by Noel Loomis
CHAPTER IV
Ferguson tied his horse to the hitching-rail. The door was open, and he stooped to go through without bumping his head.
The tavern was a two-room log cabin, with an attic where the family slept. The main room had tables to eat on and chairs and stumps to sit on, and the floor was hard-packed dirt. Oiled deerskin let in light at the window openings, and a two-section hayburner stove sat in the middle of the room, with a stovepipe going to the ceiling. A ladder in one corner led to the attic, and a door on the right led to the second room, where travelers could sleep on a buffalo robe on the floor for fifty cents, or in a corded bed with a corn-shuck mattress for seventy-five.
Tom Turner, who weighed about four hundred—most of it stomach—said, “Howdy, Sandy John.”
“Morning, Tom. All your boarders gone?”
“All gone. I hear you had trouble this mornin’ at the ferry.”
Ferguson nodded.
“Looks like they’re tryin’ to run you out.”
“Maybe.”
“Hate to see somebody else run that ferry,” said Turner. “The wrong man could cause us a lot of worry.”
“I’m still running it,” said Ferguson, and looked at Turner. “When I came out here, there was no ferry and there was no land pre-empted around here at all. I picked out the spot for the ferry and I hewed the wood and built the raft—and I’ve built everything that goes with it, and I don’t think I’d ever sell it at any price. Likewise, I’d fight my hardest to keep anybody from taking it in any other fashion.”
Turner nodded slowly. “I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”
“You got any pancakes left?” asked Ferguson.
Turner called: “Sally!”
She appeared at once in the door from the lean-to, where the cooking was done. “Yes, pa.”
“Mr. Ferguson wants somethin’ to eat.”
Ferguson turned to Turner, “Have you given any thought to a claim club?”
“Considerable,” said Turner. “Don’t see how we’re gonna put it off any longer. Got any ideas?”
“Several.” Ferguson sat down as Sally brought in a glass of water. “The thing that hits me first is that my place is my place. I didn’t take it away from anybody else. Nobody had settled on it until I came along and built a cabin, but now the scalawags come in, and they think I have a fortune, and they see the ferry as a means of controlling lands and people. But I don’t see it that way. The ferry can be used to help, and was not meant to control.” He drained the glass of water. “The first thing to do is get together a sizeable group of men who want to keep the land they already have.”
“That hadn’t ought to be hard,” said Turner. “There’s three or four comin’ now.” He pointed toward the open door, beyond which a number of men had ridden up on horseback; they went to the rail and dismounted, talking heatedly.
“Nobody’s goin’ to take my claim,” said one, “if I have to fight ’em off with a shotgun.”
They came in, stooping to go through the low doorway. “Got any beer, Tom?”
Turner waddled to the corner, got four big tin cups, and filled them from a barrel that stood on end on a cracker hogshead.
“Good scraps you put up this morning,” said Nosey Porter.
“Too good,” said Ferguson. “I feel like a wrung-out pair of stockings.”
“A man can’t keep it up forever,” said Roy Ernest, a very tall man with double-jointed ankles. “What are we going to do?”
Black Gallagher, a beetle-browed Irishman, offered his opinion: “Faith, and a half dozen men with shillelaghs would make believers out of them.”
Turner said. “It might lead to gun-play, and some of us might get killed.”
Sally came in with the pancakes, a steaming plateful, six high, with honey and butter.
Hans Osterman, a light-haired German, slammed the table with his open hand. “Now there’s a man has got some sense.”
Sally stood by the table, and Ferguson said, “You have coffee?”
“Sandy John was sayin’ it’s time to organize a claim club,” said Turner.
Roy Ernest looked up quizzically. “What’s a claim club?” he asked.
Osterman called to Sally: “Fraulein, you got more of them pfannkuchen? I ain’t had ’em since my old lady died of the consumption.”
Sally turned in the doorway to the lean-to. “I will bring you some,” she said.
Ferguson talked between bites. “A claim club is unofficial,” he said, “but when the scalawags try to take everything, it’s the only protection we have.”
Gallagher asked bluntly, “You think they’re tryin’ to take everything, or just your ferry?”
Ferguson looked up. “Not just the ferry,” he said. “It’s the best cash crop in the territory right now, but it won’t last, and it’s not worth getting in trouble over.”
“Then why?” asked Ernest.
“To control this part of the country. By refusing passage, a man could keep some people out—or he could raise the fares to some. Likewise, he could steer the newcomers to his friends.” He watched Sally set down the coffee. “There are many ways in which the ferry could be used to fill a man’s pocketbook or to keep a group of men in control.”
There was the sound of horses outside.
“You ain’t played favorites,” Gallagher observed.
Ferguson grinned wryly. “Too independent, I guess. I don’t like to get in a position where somebody else can tell me what to do.”
A big man appeared at the doorway, his large frame caused him to stoop far down to enter. He was Dave Ackerman, from near the store called Chippewa—where Logan published the Chronicle.
“Howdy, gents,” Ackerman’s big, booming voice filled the room, but there were no echoes in those log cabins.
“Come in and sit a while,” said Turner. “We was just talkin’ about the high price of goobers.”
Roy Ernest untangled his long legs. “How are things in your neck of the woods?”
Half a dozen men filed in behind Ackerman and spread around the room.
“We heard you was having a meeting,” said Ackerman. “Mind if we set in?”
Ferguson smiled. “News sure gets around. It didn’t start till half an hour ago. Maybe you just figured it was time for a meeting,” he suggested.
“Beer, gents?” asked Turner.
“Sure,” said Ackerman. “Beer for ev’rybody.”
Tom turned to the pile of tin cups.
“I was at the ferry this mornin’,” said Ackerman, “and I seen what happened. It looks like there’s no question but the highbinders are tryin’ to get control.”
“It does have the look of a campaign,” said Ferguson.
“I heard about the sheep,” said Ackerman, sitting down. “Is that calc’lated to make things hard for you?”
Ferguson shrugged. “It could be honest enough, but the fact is it will tie up the ferry for three or four days, depending on how the sheep take to it.”
“Meantime,” said Gallagher, “them on the other side will be faunchin’.”
“And cussin’ you,” said Osterman, “and sendin’ committees to wait on you.”
Ferguson sighed. “Worst of all, I will have to take the sheep out of turn.”
“I’m damned if I would!” said Ackerman.
Sally came in with a plate of pancakes for Osterman. “I’ll take some of them,” said Ackerman.
She smiled at him. “I’ll put some on, Mr. Ackerman.”
Ernest asked, “Is there any place lower down, where they could build a ferry?”
“If they have found such a place,” said Ferguson, “it will be dangerous—for I was up and down the river in a boat for several days. The Missouri is tricky, and full of strange currents and sand bars and caving banks. I don’t think there is another safe place for twenty miles on either side.”
“Some people don’t worry about things bein’ safe,” said Turner, bringing beer.
“W
e were talking about forming a claim club,” said Ferguson.
Ackerman looked up quickly from his beer. “Ain’t that vigilantes?”
Ferguson said, “In a way.”
“Whyn’t we get a sheriff out here?” asked Ernest.
“To do what?”
“To keep these fellers from takin’ our land.”
Ferguson finished his pancake. “A sheriff would have no law to enforce, because you don’t own the land legally.”
“They’re goin’ to throw the land open for settlement.”
“But they haven’t yet,” said Ferguson, “and we need something to bridge the gap until the settlement laws come into effect.”
“We were a mite early,” Ernest admitted.
“We all took property under the pre-emption law, and while it is not illegal, still we have no legal basis for a title until the land is surveyed and a government land office established, so we can register our claims. In the meantime, the brigands and newcomers are free to jump our claims unless we are strong enough to keep them off.”
One of Ackerman’s friends said, “You mean fight, with rifles?”
Ferguson looked at him with understanding, for Job Sye was a small man, thin-haired, past the age to be fighting. “Some kind of force is all that stands between us and losing our land,” said Ferguson kindly.
“Somebody will get killed,” Sye said fearfully. “And I’vs got an ailing wife and nine children.”
“I think,” said Ferguson, “that if we can organize, to let the scoundrels know that we stand together, there will be less chance that anybody will get killed, and we are not likely to lose our land before the law comes.”
“How long do you figure that will be?” asked Osterman.
“Maybe a year, maybe two—maybe only a few weeks.”
“Why don’t we wait?” said Sye. “We could always swear that we settled here first.”
“The man who is on the land when the survey comes in, is the man who will get his claim recorded.”
There was silence, and in that silence Sally Turner came in with the pancakes for Ackerman, and the silence continued until she had gone back into the kitchen. Then Ackerman cleared his throat. “How do we take the first step?” he asked.
“Post a public notice of a meeting to organize a claim club, which will assume authority to settle all claims in the Blackbird Creek area.”
“Why post a notice?” asked Gallagher. “Whyn’t we organize right here and now, before they find out what’s goin’ on?”
“That’s not the best way,” said Tom Turner. “The best way is to make it public, so nobody can claim they was left out.”
“What next?” asked Ackerman, pouring honey on his pancakes.
“We meet, elect temporary officers, adopt a constitution and bylaws, then elect permanent officers. We will select a jury to decide all claims. We know who is here now, and we won’t let anybody take over.”
“What if they do?” asked Sye. “What if somebody like Keller comes up some day with a six-shooter and orders me and my folks off the land?”
“Do as you are told. Then go to the officers of the claim club. They will pick a jury and have a trial, and if the man on trial has shoved you off the land, the jury will decide against him.”
But Sye persisted. “What if he don’t pay any attention to the jury?”
“The president of the claim club appoints a committee to wait on him. He might, for instance, be ducked in the river until he sees the light.”
“He might hold ’em off with a rifle,” said Ackerman.
“In such a case,” said Ferguson, “the claim club will have to be ready to fight back with rifles.”
Sally came in with coffee, and nobody spoke for a moment. Then Ernest said, “What’s to keep the scalawags from organizin’ themselves?”
“Nothing,” Ferguson said, “except the knowledge that they are in the wrong. They might organize anyway,” he added, “but organizing like that never seems to work too well against people who are organized in the right.”
Ackerman slammed the table with his fist. “I say let’s organize. Otherwise, I know what’s going to happen. I was at the ferry this morning, and I saw what they are up to. Wiggins and Keller both started a ruckus, and Simmons and Yeakel and Charlie Logan stood there like bumps on a log, and never raised a finger. They was hopin’ you would be licked.”
“I know,” said Ferguson. “They don’t want anybody in this part of the country who might speak out against them.”
“We’ll organize, then. When do we have the meeting?”
“Tonight!” said Osterman loudly.
“That’s too soon. We’ll post a notice today at the ferry, for a meeting tomorrow night at the tavern. That will give everybody plenty of time to hear about it.”
“You want me to write out a notice?” asked Ferguson.
“Sure,” said Ackerman. “Write out a notice for seven o’clock tomorrow night, and we’ll all be here with bells on.
Ferguson got up and paid Turner for his meal. “I’m going to see Yeakel and Logan,” he said, “and try to find out if they are close to Simmons, and exactly who is behind it.”
CHAPTER V
It was a long, hot ride to the Chippewa post office, and Ferguson had a couple of hours to think things over. He followed the rutted trail into Chippewa City—one house and two store-buildings. Simmons owned the general store and lived upstairs. The Chronicle occupied the second building, and Charlie Logan had a room in the back. Yeakel’s office was on one side at the front, while the post office, run by Logan, was on the other side, and opened directly into the printing office.
Ferguson tied his horse in front of the post office, and walked through the dust to the front door, where a gold-lettered sign said, United States Post Office. Charles Logan, P.M. He went inside. The right-hand door was open, and Yeakel stood with his back to the door while he looked through a pile of quarter-folded newspapers that teetered precariously on top of the desk. Ferguson went to the barred window, but saw nobody. The fresh smell of linseed oil and varnish, and the cool smell of paper indicated that Logan was around, however, and Ferguson went to the middle door and stepped inside. At the back of the shop, past the type-cases and the G. Wash handpress, Logan was working on an imposing-stone with cans and a wooden mixing-stick. His arms were smeared with black almost to the elbows, but his shirt sleeves had been rolled up high.
Ferguson said, “Logan, I think you went overboard on that plat. You need two sections for a townsite, but you and Yeakel together haven’t anything near that, to say nothing of a railroad.”
Logan shrugged. “It’s not entirely imaginative, as you seem to imply. Such a town will be built as soon as we sell enough lots.”
“On whose land?”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “Who knows? Men are going broke every day. Some of them will sell out cheap.”
“One thing I don’t understand,” said Ferguson thoughtfully. “Why did you ever put your name on that plat?”
An unexpected change came over Logan’s face. He said softly, “Didn’t you ever want to leave something behind that you could be remembered by?”
“I guess I never thought about it,” said Ferguson, a little startled, for he had not suspected such a sentiment in the editor.
Logan changed back quickly. “Have you made up your mind to work with us instead of against us?” asked Logan.
“I like to know those who are working with me,” said Ferguson. “I don’t think that you and Yeakel are in this alone. Simmons is a little man, grabbing what he can from the leavings. He and Wiggins and Keller are all hired men—but somewhere there is a bigger man, and I’d like to know who he is before I give my answer.”
Logan said quietly, “You’re asking a lot of information.”
“There must be answers.”
“I suppose there are,” said Logan, “but I have to get on with my ink-making for tomorrow’s paper.”
“I want to put a
notice in,” said Ferguson.
“All right. You got it written out?”
“No.”
“I’ll write it for you.” He started wiping his hands on an old shirt, and finished by pouring kerosene over his hands and wiping them again. Then he took a pencil and went to a stack of huge white sheets, and said, “All right.”
“‘Notice to the public’,” Ferguson began. “‘On Friday evening, June 24, 1859, at Turner’s Tavern, interested residents of the countryside will meet to discuss formation of a claim club to sustain pre-emption rights until a U.S. Land Office can be established in this neighborhood.’”
Logan stared at him. “You mean it, Ferguson?”
“Certainly I mean it. Why not?”
Logan paused. “That’s kind of a radical step, isn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t you say something radical needed to be done, after what happened this morning?”
“What happened out of the way?”
Ferguson restrained his impatience. “For three days now, there has been at least one fight a day at the ferry. You stood there and watched two of them this morning, and you never lifted a finger. Don’t you see anything out of the way in that?”
“Well,” said Logan, “these people get tired of waiting. Some have to stay over there for a week.”
“Nobody stays for a week unless he wants to. The trouble does not come from honest emigrants anyway.”
“From where, then?”
“From people put up to it by others who want to make trouble.”
“I hope you’re not insinuating—”
Ferguson smiled. “If the shoe fits you, Mr. Logan—”
“Why would I have an interest in the ferry?”
“I didn’t say you did, Mr. Logan. You could have though, if you thought it would interfere with your printing of all the copies that go back East to seduce emigrants to Nebraska Territory.”
Logan’s beard moved rapidly for a moment as he moved his chew to the other side of his mouth. “There is nothing wrong about that, Ferguson. I merely print the papers and sell them to the Emigrant Aid Society.”
Ferguson picked up a quarter-folded paper. “Then this story must have come from somewhere else.” He read aloud:
