The Homesteader: A Novel

by Oscar Micheaux

  CHAPTER II

  THE HOMESTEADER

  The day was cold and dark and dreary. A storm raged over the prairie,--astorm of the kind that seem to come only over the northwest. Over thewide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as if terriblyangry. It raced across the level stretches, swept down into the draws,where draws were, tumbled against the hillsides, regained itsequilibrium and tore madly down the other side, as if to destroy all inits path. A heavy snow had fallen all the morning, but about noon it hadchanged to fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and madegoing against it very difficult. Notwithstanding, through it--directlyagainst it at most times, The Homesteader struggled resolutely forward.He was shielded in a measure by the horses he was driving, whose bulksprevented the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at alltimes. At other times--and especially when following a level stretch--hegot close to the side of the front wagon with its large box loaded withcoal, which towered above his head and shoulders.

  Before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail, despite the heavysnow that had fallen that morning, was outlined. Perhaps it was becausehe had followed it--he and his horses--so often before in the two yearssince he had been West, that he was able to keep to its narrow waywithout difficulty today. And still, following it was not as difficultas following other trails, for it was an old, old trail. So old indeedwas it, that nobody knew just how old it was, nor how far it reached. Itwas said that Custer had gone that way to meet his massacre; thatSitting Bull knew it best; but to The Homesteader, he hoped to be ableto follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the way. Whennight came--but upon that he had not reckoned! To be caught upon it bydarkness was certain death, and he didn't want to die.

  He was young, The Homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous,strong, healthy and courageous. His height was over six feet and whilehe was slender he was not too much so. His shoulders were slightly roundbut not stooped. His great height gave him an advantage now. He followedhis horses with long, rangy strides, turning his head frequently as ifto give the blood a chance to circulate about and under the skin of hiswide forehead. The fury of the storm appeared to grow worse, judgingfrom the way the horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it wasgrowing colder. Almost continually some of the horses were striking theice from their nosepoints; while very often The Homesteader had to restthe lines he held while he forced the blood to his finger tips with longswings of his arms back and forth across his breast.

  His claim lay many miles yet before him, and his continual gaze towardthe west was to ascertain how long the light of day was likely to holdout. Behind, far to the rear, lay the little town of Bonesteel which hehad left that morning, and now regretted having done so. But the stormhad not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he hadconjectured it would be better to reach home before it became too deepor badly drifted. As it was now he was encountering all this and somemore.

  From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

  HE WAS YOUNG, THE HOMESTEADER--JUST PASSED TWENTY-TWO--AND VIGOROUS,STRONG, HEALTHY AND COURAGEOUS.]

  "Damn!" he cried as they passed down a slope to where the landdivided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest. His course laydirectly northwest, straight against the wind which he could only avoidby hanging the lines over the lever of the brake and fall in behind thetrail wagon. But this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from thehorses. He had walked all the way, for to walk was apparently the onlyway to keep from freezing. He soon reached the other side of the draw,and when he had come to the summit beyond, he groaned. Ahead of him justabove the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from beneath the clouds. Oneither side of it, great, gasping sundogs struggled. They seemed to viewith the red sinking orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing inthat direction they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank lowerand lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with a mighty force for onlya few minutes later the sun had fallen into the great abyss below andthe night was on!

  "We can make it yet, boys," he cried to his horses as if to cheer them.And as if they understood, they crashed forward with such vigor that hewas thrown almost into a trot to keep up.

  As to how long it went on thus, or as to how far they had gone, he wasnot able to reckon; but out of the now pitch darkness he becameconscious of a peculiar longing. He had a vision of his sod house thatstood on the claim, and he saw the small barn with its shed and thestalls for four. He saw the little house again with its one room, thelittle monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and imagined himselfputting a pan of baking powder bread therein. He saw his bed, a large,wide, dirty--'tis true--but a warm bed, nevertheless. He fancied himselfcreeping under the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did. Hecould not understand his prolific thoughts that followed. He thought ofhis boyhood back in old Illinois; he took stock of the surroundings hehad left there; he lived briefly through the discontentment that hadultimately inspired him to come West. And then he had again thosedreams. Regardless of where his train of wandering thoughts began or ofwhere they followed, always they were sure to end upon this given point,the girl. The girl of his dreams--for he had no real girl. There hadnever been a real girl for Jean Baptiste, for this was his name. In theyears that had preceded his coming hither, it had been one relentlesseffort to get the few thousands together with which to start when hefinally came West. At that he had been called lucky. He had no heritage,had Jean Baptiste. His father had given him only the French name thatwas his, for his father had been poor--but this instant belongselsewhere. His heritage, then, had been his indefatigable will; his firmdetermination to make his way; his great desire to make good. But wefollow Jean Baptiste and the girl.

  Only a myth was she. She had come in a day dream when he came West, butstrangely she had stayed. And, singularly as it may seem, he wasconfident she would come in person some day. He talked with her when hewas lonely, and that was almost every day. He told her why he had comeWest, because he felt it was the place for young manhood. Here with theunbroken prairie all about him; with its virgin soil and undevelopedresources; and the fact that all the east, that part of the east thatwas Iowa and Illinois had once been as this now was, had once been aswild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more--indeed, notso much. Here could a young man work out his own destiny. As Iowa andIllinois had been developed, so could this--so _would_ this also bedeveloped. And as railways had formed a network of those states, so intime would they reach this territory as well. In fact it was inevitablewhat was to come, the prime essential, therefore, for his youth, was tobegin with the beginning--and so he had done.

  So he had come, had Jean Baptiste, and was living alone with a greathope; with a great hope for the future of this little empire out therein the hollow of God's hand; with a great love, too, for her, his dreamgirl. So in his prolific visions he talked on with her. He told her thatit was a long way to the railroad now--thirty-two miles. He had that farto haul the coal he and others burned. There were yet no fences, andwhile there were section lines, they were rarely followed. It was nearerby trail. But he was patient, he was perseverant. Time would bring allelse--and her. He had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she mightnot be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but she was good.Always he understood everything that was hers, and he was confident shewould understand him. Her name was sweet and easily pronounced. How heloved to call it!

  He staggered at times now and didn't know why. He had wanted to be homeand in his bed where he could sleep; but home as he now regarded it wastoo far. He couldn't make it, and didn't need to. Why should theyblunder and pull so hard to get home when all about them was a placewhere they could rest. The prairie was all about; and he had slept onthe ground before with only the soft grass beneath him. Why, then, musthe continue on and on! The air was pleasant--warm and luxuriant, and he,Jean Baptiste, was very tired--oh, how tired he really was!

  It was settled! He had gone far enough. He would make his bed rightwhere he was. He called to t
he horses. But somehow they didn't seem tohear. He called again then, he thought, louder, and still they failed tohear. He wondered at their stubbornness. They were good horses and hadnever disobeyed before. He called now again at the top of his voice, butthey heeded him not; in the meantime forging onward, onward and onward!It occurred to him to drop the reins, but such had never been a custom.Within his tired, freezing and brain-fagged mind, there was a resolutionthat made him cling to them, but struggling to pull them down to a stophe continued.

  And as he followed them now onward toward the sod house that stood onthe claim, all realism seemed to desert him; he became a chilledmechanician; he seemed to have passed into the infinite where all wasvague; where turmoil and peculiar strife only abided.... For JeanBaptiste did not understand that he was on the verge of freezing.

  * * * * *

  Stewarts were pleased with the country. They had arrived in earlyJanuary. The weather had not been bad, although the wind blew muchstronger here than it did in Indiana. However, they had not forgottenhow it blew in Western Kansas and were therefore accustomed to it. Thehouse upon the place they had rented was small, just four rooms, but itwas well built and was warm. A village was not far. The people in itcalled it a town, but you see they were enthusiastic. To be more amplyprovided they could get what they needed at Gregory which was sevenmiles. Seven miles was not far to one who could ride horseback, and thisAgnes had learned in Western Kansas.

  "You had best not go to town today, my girl," cautioned Jack Stewart,her father, as she made ready to ride to Gregory after ordering Bill tosaddle Dolly, the gray mare that was their best.

  "Tut, tut, papa," she chided. "This is a day to take the benefit of thiswonderful air. The low altitude of Nubbin Ridge made me sallow; therewas no blood in my cheeks. Here--ah, a nice horseback ride to Gregorywill be the best yet for me!"

  "I don't like the wind--and so much snow with it," he muttered, lookingout with a frown upon his face.

  "But the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost ready. "It'sletting up."

  "It's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing colder."

  "Better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her lithe youngbody as agile as an athlete's. "Now, dada," she let out winsomely, "Ishall dash up to Gregory, get all we need, and be back before the sungoes down!" And with that she kissed away further protest, swung openwide the door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. A momentlater she was gone, but not before her father cried:

  "If you should be delayed, stay the night in town. Above all things,don't let the darkness catch you upon the prairie!"