Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  In the end, Luther wasn’t favorably impressed with the group. A lot more talk than action dominated the scene, and from all appearances, they were treading water without making any forward progress. The meeting didn’t come to a formal adjournment. It simply broke up as individuals or two or three men at a time went back to their campsites.

  When Luther returned to the wagon, Fionna and Rebecca had just come back from the women’s group where they had traded some kerosene for bacon grease. “How was the meeting, Luther?” Fionna asked.

  Luther shrugged. “It looks like we’re going to be here for a bit.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Fionna said. “I’m making friends.”

  Luther sat down on the wagon tongue. “From the way things look, you’re gonna have time to make a lot of friends before this is all over and did with.”

  ~*~

  The McCrackens settled into the long days of the camp routine. They learned their new home was a community with a varying number of inhabitants. This population shrunk or grew from as few as twenty families to as many as fifty at any given time. A rare bachelor appeared now and then, but most of the campers were married with children. The camp population was from all over the country and spoke in accents mostly from the Midwest and the South. But all were farmers who went through life basically the same, and this similarity bound them together.

  As time passed, Luther tried to figure out what he was going to do. He hated to admit it, but there wasn’t much choice other than to remain in that fluid colony until an opportunity for effective action popped up. Luther knew he could easily head to other parts to claim a homestead. But after seeing the Medicine Bundle Grasslands, he would settle for nothing less. He had already been run out of his family home, and could not stand the idea of an arrogant rancher driving him from the new area where he wanted to settle. It was another unendurable humiliation.

  That part of the prairie had a magnetism that pulled on a man’s dreams and desires. This was what made the Boomers crave the place, and Luther had caught the obsession as if it were a contagious condition. The Indian Territory was reputed to be the most fertile, arable land in the entire world. That was what the fellow in Joplin had told Luther. Other Boomers heard the same thing in their own parts of the country.

  Most of them truly felt they were being robbed of something that was rightly theirs. They gave no thought to what the Cherokees would lose if the area was opened for settlement. It didn’t matter. They were just Indians, and the rights of white expansion had been described as manifest destiny. That proved they had an absolute right to the land. Life in the camp would have been a monotonous bore for the men had it not been for that driving ambition. The males spoke of nothing else and made countless plans for forays onto the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. Like their meetings, most came to nothing, but now and then a family, either by themselves or as part of a small group, broke camp and made the move to take their chances with Dewey Harknell and his men.

  So far, the worst that had happened between cowboy and settler were some bouts of fisticuffs accompanied by name-calling and lot of cussing on both sides. No shots had been fired, no knife cuts made, so the Grasslands had been kept free of bloodshed. Because of this dearth of violence, the Federal Court in Wichita, Kansas that had legal jurisdiction over the area, saw no reason to be concerned about the situation. The authorities conducted their business under the impression that the Boomers would eventually drift away to other opportunities for land.

  The court was also impressed by the fact that Harknell was undeniably in the right. He and the Cherokees had drawn up a legal lease in which the rancher was charged five cents per acre per year. This was a well-known fact that infuriated the Boomers. Harknell paid ten thousand dollars per annum for enough virgin, fertile land to support over a thousand farms and a town.

  Meanwhile, the Boomers were grateful for what blessings they had. There was no real physical suffering or hunger among the people in the bivouac. Food, at least during those warm months, was no problem. The men did plenty of hunting, going out in teams to bring down antelope, rabbit, and game birds. The older boys fished the nearby river and tributary creeks. There were vegetables from the small gardens many of the people maintained, and wild onions and other edible flora to be gathered by the girls during excursions out on the prairie.

  The men and boys pretty much enjoyed themselves. Aside from a few toting-and-carrying chores, there wasn’t a lot for them to do in the camp except some minor mending and maintenance jobs. Plows remained on wagons with the seed that had been purchased for yet-to-be settled homesteads. Hunting and fishing, going to meetings, and a lot of unnecessary supervision of their wives and daughters took the rest of their time.

  Rebecca McCracken’s activities brought her into contact with girls her own age. These young women accepted their lot willingly, feeling no animosity toward their brothers who didn’t have to work very hard between fishing and hunting excursions. Females always had it worse than males, and the girls had learned at church that it was all Eve’s fault because she had talked Adam into eating the forbidden fruit. Their lot in life was God’s will.

  Silsby McCracken did not particularly enjoy the company of the other boys. He was a loner, and never got along well with his peers back in Missouri. It could have been partly because of the deep-running political divisions in their home area, but mostly it was because Silsby didn’t fit in well. He was awkward in social situations and had very little desire to associate with other young people. The youngster was almost an outcast in his own family for his careless attitude toward chores. Each whipping caused him to withdraw more into his own silent anger and sadness while it broke the hearts of his mother and sister.

  ~*~

  Six weeks passed before the Boomer men had another meeting. This session was going to be different as far as Luther McCracken was concerned. This time he had something to say.

  Ed Byron the newspaperman had gotten out another edition of the Boomer Gazette a week before. It was a repeat of previous issues, but his arguments and rationale for the Boomer movement had grown stronger and more sophisticated. He now made sure copies were sent to Kansas congressmen, the U.S. Indian Agent in Muskogee, other area newspapers, and even to the Cherokee National Council in Tahlequah. The Gazette was not as much for spreading news as it was for publicizing the Boomers’ arguments for settlement of the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.

  Byron opened the meeting with a few announcements that didn’t matter much to Luther McCracken. Luther barely listened to the intelligence on congressional activities to wrest the Indian Nations away from the Five Civilized Tribes; the interference from various Indian agents in the efforts to settle the Cherokee Outlet; and lastly, the activities of the white cattlemen’s organization, dubbed the Cherokee Strip Livestock Association, to build up power and influence among Washington politicians.

  These were followed by a few comments and complaints from several of the campers. Bob Ratner took the floor to say, “From the way things is going, it appears we’re gonna be here at Clarkville ‘til the end of time.”

  Byron agreed. “I’m doing my best to make the contacts we Boomers need, gentlemen. There is not a lot we can do without some political clout.”

  Luther stood with some of the new men with whom he’d formed close friendships. Harvey Matthews, Ed Benson, Lawrence Dooley, W.R. Dunbar, and Steve Packett had gravitated into a group although they weren’t exactly a clique.

  Luther was now thoroughly disgusted that the meeting appeared to be going in the same futile direction as the other session. He stepped forward. “Can I have a say?”

  “Speak away, Brother McCracken,” Byron said.

  “It seems to me that what we got to do is foller that old saying about possession being nine-tenths of the law,” Luther said. “What I mean, is that we got to go onto the Grasslands and take ’em over.”

  W.R. Dunbar interrupted. “We done that before, Luther. You been down there too. Dewey Harknell will ju
st run us off again.”

  “I mean ever’one of us,” Luther said. “The whole camp has got to pull up stakes and move onto Harknell’s range and tell him to take his cattle and ranch to the devil.”

  “Not ever’body can be ready to go at the same time,” some pessimistic wag noted out loud.

  “Well, we got to be,” Luther said. “We cain’t go down there one or a few at a time whenever it’s convenient for a partic’lar family. We’ll never get settled on the Grasslands permanent that-a-way.”

  Bob Ratner was not enthusiastic. “Even if ever’one of us was down there, Harknell would just go to each farm one at a time. It wouldn’t take him more’n a couple of weeks before he’d have us all run off.”

  “That’s true,” Byron interjected. “According to the Homestead Act, each farmer is allotted one hundred and sixty acres. It wouldn’t take Harknell long to visit ever’ plot.”

  Luther shook his head. “I ain’t talking about setting up farms, boys. I’m talking about another camp just like we got here. We’ll just roll on down there and stick together. When Harknell comes around we’ll tell him to get the hell away from us and leave us in peace. Let the greedy son of a bitch know we’re there to stay. And that goes for the law and politicals too.”

  “Say!” Harvey Matthews said. “All of us in one spot would give us clout all right!”

  Ed Benson added, “I’d like to see Harknell and those damn cowboys try to push us all around at the same time. Especial if we dig our heels in.”

  “I just had an idea!” Byron exclaimed. “Boomer City! We’ll could call the camp Boomer City!”

  “That’s fine,” Luther said, thinking that only an addle-brained townsman would want to put a name to a camp. “The thing is, we got about thirty families here now. Counting men and older boys, we’ll outnumber Harknell, so if we stick to our guns, he’ll never be able to get us to budge. And neither will nobody else.”

  Byron noted they were beginning to repeat themselves, and he decided to point the discussion toward a meaningful conclusion. “We could force a hearing that way! The Federal Court in Wichita would finally have to address the issue of opening up the Indian Territory instead of looking the other way!”

  Now everyone began to talk at once. Most of it was enthusiastic with a few of the usual dissenters shaking their heads and complaining. This latter bunch began to grow louder and get the others’ attention until Luther spoke up against them in a loud voice edged by anger and disgust. “Some of you fellers ain’t got the gumption to fight for what you want. I think it’d be best if you fished or cut bait.”

  “Harknell would start shooting at us,” Lawrence Dooley protested.

  “Then, by God, we’ll shoot back!” Luther hollered. “Let me say this to you boys. That land was put there by the Lord for people like us. He never intended for fine, fertile farmland to be used by one stingy rancher. The Almighty meant plows to bite into that sod. As sure as I’m standing here, boys, God wants that area took away from the Injuns. Why do you think he brung us all here together?”

  Bob Ratner yelled out, “Luther’s right! It’s the Good Lord’s will!”

  The rest of the Boomers liked the idea. The unexpected conception that settling the Grasslands would be carrying out divine providence encouraged even the nay-sayers. “When do we leave?” Ed Benson wanted to know.

  “I can leave in the morning,” Luther said.

  But W.R. Dunbar protested, “I know for a fact that a bunch of boys is out hunting. They won’t be back ‘til late tomorrow.”

  “We could all leave the day after tomorrow,” Bob Ratner suggested loudly.

  “All right! That’s when I’m leaving,” Luther said. “Who’s going with me?”

  “I’ll be there!”

  “Count me in, Luther!”

  Byron gave a shout. “Let’s set up Boomer City!”

  Finally one of the more pragmatic individuals in the crowd calmed things down by asking, “What part of the Grasslands are we going to?”

  That question gave rise to more debate until Bob Ratner once more spoke up. “There’s a creek down there that’s got a wide bend in it. It’s southeast of here. Does ever’body know it?”

  “I know where it is,” Luther said. “I was to the west of there when I had my run-in with Harknell.”

  “That’s where we’ll stake out Boomer City,” Byron said. “Right in the bend of that creek.”

  A sudden rush of shouted suggestions erupted. Ed Byron yelled for order and eventually got things settled down so the meeting could continue with more order and direction. A couple of the more verbose members of the group tried to get a debate going and even a committee or two appointed, but it was finally decided the affair was to consist of the simple action of every family heading out and settling down.

  Byron finally brought in a formal procedure in which it was properly moved, seconded, and approved that at dawn, the day after the next, the Boomers would break camp and move south. By mid-morning they would all be across the Kansas line onto the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. Before sunset the new camp would be firmly established within the bend of the unnamed creek.

  When the meeting broke up, Luther walked with the others back to camp. Their unusually loud and boisterous manner brought their wives out of wagons and tents to find out what had been going on. Luther walked up to the wagon, and gave Fionna the news. “We’re headed back to them Grasslands at dawn day after tomorrow.”

  “Luther,” Fionna said, “that rancher will run us out again. You already said we cain’t do nothing to stop him.”

  “I ain’t talking about just us going down there,” Luther explained. “The whole blamed camp is acting together.” Then he noticed the broken harness draped across the vehicle tailgate. It should have been fixed two weeks previously. “Where’s Silsby?”

  “He went fishing,” Fionna said. “He’ll be back in the morning.”

  The boy would get another whipping.

  Chapter Four

  A meadowlark sprang from a stand of wheat grass, beating its small wings to quickly gain altitude in an erratic, whipping flight. The bird leveled off, then circled above the two boys who had disturbed her. If they were closer she would have feigned injury and hopped erratically along the ground to draw the intruders away from her nest.

  The youngsters, carrying fishing poles, walked along the slow curve of a creek, exploring for a good site to drop in their lines. They were on an expedition away from a camp made up of thirty-two wagons and nearly as many tents arranged along the waterway in a scattered pattern.

  The bivouac had been organized on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands three days before, and the population enthusiastically called it Boomer City. The Boomers, traveling down from Clarkville en masse, arrived in rancher Dewey Harknell’s domain with combined emotions of bravado and trepidation. Their numbers, however, gave them the courage to press on until settling down along the unnamed creek.

  After the crowded conditions at Clarkville, they took advantage of this larger area to spread out their individual campsites. The people, more used to the solitude of farm life, appreciated the extra breathing room between themselves and their neighbors even it was no more than five or ten yards.

  At the same moment the angry bird zipped about in the prairie sky, Luther McCracken and his wife and children breakfasted at a table by the tailgate of their wagon. Fionna spooned some grits onto her husband’s plate, glancing nervously out across the open prairie. “Maybe the cattleman and his cowboys won’t be bothering us since they’s so many of us Boomers. He might think he’d be wasting his time.”

  Silsby said, “We ain’t seen no cowboys a’tall since we been here. Maybe that rancher is ascared of us.”

  “I’m hearing the word maybe a lot here,” Luther said. “And they ain’t no maybes about it. Harknell will be here. The only question is when.”

  “How much longer do you figure it’ll be before they show up?” Fionna asked.

  “We can expe
ct ’em anytime,” Luther said. “Just ’cause we ain’t seen nobody don’t mean they ain’t seen us. I’m sure they must’ve noticed all us folks by now or at least heard the gunshots of hunting parties.”

  “Please, Lord!” Fionna said, glancing skyward. “Spare us from trouble!”

  “We’re counting on the fact that since they’s a good number of us here things will be calm,” Luther said. Then he added, “This ain’t gonna be like back home when we was alone against them Johnny Rebs.”

  Silsby looked over at his father. “I got to go on lookout later on this morning. It’s my turn.”

  “You be careful out there,” Fionna said.

  “They ain’t much to be careful about, Ma,” Silsby said. “Me and another boy is just gonna sit and stare out over the countryside until somebody comes to take our place later this afternoon.”

  “Which side are you standing watch on?” Luther asked.

  “The west side.”

  “You know what to do if you see somebody coming, don’t you?” Luther asked.

  “Sure, Pa. Mr. Byron explained we was to make sure who they was, then come running to tell the men at his wagon.”

  Luther pointed his spoon at the boy to emphasize the point he was about to make. “The minute you know they’re cattlemen, don’t you waste no time. You ain’t supposed to talk to ’em, you’re supposed to get straight over to Mr. Byron’s wagon.”

  “I know, Pa,” Silsby said. “You don’t have to tell me what to do.”

  Luther frowned. “Don’t sass me, boy!”

  “Pa, I ain’t —”

  Luther cuffed him on the side of the head with an open-handed blow that made a loud smacking sound. Fionna cried out, “Luther!”