Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  Next day, the stable boy loaned Micah saddles and bridles for Sampson and Delilah. Saddled and mounted, Micah led the way west out of town. They passed below the shadow of Mount Oread standing northwest sentry over the town. They followed the river, taking in rolling hills on a sunny, warm late summer day.

  “It’s beautiful,” Clare said.

  Micah nodded.

  “How far out do you plan to go?”

  He shrugged. “Until we find a good spot.”

  “Should we look so close to the river? They flood, you know.”

  “Hmm. I’d thought to be close enough to make shipping crops easier. You make a good point, though, for finding higher ground.” He turned south, climbing a shallow river valley wall a half mile from the river. He swung west again, following a broad plain until they came to a tree-lined creek bed spilling north to the river. Micah drew rein and stepped down. He helped Clare down.

  “What do you think?”

  She shaded her eyes and turned slowly. “It’s lovely and so peaceful.”

  Micah drew his knife, crouched, and turned over a slice of earth. Rich, black soil crumbled through his fingers. He held his hand up to Clare.

  “It smells good.”

  “It does.” He stood. “Can you see a house there by the creek?”

  “I can. Oh, and look there. Is that a sycamore?”

  The old tree stood near the creek bank, lifting powerful branches to a cornflower-blue sky as though guarding the river valley below. “It is a sycamore,” Micah said.

  “Ah, that reminds me of home.”

  “Perhaps it’s a sign. Let’s ride on a bit further.”

  They remounted and crossed the creek. Clare looked toward the river.

  “We could plant a vegetable garden here.”

  Micah lifted his chin to the south. “I can see an orchard there.”

  They continued west across a broad fertile plain, waving in green-gold prairie grass.

  “How much land should we claim?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking wheat or corn. Two to three hundred tillable acres would give us room to grow.” He wheeled Sampson around to look back at the tree line along the creek. “Looks to be about a three-quarter mile or so.” He stepped down. “We need some stones to mark this boundary.”

  They ground tied the mules and spread out, gathering stones they piled to a height visible above waving summer grass. They remounted and rode south yet another three-quarter mile, repeating the process.

  Micah collected the mules. “We’ll set the east boundary on the far bank of the creek, allowing a plot for a house.”

  “What about a north boundary?”

  “We’ll claim the land all the way to the river. That way we’ll have access for shipping crops, lumber, and such.”

  Clare swept her eyes along the creek bank toward the river. They came to rest on the giant sycamore. She listened to the soft rustle of a breeze.

  “Oh, Micah, it feels like home already.”

  “It does.”

  Sun bent to late afternoon as they stacked the last stones to the east boundary marker. They stepped into the saddle for the return to town, tired and excited by the claim they’d staked. They’d put the mules up in the stable and take a room for a second night.

  The old tree spread her shade over the young folks as they rode back toward town. Fresh markers bound her land to some new purpose. Seasons of serenity reached deep to her roots. The creek, the river, wild flowers, and vegetation provided forest critter needs. Peaceful, simple, and all about to change. Slanting sun warmed the possibilities. Unspoken promises awaiting discovery.

  Lawrence

  The following morning dawned sunny with a crisp break in the summer heat foretelling an urgent need to provide shelter for winter in the coming weeks. Micah found the land office was a short walk down Massachusetts from the hotel. He waited patiently on the boardwalk while the potbellied clerk with a handlebar moustache unlocked the door and flipped the window sign to “Open.” He followed the man inside. Dirty window-smeared sunlight lit the dusty office confines. The clerk let himself through a gate behind the counter, hung his coat on a tree, and rustled an officious looking stack of papers while Micah waited at the counter. The man lifted a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket and fitted them over his ears. He turned to the counter as though just noticing Micah was there.

  “Now, then, young man, what can we do for you today?”

  “I’d like to register a claim.”

  “I believe we can arrange that. Is the claim properly staked?”

  “It is.”

  The clerk spread a map on the counter. “Can you show me where this claim is located?”

  Micah traced the river five miles west of town to the creek. He followed the creek south. “Three-quarter mile south and three-quarter mile west of the east creek bank.”

  The clerk nodded, marking the boundaries with the stub of a pencil. “That’s a handsome piece of property. River side of the Thorne place.”

  “Thorne place?”

  “Titus Thorne . . . owns a large spread south of you. You’ll be neighbors. What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Farm it.”

  “Good land out that way. What are you planning to farm?”

  “Wheat . . . maybe corn.”

  “Either one of them ought to do right well out there. The land cost is a dollar an acre due within three years. You pay the taxes and work the land to hold your claim until you complete the purchase. Is that acceptable?”

  “It is.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll draw up the paperwork. I should have it ready for you to sign later this morning. That’ll be ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars?”

  “First year taxes. You’re a property owner, son.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  Micah drew the team to a halt at the creek bank under the spread of the old sycamore. He settled an arm around Clare.

  “Home sweet home.”

  She smiled up at him. “It is. Or soon will be. Where do we begin?”

  “The first order of business is shelter for the winter.”

  “Do we have time to build a cabin?”

  He shook his head. “A dugout will have to do.”

  “Dugout?”

  “A sod house. I’ve given it some thought. Come along—I’ll show you.” He helped her down from the wagon box and led the way north along the creek bank to the ridge that dropped to the river valley below. He climbed down the slope to a level break in the ridge wall before it continued down to the valley floor.

  “How do you like your front yard?”

  “Front yard?”

  He nodded. “We’ll tunnel into the hillside here, hollow out a braced-up living space, sink a pipe for a stove, frame in a front entrance with a door and a window, and be snugged up for the winter.”

  “What about the mules?”

  “We’ll make do with a pole corral and a lean-to for shelter. We’ll have to gather fodder for them and firewood for us, but we should be able to get that done before the snow flies.”

  “What about a proper house?”

  “That will need to wait a year or so until we’ve cashed a crop to bring in wood and building supplies. I’ll get started on the sod house tomorrow. Now let’s get the stock and the wagon settled. That’ll be camp home until the dugout is ready to move in.”

  Golden shadow crept across the land office floor. The clerk stretched. He pulled the watch from his vest pocket and flipped the cover open. Five minutes of five—time to close up. He let himself out through the gate in the counter and was about to turn over the “Closed” sign when a tall, dark silhouette appeared at the door.

  Titus Thorne flashed a smile meant to disarm the unsuspecting. Those who knew him knew better than to approach the man unarmed. He wore a tailored, dark suit over a long, lithe frame. A handsome rake, he had sloe-dark eyes fit to wilt a lady, with impeccably barbered hair and mousta
che.

  “I was just about to close, Mr. Thorne. Perhaps you could come back in the morning.”

  “I shan’t keep you, Cletus. I’m planning to claim a parcel. I’d like to point it out to you and have you assess the tax bill for me.”

  The clerk withdrew to his counter, defeated. “Is the claim staked?”

  Thorne paused. “It is.”

  He spread the map on the counter. “Where is it located?”

  “South of the river, five miles west of town . . . ”

  “At the creek.”

  “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “That parcel was claimed only this morning by a young couple from Ohio.”

  Thorne darkened. “How . . . unfortunate.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Thorne. I registered the claim myself.”

  “Have the taxes been paid?”

  “They have. All is in order.”

  “I see. I had my heart set on that section.”

  “Perhaps they might sell for the right price.”

  “Or something like that. Thank you, Cletus. Good evening.”

  The table lamp created an island of light. Flying insects danced in and out of the halo. Beyond the circle of light, night sounds serenaded the silence resting on the burbling creek. A gentle breeze ruffled the willow break, playing through the sycamore leaves overhead. Clare sat at the table, cleared of their evening meal, her pen lightly scratching the vellum page.

  Lawrence, Kansas

  September 2, 1854

  Dear Ma, Pa, and all the Mason clan,

  We’ve arrived. Micah promised we would write. He asked me if I would do it. The poor man turned in after supper. Our days are long, his burdened by heavy labor as we prepare to winter at our new homestead.

  We staked our claim on three-hundred-sixty acres five miles west of Lawrence, Kansas. Lawrence is situated forty miles west of Kansas City. The property sits on a bluff overlooking the Kansas River on a lovely creek. A mighty sycamore stands sentinel over it to remind us of home. I think we may christen the farm Sycamore for it.

  Micah is busy building a sod home into the side of our bluff, overlooking the river, to shelter us until we can build a proper house. I know it sounds primitive, but as it begins to take shape I can see we shall be comfortable there.

  The land is good and rich, Pa. Micah plans to plant wheat in the spring. They’ve built a grist mill in Kansas City; and, while forty miles seems like a long way, shipping our crops to market by river barge makes the distance practical. Micah believes that in time a railroad will shorten even that distance. As we look at the autumn fields waving in sun-golden grasses, wheat promises a future filled with acres of gold.

  We have found things to be much as we envisioned when we left Hudson. The journey was long, with some harrowing moments, but we managed them. I won’t trouble you with any but one. We had what could have been a most unfortunate encounter with two ruffians in Indiana. We were spared any damage or inconvenience when Brother Brown’s sons came along and ran the scalawags off. The Brown brothers were on their way to Kansas and are believed to be somewhere in the area here, though we have not encountered them again. Lawrence is very much in the free-soil camp, so the Brown boys must, as we, feel most comfortable here.

  There is one more bit of news I should pass along before signing this off. Micah and I expect to begin our family late of next spring. God has given much to us in our new home, and now He brings us a child to share it with. Fondest blessings to you all.

  Love,

  Micah & Clare

  Thorne drew rein at the crest of the ridge. Off to his right, the river wound her way toward Kansas City. Ahead, the sun filtered golden through the trees lining the creek bank. They’d parked their wagon there, likely still using it as a temporary home until something more permanent could be arranged. That appeared to be under way, with the scar of a digging just below the ridge line to the north. The young folk were wasting no time. How could he have been so foolish? This section had been part of his plan from the beginning. Now it would cost him more than taxes. Damn. His black stallion, Rogue, stomped, snorted, and tossed his head in agreement. He squeezed up a trot toward the wagon.

  The woman bent over a washtub set beside the creek. Thorne let his gaze play over the round of her hips until his approach caught her attention, spoiling the view by bringing her upright. She squinted into the sun, the view not entirely spoiled. A comely thing for a sodbuster’s wife.

  “Good morning, ma’m.” He tipped his hat, the picture of proper gentry.

  “Yes?”

  “Titus Thorne is my name. I own four sections south and west of here. Since we’ve become neighbors, as it were, I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.”

  She fetched a bright smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thorne. I’m Clare, Clare Mason. Won’t you step down?”

  Thorne dismounted and gave the black his lead to crop.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you. If you’ve the time, I could brew a pot of coffee.”

  “You’re very kind. I only wished to introduce myself and have a word with your husband if he is about.”

  “He’s working on a sod house, just there toward the river.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “Shall I fetch him?”

  “No need. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “Come along. I’ll show you.” She set off for the river.

  “Where are you folks from?”

  “Hudson, Ohio.”

  “You’ve come a long way. What brings you to Kansas?”

  “Why, this of course, though I don’t suppose we had any more than a general notion of what to expect before we arrived. But our expectations have been far more than met.” She started down the ridge bank toward the hollowed opening. “Micah, we’ve a caller.”

  He emerged from the cave-like opening, bare chested, sweat-slicked in muddy streaks. He wiped his hands on a rag.

  “Micah, this is Mr. Thorne. He’s our neighbor.”

  “Titus Thorne, Mr. Mason.” He extended his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Mr. Thorne stopped to introduce himself and have a word with you, dear.”

  “Oh? What can I do for you then, sir?”

  “More like, what I might do for you.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “It’s about your claim here. I’ve had my eye on this section for some time now. I’d every intention of claiming it myself. You can imagine my surprise when I discovered you’d done so. Well, what’s done is done . . . my misfortune, but I mean to make it right by you.”

  “Right by me? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Why, buy you out, of course. I’m prepared to pay a dollar an acre, as is, unimproved.”

  “I’m sure that’s a very generous offer, Mr. Thorne, but my wife and I are comfortable here. We’ve no interest in selling.”

  “Comfortable? Come now, Mr. Mason, you’ve barely scratched a hole in the ground. I’m offering you three hundred-sixty dollars for your trouble to find a different place to feel comfortable.”

  “I understand. But we’ve only just completed a very long journey to find this home. We’ve no interest in moving on.”

  “Oh, all right. Drive a hard bargain if you must. A dollar-fifty an acre, but that’s my final offer.”

  “It’s not the money, Mr. Thorne. We’re home. We’re expecting our first child, and we intend to give that child a home here.”

  A vein throbbed in Thorne’s temple. “I see. You’re taking a great risk, you know. This is rough country. Carving a working farm out of raw land is no easy feat. Holding on to it if you succeed can be even more difficult. You’d be wise to reconsider the generosity of my offer—it’s certain gain. Holding on to land is, shall we say, a far less certain proposition.”

  “We accepted that bargain when we left Hudson.”

  “When you left Hudson, you had no idea what you b
argained for. Good day.”

  CHAPTER TCHIRTEEN

  * * *

  Jackson County, Missouri

  October 1854

  A bright harvest moon hung low on the eastern horizon. Golden light lay on the fields and filtered through the trees. Music and muted laughter floated down from the big house on a gentle night breeze. Caleb waited nervously in the shadow of an ancient oak at the end of a hedgerow bordering the southwest section. What’s keepin’ that girl? By the sound of it the harvest celebration had gotten into full swing. She needed to be along if they were sure enough to do this fool thing. They’d need every last minute away before they were discovered missing.

  The light snap of a twig and a rustle of leaves set his heart to racing. She appeared out of the trees like a forest sprite ’til she fetched him that pearly smile.

  “What took you your own sweet time?”

  “Missa Morgan Walker had me truss up that corset fit to squeeze the breath out’a her. She ain’t been that skinny since before she birthed that boy of hers.”

  “Well, let’s don’t be wastin’ no more time. Dey’ll have the dogs on us come mornin’.”

  Caleb set off north at a brisk pace, keeping to the shadows of the hedgerow. He turned west at the north end of the field and put the big house behind them. A half mile west they struck a creek. Caleb waded into the water and turned south. Miriam stopped at the bank, hands on hips.

  “Hey, what you goin’ that way for? Kansas is the other way.”

  “Them dogs don’t smell you in water. The catcher man will ’spect we gone north. He and them dogs be lookin’ along up there while we goes on down this way a spell. We find us a good spot to get out of the creek and circle back northwest.”

  “My, my, if I knowd you was so smart about this I’d a had us gone some long time ago.”

  “We ain’t brought it off yet, girl. Now quits your jabberin’, and let’s be on our way.”

  “Mighty bossy there, Caleb . . . must be the smell of freedom.” She waded into the creek and followed.

  “It ain’t freedom smell worries me. It’s blood smell.”