.

  We sat down in a cool, grassy space with the river before us, and thegreen trees shading the little stone cabin beyond us, while down thedraw the vista of still sunlit plains was like a dream of beauty.

  "Marjie,"--I took her hand in mine--"since you were a little girl I haveknown you. Of all the girls here I have known you longest. In the twoyears I was East I met many young ladies, both in school and atRockport. There were some charming young folks. One of them, RachelMelrose, was very pretty and very wealthy. Her mother made considerablefuss over me, and I believe the daughter liked me a little; for she--butnever mind; maybe it was all my vanity. But, Marjie, there has neverbeen but one girl for me in all this world; there will never be but one.If Jean Pahusca had carried you off--Oh, God in Heaven! Marjie, I wonderhow my father lived through the days after my mother lost her life. Mendo, I know."

  I was toying with her hand. It was soft and beautifully formed, althoughshe knew the work of our Springvale households.

  "Marjie," my voice was full of tenderness, "you are dear to me as mymother was to my father. I loved you as my little playmate; I was fondof you as my girl when I was first beginning to care for a girl as boyswill; as my sweetheart, when the liking grew to something more. And nowall the love a man can give, I give to you."

  I rose up before her. They call me vigorous and well built to-day. I wasin my young manhood's prime then. I looked down at her, young anddainty, with the sweet grace of womanhood adorning her like a garment.She stood up beside me and lifted her fair face to mine. There was abloom on her cheeks and her brown eyes were full of peace. I opened myarms to her and she nestled in them and rested her cheek against myshoulder.

  "Marjie," I said gently, "will you kiss me and tell me that you loveme?"

  Her arms were about my neck a moment. Sometimes I can feel them therenow. All shy and sweet she lifted her lips to mine.

  "I do love you, Phil," she murmured, and then of her own will, justonce, she kissed me.

  "It is vouchsafed sometimes to know a bit of heaven here on earth," LeClaire had said to me when he talked of O'mie's father.

  It came to me that day; the cool, green valley by the river, thevine-covered old stone cabin, the sunlit draw opening to a limitlessworld of summer peace and beauty, and Marjie with me, while both of uswere young and we loved each other.

  The lengthening shadows warned me at last.

  "Well, I must finish up this investigation business of Judge Baronet's,"I declared. "Come, here's a haunted house waiting for us. Father says ithasn't been inhabited since the Frenchman left it. Are you afraid ofghosts?"

  We were going up a grass-grown way toward the little stone structure,half buried in climbing vines and wild shrubbery.

  "What a cunning place, Phil! It doesn't look quite deserted to me,somehow. No, I'm not afraid of anything but Indians."

  My arm was about her in a moment. She looked up laughing, but she didnot put it away.

  "Why, there are no Indians here, Phil," and she looked out on the sunnydraw.

  My face was toward the cabin. I was in a blissful waking dream, else Ishould have taken quicker note. For sure as I had eyes, I caught a flashof red between the far corner of the cabin and the thick underbrushbeyond it. It was just a narrow space, where one might barely pass,between the corner of the little building and the surrounding shrubbery;but for an instant, a red blanket with a white centre flashed acrossthis space, and was gone. So swift was its flight and so full was mymind of the joy of living, I could not be sure I had seen anything. Itwas just a twitch of the eyelid. What else could it be?

  We pushed open the solid oak door, and stood inside the little room. Thetwo windows let in a soft green light. It was a rude structure of theearly Territorial days, made for shelter and warmth. There was a darklittle attic or loft overhead. A few pieces of furniture--a chair, atable, a stone hearth by the fireplace, and a sort of cupboard--these,with a strong, old worn chest, were all that the room held. Dust waseverywhere, as might have been expected. And yet Marjie was right. Thespirit of occupation was there.

  "Do you know, Marjie, this cabin has hardly been opened since the poorwoman drowned herself in the river, down there. They found her body inthe Deep Hole. The Frenchman left the place, and it has been calledhaunted. An Indian and a ghost can't live together. The race fears themof all things. So the Indians would never come here."

  "But look there, Phil!"--Marjie had not heeded my words--"there's astick partly burned, and these ashes look fresh." She was bending overthe big stone hearth.

  As I started forward, my eye caught a bit of color behind the chair bythe table. I stooped to see a purple bow of ribbon, tied butterflyfashion--Lettie Conlow's ribbon. I put it in my pocket, determined tofind out how it had found its way here.

  "Ugh! Let's go," said Marjie, turning to me. "I'm cold in here. I'd wanta home up under the cottonwood, not down in this lonely place. Maybemovers on the trail camp in here." Marjie was at the door now.

  I looked about once more and then we went outside and stood on thebroad, flat step. The late afternoon was dreamily still here, and theodor of some flowers, faint and woodsy, came from the thicket beside thedoorway.

  "It is dreary in there, Marjie, but I'll always love this place outside.Won't you?" I said, and with a lover's happiness in my face, I drew herclose to me.

  She smiled and nodded. "I'll tell you all I think after a while. I'llwrite it to you in a letter."

  "Do, Marjie, and put it in our 'Rockport' post-office, just like we usedto do. I'll write you every day, too, and you'll find my letter in thesame old crevice. Come, now, we must go home."

  "We'll come again." Marjie waved her hand to the silent gray cabin. Andslowly, as lovers will, we strolled down the walk and out into the openwhere the ponies neighed a hurry-up call for home.

  Somehow the joy of youth and hope drove fear and suspicion clear from mymind, and with the opal skies above us and the broad sweet prairiesround about us for an eternal setting of peace and beauty, we two camehome that evening, lovers, who never afterwards might walk alone, forthat our paths were become one way wherein we might go keeping stepevermore together down the years.