Bess: A Pioneer Woman's Journey of Courage, Grit and Love

by Charles Cranston Jett

  “Sure, Chris. We’ll stable your horse next to Annabel. If you see a bull snake, just ignore him. He’s a pet. Name is Hiss.”

  Doc laughed. “Please, call me ‘Doc.’ And I’m not afraid of bull snakes. They’re good.”

  Within ten minutes, Doc had fed and stabled his horse, and had fallen asleep in the small pile of hay near the open door of the shed opposite of where Hiss usually lurked. Bess closed the door but didn’t lock it shut, and thought he could sleep just as long as he wanted. In the morning, she would feed him a good breakfast before he headed back to his ranch.

  It feels good to have a man around the homestead, thought Bess. Somehow it reminds me of Papa, but Doc isn’t a father figure to me. He makes me feel secure and less lonely—not like Martha, of course, but a little less lonely. I’m a single woman living alone far from anyone else and even though I feel confident…still, I can’t help knowing I’m vulnerable. Bess took her loaded revolver out of her carrying bag and slept with it under the pillow.

  The next morning she awoke just before sunup, lit the stove, and made some cornmeal mush, cut some bacon, fried a couple of eggs, and waited for Doc to stir from the shed. When she went out to get a pail of water from the well, she heard the shed door open and Doc came out looking much more refreshed than the completely tired-out man from the night before.

  “Mornin’, Bess,” he said in a cheerful voice. He looked to the west at the coal-black charred Teepee Buttes. “They look bad now,” he said, “but wait ‘til spring. They’ll be green again.”

  “That quick?”

  “A good burn helps the prairie,” he said. “Fire ain’t all bad. Cleans up a lot of stuff that’s not needed. Nature’s way.”

  “Want some breakfast?”.

  “Sure could use some, miss,” he said.

  Bess led Doc inside her house and pointed to the table where he should sit. “Sure is nice, Miss Parker,” said Doc.

  Sometimes he calls me Bess, sometimes miss, and sometimes Miss Parker, noted Bess. “You can call me Bess,” she said.

  “Will do,” Doc said, as he ate his meal. “Good breakfast, Bess.”

  Bess made pancakes for him as well, but she didn’t have any of the chokecherry syrup she had tasted with Linda when they were in Dickinson. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Currie at the store where she could get some.

  Doc finished his breakfast, thanked her, and went out to saddle his horse. Bess came out of the house as he was getting ready to leave.

  “Make sure you keep your door locked, Bess. Can’t be sure that it’s always safe around here, what with all the cowhands and drifters who come through.”

  “I keep it locked tight,” she said. “Thank you, Doc. It was good to see you again.”

  “Thanks for letting me get some rest.” And with a wave, he rode off toward Haley.

  Chris “Doc” Stewart, thought Bess. Interesting man.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Loneliness. That was one of the hazards of homesteading that Bess hadn’t counted on. It wasn’t part of my plan, she thought as Doc rode off toward Haley. Maybe what was keeping me from thinking about loneliness was the feeling of anticipation of being with Linda and, of course, the actual companionship with Martha.

  She had learned from Mr. Currie that there were other single women homesteading in the area—about six or seven of them, closer to Scranton up north—but their situations were a little different. They had come with their families—their parents—and had filed for their homesteads on land adjacent to or very near their parents. Since that land was usually adjacent, they built their shacks close together, so they weren’t isolated. Being close to family was important, Bess knew, but she didn’t have any family except for Mama and Papa in Cando.

  Some of the single women, according to Mr. Currie, lived in Scranton up north and spent only the weekends on their homesteads. They had jobs in Scranton and were making their living that way, some living on their homesteads and some not. They made only minor improvements in order to satisfy the requirements of “proving up” on their land. Bess thought that was stretching the proving-up requirements compared to her full-time effort. She even considered homesteading in that fashion was bordering on cheating.

  Some of the singles had been married and were divorced, and some even had young children living with them. That would be a challenge, Bess thought. She couldn’t imagine having to take care of little ones in addition to the work she had to do daily on the homestead. Children aren’t part of the plan, she thought.

  Probably the most challenged homesteaders were those women who had children and also had jobs away from their homesteads. They had heavy responsibilities: working for paid labor in a nearby town, managing a household with children, and managing their claim. In most instances, they had to hire help to plant crops, tend their livestock, and even sometimes to do routine chores around their claim. Bess felt relieved that her only challenge—and it was a big one—was to prove up on her land the way she had planned.

  There were many homesteaders in the Haley area, and Bess had met some of them by going to church, although her principal reason for attendance had been to see Martha—not for any sort of spiritual comfort. Seeking any sort of comfort of guidance from the church wasn’t part of her life.

  There were reasons, Bess knew, to develop friendships with other homesteaders. It wasn’t only for the social interaction and being able to talk to people rather than just making occasional comments to Hiss--who always seemed to answer--but in case of emergencies or when she might need help of some kind.

  It’s time to branch out and make new friends, she thought.

  That Sunday, an unusually warm day, Bess sat through the long church service and after shaking the minister’s hand at the door when the service was over, she went outside to mix with members of the congregation. She saw Ken Fisher and his wife near the table with another attractive collection of baked goods and decided to engage them in conversation.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher. Good morning, Ken,” she said. “It’s another warm and clear day for us!”

  “Mornin’, Bess,” Ken said as he shook her hand.

  Ken’s wife, Sarah, was expecting and looked as though she felt physically uncomfortable. Bess felt that she should address her as “Mrs. Fisher” until they were properly introduced. “It’s Sarah,” she finally said.

  “Bess Parker.” She and Sarah shook hands.

  “The missus is due any day now,” said Ken as he smiled at his wife. She didn’t smile, but nodded. “Sooner the better,” he said with a chuckle.

  Ken and Sarah lived on the east side of town, and Bess thought that asking them if they might need some help would be appropriate. After all, Ken had done so much for her during the construction of her property. “If you need anything after the baby is born,” Bess said, “I would be more than happy to help.”

  That brought a smile to Sarah’s face. “That would be nice, Bess.”

  “Let me know,” Bess said. “Ken knows I don’t live far away.”

  Bess and the Fishers chatted for a few minutes more until it became clear that Sarah was too uncomfortable to stay. “Have to be goin’,” said Ken, as he gently took his wife’s arm and they left.

  Bess saw Ralph Palcewski, one of the major sheep ranchers in the area and needed to talk with him. Mr. Currie had introduced Bess to him during the summer when she was visiting the Currie Store and she had discussed with him her need for the use of one of his Rambouillet rams for three weeks.

  Bess had all ewes—thirty of them--and no rams because rams were expensive. Papa had told her to always “rent the services” of a ram instead of trying to own one. “Don’t own rams unless you have a large enough herd of ewes to support them,” said Papa. Papa had told her that one ram was sufficient for up to fifty ewes.

  Ewes came into estrus (heat) every seventeen days or so, and the estrus period would last about twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Mr. Palcewski agreed to bring one of the rams to Bess�
�s place the next day. “Keep him for two or three weeks,” said Mr. Palcewski.

  Bess remained at the reception and visited with several homesteaders, most notably Allen and Patsy Lee who lived just west of Bess’s place. They were lucky during the prairie fire—it had burned up to a field about a mile west of their place and they had no damage at all.

  The Lees were among the first homesteaders in the area, and they were very friendly. Bess had ridden by their place a few times and noticed they had built a nice two-story wooden house and appeared to be quite prosperous. The house was painted white with a dark-red roof, and the large barn and shed were painted a dark green with red roofs. Allen and Patsy invited Bess to come to their place for dinner the following Sunday. Bess accepted with pleasure.

  As Bess rode home, she thought about the effects that her taking an initiative to socialize were having on her. Keeping busy is important, she thought, but making friends and interacting with different people is of equal importance. It just doesn’t pay to sit home and grieve all the time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bess had been away from her home in Cando for over six months by the time December rolled around. She had written several times to Mama and Papa, telling them what she was doing, but in the most recent letter she received, Mama complained a little bit that Bess hadn’t provided them with any details about what life was like at her place. So Bess spent the afternoon writing a long letter describing what she thought Mama might find interesting about the local life. She began to write.

  Dear Mama and Papa –

  A lot has gone on around here since my last letter to you, and I’m afraid I have not spent the time to tell you what my daily life is like. In all, it’s about as I expected. Nice people, hard work, and, for the most part, good weather.

  The roads around Haley are primitive and mainly consist of well-worn ruts in the tough prairie sod. They are suitable for the main kinds of transportation, such as horseback, buckboards, freight wagons, and an occasional fancy surrey. One of the better roads is the Bowman-Belle Fourche stage route, which passes through this area west of my homestead just this side of the Teepee Buttes. When it’s muddy, however, none of the roads are any good, especially to the south where there is a lot of gumbo.

  Last Sunday, a man from Scranton created a real stir in Haley. He had driven down that morning from Scranton, about twelve miles north, in a new Model T Ford automobile--all black in color. That’s the first automobile I’ve ever seen up close before, and for part of the afternoon he took some of the people in town, including me, for a short ride to the edge of town and back. The ride was fun, but I thought the thing was a bit noisy, and it certainly jerked a lot. Apparently, he had driven it to Scranton all the way from Minneapolis.

  There is a new school in Haley and it consists of one large room where there are about sixteen desks of different sizes and shapes. It’s called the Wilson School and the teacher is Mrs. Wilsie--a rather elderly and plump woman who is very nice and has rosy cheeks. She will be retiring in a couple of years. She teaches grades one through eight, and only two of the grade levels have more than one student. The children seem happy. Sometimes when I ride into town, I see them playing games like tag or hide-and-seek in the yard around the schoolhouse.

  The women around here mostly wear long dresses and have their hair worn in a roll or “pug,” as they call it. Young girls usually have their hair in pigtails and wear dresses that are a little shorter. The boys wear pants and baggy shirts and sometimes knickers. I generally wear my work clothing--loose work shirt and trousers, or baggy pants. Most of the women wear high-laced or buttoned black shoes, but I prefer boots.

  When I’m in town, I usually buy cream, milk, and butter at the creamery, but I’m going to get a cow sometime next spring. Maybe she’ll be as good as Brocky!

  My leghorn chickens have begun to lay eggs on a weekly basis; hopefully it won’t be too long before I can take a dozen into town and sell them for about eight cents. That’s the price around here.

  The water from my well is good for drinking, but not for washing clothes, especially anything white because of the high mineral content, mainly iron, which causes rust. To wash clothing, I have to fill a rain barrel with soft spring water that one of the men from town who helps me, Ken Fisher, brings in a wagon from the Currie Store about once every two or three weeks. I can wash and rinse the whites in that water and it leaves no rusty stains.

  Haley has one doctor, Dr. John Poppe. He is a nice man and provides whatever general medical services are needed in the town, but if something is difficult, patients go to Bowman or sometimes even to Dickinson to be treated.

  Home remedies are common around here. I heard about a particularly funny one that one of the old-timers said he used. One of his grandchildren, who was eight years old, had a bad earache, and since the old man was smoking his pipe, he spent some time blowing smoke into her ear. Somehow, her pain was relieved and he never knew if the cure was due to the heat from the smoke, the nicotine, or if it just got better on its own. But I don’t think Dr. Poppe uses that method of treatment on his patients.

  Personally, I think I am getting a reputation as being more like a man than a woman because I rarely have the need to wear a dress. I don’t wear my hair like the other women either, nor do I wear typical women’s shoes—except when going to church, of course.

  Yes, church! I’ve found that going to church on Sundays gives me an opportunity to get to know more people, which is worthwhile even though the sermons are much too long. And it gets very lonely around the homestead during the week when there is no one to talk to except my horse, Annabel.

  As I have told you in my other letters, I have thirty healthy sheep and had one of the homesteaders provide me with an excellent ram for three weeks. I’m hoping that I have a good lambing season in the spring, Papa. That is important to me.

  I miss you both very much and miss sitting together at dinner and talking about everything. And, Papa, I miss working for you and playing the piano. I hope I haven’t lost my touch, as I haven’t had a chance to play the piano around here.

  Your loving daughter,

  Bess

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Snow came with a vengeance in mid-December. It reminded Bess of the heavy snows from her youth, but here the wind blew the snow across the prairie and sometimes it would look like it was snowing horizontally. Her sod house was warm and cozy, because the thick walls and the sod on the roof provided excellent insulation. Fortunately, Ken Fisher and Mr. Feist had done an excellent job of sealing the double windows and door, and Bess was thankful they had taken so much care in building the house. Her stove was sufficient to heat the entire room, and she had no trouble with drifting snow at the front of the house or on the side where she needed to have access to the coal bin.

  The shed door was free from snowdrifts too, and Bess could easily open and close the shed doors: one to the stable, where Annabel seemed very comfortable, and one to the corral to let the sheep out from time to time for access to the hay and water. She would routinely have to break the ice that formed in the water trough outside, but the water didn’t freeze in the trough for Annabel inside the shed. Her well had a cover on top, and since the water level was about twenty feet down from the top, the water didn’t freeze, and that certainly removed one of her fears.

  It was relatively easy to ride into town even when the snow was rather deep, and the bridge over the Grand River provided easy access. During a break in the snowstorm, Bess went into town to fetch some supplies and saw Doc, who had apparently come to the Currie Store for the same purpose. He seemed delighted to see her.

  “Hi, Bess!” he said. “Looks like you ain’t snowed in!”

  “Not too bad at the place,” Bess said. “Pretty easy to get into town and I’m glad I live close.”

  “Would it be all right if I came over to see you? How about next Sunday?” Doc asked with a smile.

  Bess was a bit surprised, but always enjoyed th
eir conversations and their mutual love of horses, so she agreed. Doc said he would be coming sometime after noon. With a sense of curiosity, Bess looked forward to his visit.

  Doc arrived at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, a little later than Bess had expected him to arrive. The sky was clear and the snow wasn’t blowing very much, and after they put his horse in the shed with Annabel, they went into the house to visit. Doc was neatly dressed in a dark-gray suit, white shirt, and a string tie. He appeared much as he did when Bess first met him at the freight depot in Dickinson.

  “I brought you a present, Bess,” he said as he handed her a long tube wrapped in green-and-red Christmas paper. “Open it! Hope you like it.” It was a nice calendar for 1909 with pictures of different breeds of horses for each month. “Hope you don’t mind horses,” he said.

  Bess smiled. “That’s very nice, Doc. It will remind me of you because of your love for them. And you guessed right—I love them, too.” Bess hung the calendar on the wall between the front window and the door.

  They talked for a couple of hours, mainly about what had been going on around Haley and about the effects of the prairie fire. Doc told Bess that there had been another fire farther east, about thirty miles down toward Lemmon, and that it had been quite severe, worse than the one they’d had. A couple of people had lost their lives and many lost livestock.

  After chatting for a while, it was time for dinner. The previous day, Bess had shot a couple of pheasants. Before Doc arrived she had cooked them for supper along with some potatoes and carrots, which she had fetched from the root cellar. She had also baked a couple of loaves of bread using Mama’s recipe. The bread was pretty good, but Bess thought that somehow Mama’s tasted better and sweeter.

  “Tell me about your family, Doc,” said Bess. “Where you’re from, how it happened that you came out here.”

  “I was raised in Galesburg, Illinois, with three older sisters, the youngest being fifteen years older than me. My father, Charles Edward Stewart, raised quarter horses—you know, the ones known for their speed over a short distance as well as being excellent saddle horses. Dad taught me how to take care of horses as well as how to train them to accept riders. That’s how I became a pretty good horseman--knowing the techniques of breeding, training, and riding.”