V
NOVEMBER
September and October passed before the surveyors, long looked for, camethrough, and three months dragged out their slow length before thepre-emptors could file and escape from their claims.
By the first of November the wonder had gone out of the life of thesettlers. One by one the novelties and beauties of the plain had passedaway or grown familiar. The plover and blackbird fell silent. Theprairie-chicken's piping cry ceased as the flocks grew toward maturity,and the lark and cricket alone possessed the russet plain, which seemedto snap and crackle in the midnight frost, and to wither away in thebright midday sun.
Many of the squatters by this time had spent their last dollar, andthere was little work for them to do. Each man, like his neighbor, waswaiting to "prove up." They had all lived on canned beans and crackerssince March, and they now faced three months more of this fare. Some ofthem had no fuel, and winter was rapidly approaching.
The vast, treeless level, so alluring in May and June, had become anoppressive weight to those most sensitive to the weather, and as the airgrew chill and the skies overcast, the women turned with apprehensivefaces to the untracked northwest, out of which the winds sweptpitilessly cold and keen. The land of the straddle-bug was gray and sad.
One day a cold rain mixed with sleet came on, and when the sun set,partly clear, the Coteaux to the west rose like a marble wall,crenelated and shadowed in violet, radiant as the bulwarks of somecelestial city; but it made the thoughtful husband look keenly at thethin walls of his cabin and wonder where his fuel was to come from. Inthis unsheltered land, where coal was high and doctors far away, winterwas a dreaded enemy.
The depopulation of the newly claimed land began. Some of the girls wentback never to return; others settled in Boomtown, with intent to visittheir claims once a month through the winter; but a few, like theBurkes, remained in their little shanties, which looked still more likedens when sodded to the eaves. The Clayton girls flitted away toWheatland, leaving the plain desolately lonely to Bailey. One by one thehuts grew smokeless and silent, until at last the only English-speakingwoman within three miles was old Mrs. Bussy, who swore and smoked apipe, and talked like a man with bronchitis. She was not an attractivepersonality, and Mrs. Burke derived little comfort from her presence.
Willard was away a great deal teaming, working desperately to getsomething laid up for the winter. The summer excursion, with itslaughter, its careless irresponsibility, had become a deadly grapplewith the implacable forces of winter. The land of the straddle-bug hadbecome a menacing desert, hard as iron, pitiless as ice.
Now the wind had dominion over the lonely women, wearing out theirsouls with its melancholy moanings and its vast and wordless sighs. Itsvoices seemed to enter Blanche Burke's soul, filling it with hungernever felt before. Day after day it moaned in her ears and wailed aboutthe little cabin, rousing within her formless desires and bitterdespairs. Obscure emotions, unused powers of reason and recollectioncame to her. She developed swiftly in sombre womanhood.
Sometimes Mrs. Bussy came across the prairie, sometimes a load ofland-seekers asked for dinner, but mainly she was alone all the long,long days. She spent hours by the window watching, waiting, gazing atthe moveless sod, listening to the wind-voices, companioned only by hermemories. She began to perceive that their emigration had been a bittermistake, but her husband had not yet acknowledged it, and she honestlytried not to reproach him for it. Nevertheless, she had moments ofbitterness when she raged fiercely against him.
Little things gave her opportunity. He came home late one day. Shegreeted him sullenly. He began to apologize:
"I didn't intend to stay to supper, but Mrs. Bradley--"
"Mrs. Bradley! Yes, you can go and have a good time with Mrs. Bradley,and leave me here all alone to rot. It'd serve you right if I left youto enjoy this fine home alone."
He trembled with agony and weakness.
"Oh, you don't mean that, Blanche--"
"For Heaven's sake, don't call me pet names. I'm not a child. If I'd hadany sense I'd never have come out here. There's nothing left for us butjust freeze or starve. What did we ever leave Illinois for, anyway?"
He sank back into a corner in gentle, sorrowful patience, waiting forher anger to wear itself out.
While they sat there in silence they heard the sound of hoofs on thefrozen ground, and a moment later Bailey's pleasant voice arose: "Hullo,the house!" Burke went to the door, and Blanche rose to meet the visitorwith a smile, the knot in her forehead smoothed out. There was no alloyin her pure respect and friendship for Bailey.
He came in cheerily, his hearty voice ringing with health and good-will.He took her hand in his with a quick, strong grip, and the light of hisbrown eyes brought a glow to her heart.
"I've come over to see if you don't want to go to the city to-morrow?I've got Joe Pease to stay in the store, and so I thought I'd take anouting."
Burke looked at his wife; she replied, eagerly:
"I should like to go, Mr. Bailey, very much. Our old team is so feeblewe daren't drive so far. I'm afraid every time old Dick stumbles he'llfall down on the road."
"We'll have to get back to-morrow night," Burke said.
"Oh, we'll do that all right," replied Bailey.
As she planned the trip with tremulous eagerness, Bailey studied her.She was paler than he had ever seen her, and more refined andthoughtful, scarcely recognizable as the high-colored, powerful womanfor whom he had helped build the shanty in March. There were times nowwhen it seemed as if she were appealing to him, and his heart achedwith undefined sorrow as he looked about her prison-like home.
For half an hour she chatted with something of her old-time vivacity,but when he went out her face resumed its gloomy lines, and she silencedher husband with a glance when he attempted to keep up the cheerfulconversation.
The next morning, as she was dressing, she turned sick and faint for amoment. Her breath seemed to fail her, and she sat down, dizzy and weak.She was alone, but the red blood came swelling back into her face as shewaited.
She grew better soon, and rose and went about her work. Then theexcitement and pleasure of her trip, the expectation of meeting Rivers,helped her to put her weakness away.
Bailey called for the Clayton girls, who were making their monthly visitto their claim, and Mrs. Burke, seeing the shine of a lover's joy inBailey's face, and the clear, unwavering trust of a pure, good girl inEstelle's gray eyes, fell silent, and the shadow of her own sorrow cameback upon her face.
The ride seemed short, and the town at the end wondrously exciting.Rivers met them at the hotel, and insisted on their being his guestsduring their stay. They had a jolly supper together, after which theyall went to the little town-hall to see a play. Blanche sat besideRivers, and as she laughed at Si Peasley and his misadventures in thecity she was girlishly happy. It was not very much of an entertainment,but in contrast with life in a sod shanty it was all very exciting forher.
"Oh, I wish we could live in town this winter!" she sighed in Rivers'ear.
"You can," he answered, with significant inflection.
Altogether, the evening was one of deep pleasure for Blanche. Sheenjoyed the companionship of the Clayton girls, who had never been sofriendly and sympathetic with her before. They invited her to spend thenight with them, which pleased her very much, and they all sat up tillone o'clock, talking upon all sorts of tremendously interesting femininesubjects.
Next morning Estelle went with her while she did a littleshopping--pitifully little, for she only had a dollar or two tospend--while Bailey loaded up his team. At last, and all too soon, herouting ended, and she faced the west with heavy heart.
Poor Willard also felt the menace of the desolate, wild prairie, but hehad no conception of the tumult of regret and despair which filled hiswife's mind as she climbed into the wagon for their return journey. Shewas like a prisoner whose parole had ended.
The Clayton girls said good-bye with pity in their voices, and Rivers
sought opportunity to say, privately: "I hate to see you back out thereon the border. If you need anything, let me know."
"All aboard!" called Bailey, as he took his reins in hand.
A bitter blast and a gray sky confronted them as they drove out of thetown, and not even Bailey's abounding vitality and good-humor could keepBlanche from sinking back into gloomy silence. The wind was keen,strong, prophetic of the snows which were already gathering far in thenorth, and the journey seemed endless; and when late in the afternoonthey drew up before the squat, low hovel in which she was to spend along and desolate winter, Blanche was shivering violently, and sodepressed that she could not coherently thank the kindly young fellowwho had afforded her this brief respite from her care. She staggeredinto the house, so stiff she could scarcely walk, and sank into a chairto sob out her loneliness and despair, while Willard pottered aboutbuilding a fire on their icy hearth.
Willard Burke had a question to ask, and that night, as they weresitting at their poor little table, he plucked up courage to begin:
"Blanche, I want to ask you something--that is, I've been kind o'noticin' you--" Here he paused, intending to be sly and suggestive."Seems to me this climate ain't so bad, after all; you complain a gooddeal, but seems to me you hadn't ought to." He trembled while he smiled."It's done a lot for you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her face flushing with confusion.
"I mean"--he tried to laugh--"your best dress seems pretty tight foryou. Oh, if it only should be--"
"Don't be a fool," she angrily replied. "If anything like that happens,I'll let you know."
His face lengthened, and the smile went out of his eyes. He accepted hertone as final, too loyal to doubt her word. "Don't be mad; I was only inhopes." He rose after a silence and went out with downcast head.
She sat rigidly, feeling as if the blood were freezing in her hands andfeet. The crisis was upon her. The time of her judgment was coming--andshe was alone! She burned with anger against Rivers. Why had he waitedand waited? "_He_ can put things off--he is a man, but I am the woman--Imust suffer it all." The pain, the shame, the deadly danger--all werehers.
Burke returned, noisily, stamping his feet like a boy.
"It's snowin' like all git out," he said, "and I've got to rig up somekind of a sled. I reckon winter has come in earnest now, and ourcoal-pile is low."
He went to sleep with the readiness of a child, and as she lay listeningto his quiet breath she remembered how easy it had once been for her tosleep. She had the same agony of pity for him that she would have feltfor a child she had wronged malevolently.
The next day Mrs. Bussy came over. At her rap Blanche called, "Come in,"but remained seated by the fire.
The old woman entered, knocking the snow off her feet like a man.
"How de do, neighbor?"
Blanche drew her shawl a little closer around her. "Not very well; sitdown, won't you?"
"Can't stop. You don't seem very peart. I want to know what seems to bethe trouble." Her keen eyes had never seemed so penetrating before.Blanche flushed and moved uneasily. She was afraid of the old creature,who seemed half-man, half-woman.
"Oh, I don't know. Rheumatism, I guess."
"That so? Well, this weather is 'nough to give anybody rheumatiz. Itell Ed--that's my boy--I tell Ed we made holy fools of ourselves comin'out here. I never see such a damn country f'r wind." She rambled onabout the weather for some time, and at last rose. "Well, I wanted toborrow your wash-boiler; mine leaks like an infernal old sieve, and Idasen't go to town to get it mended for fear of a blow. What's trouble?"
Blanche suddenly put her hand to her side and grew white and rigid. Thenthe blood flamed into her cheeks, and the perspiration stood out on herforehead. She clinched her lips between her teeth and lay back in herchair.
"Ye look kind o' faint. Can't I do something for ye? Got anypain-killer? That's good, well rubbed in," volunteered the old woman.
"No, no, I--I'm all right now, it was just a sharp twinge, that'sall--you'll find the boiler in the shed; I don't need it." Her tone wasone of dismissal.
The old woman rose. "All right, I'll find it. Set still." As she wentout she grinned--a mocking, sly, aggravating grin. "It's allright--nothin' to be ashamed of. I've had ten. I called _my_ first onepleurisy. It didn't fool any one, though." She cackled and creaked withlaughter as she shut the door.
Blanche sat motionless, staring straight before her, while the fire diedout and the room grew cold.
Her terror and shame gave way at last, and she allowed herself to dreamof the mystical joy of maternity. She permitted herself to fancy thelife of a mother in a sheltered and prosperous home. She felt inimagination the touch of little lips, the thrust of little hands, thecling of little arms. "My baby should come into a lovely, sun-lit room.It should have a warm, pretty cradle. It should--"
The door opened and her husband entered.
"Why, Blanche--what's the matter? You've let the fire go out. It's coldas blixen in here. You'll take cold, first you know."
The Moccasin Ranch: A Story of Dakota Page 5
