USA > Kansas > Emigrant life in Kansas > Part 9
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Squire. " Have him ? "
Bride. " Yes."
Squire. " Have her ? "
Bridegroom. " Kinder."
Squire. "Done. One dollar."
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This is perhaps rather shorter than usual, but the " ceremony" is always very simple.
Squire Holt's residence was but a one- roomed log-house, and not of the largest dimensions, so that with the jury and the witnesses on both sides the "court " was rather closely packed.
There were no solicitors, or, as they there term themselves, " attorneys at law," present, and the trial began by old Hockley stating his case in person.
After being sworn, he said :-
" Mr. Squire, and gentlemen of the jury, with your leave, I guess I'll jest tell you the facts of this here case. On the fourteenth of December I went to see Anderson yonder, as I was a-wanting another work-horse. I offered to swop my three-year-old filly, which ain't broke, to him for a blind mare which he owned. The defendant comes over to see the filly, and I goes over to see the mare, and I agreed to take her on trial for a week. The defendant agrees, and I takes the mare home, and then takes the filly to defendant's. She was worked the next day and seemed pretty bully, but the next morning my little
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Dutchman finds her dead as nails in . the stable, with her head in a pool of blood, and I guess I've got witnesses to prove all what I say. Now, I claim that the mare was in a bad way when defendant got rid of her, and he knew it, and I hold that he cughter return my filly. These are the facts of the case, and I hope you'll see that my demands is just, and give me my dues."
Cross-examined by the defendant. A. "I believe you owned it was you and not me proposed the swop ? "
H. "Yes, I wanted a work-horse at once, and didn't want to wait to break the filly in."
A. " Jess so. Who did you make the arrangement with about taking the mare on trial for a week? It wasn't me."
H. "Yes, it was; I told you I would try her for a week."
A. "You're a liar, man ! "
" Order ! order !" from the Squire.
A. "Why, if I'd only agreed to let you have the mare for a week, do you think I'd have taken the filly to feed, and p'raps break in, and all for nothing ? That's enough !"
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The next witness, Antoine Prosser, a little Dutchman, whom we always thought but half- witted, was then called.
H. " You are in my employ, ain't you ? " Prosser. " Oh yes, I does works for you. Vat for you say so ? "
H. " To let the court know who you are. Now tell us all you can about this swap. Did I have the mare on trial or not ? "
P. "Oh yaas, dat is so."
H. " Which is so ? "
P. "You trade ze horse."
H. " I guess you don't quite understand. Did I have the mare on trial ? "
P. " Oh yaas, dat is so."
H. " And two days afterwards you found the mare dead in the stable ?"
P. " Oh yaas, dat is so all." H. " And there was a lot of blood ? "
P. " Oh yaas, there was plenty bleed."
H. " How much ? '
P. " Oh, much bleed."
H. " Yes, but how much."
P. " Big heaps."
" Very well, that will do."
H. P. " Oh yaas."
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Cross-examined by defendant.
" One minute, Mr. Prosser. You say that the plaintiff had the mare on trial; who told you so ? Was it the plaintiff, Mr. Hockley ? " P. " Oh yaas, dat is so."
A. (To the jury.) "Do you call that evidence, gentlemen ? " (To the witness.) " Did you hear the arrangement made between us ? "
P. " Oh yaas."
A. " Oh, get out; why, man, you weren't there. You found the dead mare in the stable, did you ? "
P. " Oh, yaas, dat is so."
A. " How was she laying ?"
P. " She laying on ze ground still."
A. " And there was blood? And where did it come from ? "
P. " She have bleed of ze nose."
A. " How much was there ? "
P. " There was much bleed."
A. " Yes, but how much ? What sized pool was it? was it as big as that? " opening his arms about a yard.
P. " Oh yaas, dat is so."
A. " And how deep was it ? "
P. " There was much bleed."
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A. "Yes, but how deep was it? Was it as deep as that? " holding one hand a foot above the other.
P. " Oh yaas, dat is so."
A. "There was a pile of ' bleed ' three feet wide and a foot deep. Sir, do you know that you are on your oath ? Do you know what an oath is ? "
P. "Oh yaas, it is schwear ; Mishter Hockley makes much schwear." (Laughter.) A. " Thank you ; that's all I've got to ask you."
P. "Oh yaas."
The next witness, another man in Hockley's employment, was sworn, and deposed to the mare being found dead in the stable ; but, upon cross-examination, he admitted that he did not hear that she was only upon trial until after she was dead, and it was also elicited that the 'mare had been very hard-worked the previous day, having travelled nearly fifty miles. This closed the case for the prosecu- tion.
The defendant Anderson then laid his state- ment before the jury.
" Mr. Squire and gentlemen, I guess it won't
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be necessary for me to say much after the evidence we drew out just now. I can only say that the plaintiff came to me of his own free will, and offered to swop his filly for my mare. I went to see his filly and agreed to trade. Nothing was said about taking my mare on trial. Lord knows, he knew the mare
well enough. If the mare was sick, I didn't know it; she seemed well enough when I had her. I went to see her after she died, and found lier lying in the stable, with a little blood from her nose. I guess the pool of ' bleed ' had kind o' soaked up, for there wasn't much to be seen when I got there. I guess she had overpulled the day before, as you know blind horses sometimes will. There's nothing more for me to say, except that the plaintiff and his little Dutchman seem to have agreed to tell lies and swear to 'em." (" Order ! order ! ") ·
Cross-examined by Hockley. " Do you mean to say that I didn't tell you out by the corral that I wanted the mare on trial ? ".
A. " Ay, and you know it well enough."
H. "Well, as I had no witness there I can't prove it, but I guess my word's as good
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as yours. On your oath now, can you swear that the mare was in good health when you saw her last? "
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A. "No, I can't exactly swear that." H. " Ah! I thought as much. What ailed her ? "
A. "When ? "
H. " Why, when you traded her to me? "
A. " Nothing."
H. "Why, you said just now that you couldn't swear that she was in good health !"
A. "No, I didn't."
H. " Well, what did you say then ? "
A. " I said that I couldn't swear she was
in good health when I saw her last."
H. " Well, that's what I said. What was the matter with her?"
A. " Well, when I saw her last, she was dead." (Laughter.)
H. "Bah! I mean what was the matter with her when you traded her to me."
A. " Nothing. She has been overworked, that's what killed her."
The next witness, Tom Crofter, was called, and he swore that he was present when the "' swop " was made, and that the plaintiff did
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not propose to have the mare on trial at all. This was corroborated by Anderson's man Henry, and myself.
I had been over with Anderson to see the dead mare, and was subjected to a close cross- examination by Hockley, but he failed to shake my first statements. This concluded the defence, and the jury were called upon for their verdict.
They stepped out of doors into the snow, as that was the only retiring-room, and after a very few minutes' deliberation (for it was "mighty cold) returned with a verdict for the defendant, which, of course, was the only thing they could have done after the very evident perjury on the plaintiff's side.
Old Hockley abused Anderson a bit, and evidently fancied himself a very aggrieved individual.
After the trial we went to the log-hut where the filly was hidden, and brought her home in triumph, after Anderson had added insult to injury by telling Hockley where she was, and assuring him that he would never have got her back, even if the verdict had been in his favour.
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THE JURY DELIBERATING.
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After this things went along pretty smoothly ; we had our regular " chores" to do, but very little besides. We went shooting very often in the woods which fringed the Kansas river, which ran near us, and sometimes got a good many rabbits; prairie hens, and quails, and occasionally a wild goose.
Now and then we got a glimpse of a beaver, of which there were many in the river, as was evident from the way in which the trees were cut down ; large cottonwood-trees, a foot thick, were felled by their powerful teeth, but the. beavers were very shy, so that we never managed to shoot one.
Tom Crofter was a splendid shot. He had been a Texan "cow-boy," and had had a good deal of practice. He had spent a few years on the trail, driving cattle from away down in Texas up to Kansas, where they were shipped on to the cars and sent east to market, either to Chicago or New York. It is rather rough work, travelling by slow stages to allow the cattle to feed as they go for over a thousand miles, passing right through the Indian territory, where they are liable at any time to be attacked either by Indians or white
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cattle thieves. Of course, the cow-boys are armed to the teeth, and as they are well-known to be rather desperate characters, unless the odds are very great against them they are 'seldom attacked.
The cattle at night are bunched up, and the " boys" take it in turns riding round them all through the night to scare away either wild animals or thieves. A. fire is lit to cook their supper by, beside the waggon which accompanies them, and the boys, save one as a watcher, fall asleep afterwards either in the waggon or on the ground around it.
The boys are usually about a dozen in number, but vary according to the size of the herd, which may be of any size from one to three thousand cattle. After they have sold and shipped the cattle, the boys go on the loose generally for a few weeks, and mostly manage to spend all the money that they have earned before returning. Brawls in the saloons are of very frequent occurrence, and as the bowie-knife and revolver were always close at hand, the loss of an occasional cow-boy was a natural consequence.
Tom Crofter carried a bowie-knife with him
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always, which was in such good trim that he used to shave with it.
Wichita and Abiline were the towns most favoured with the cow-boys' presence, and those places were regular pandemoniums.
In the early spring Anderson rented another farm, and moved higher up the river, about four miles above Manhattan, and then we had a fine time, moving all the hay, corn, stock, tools, implements, and furniture. It was about the worst bit of road I have ever seen,-and I have seen some bad ones,-the road between Manhattan and the new farm. At one spot we went down a road, carved out of the hill- side overhanging a creek, which we reached at last, and crossed at the ford ; and then there was another great hill to go up, which landed us within a stone's throw of our first hill, after wandering about for nearly half a mile amongst the trees and through the ravine. Then came a little bit of comparatively level ground, and then another hill, where the road was only a shelf cut in the hill, overhanging a railroad track, with beneath that the river rushing along. The shelf was only wide enough to pass one waggon at a time, save for two or three gaps
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cut a little deeper into the bluff, and it was always a matter of chance whether or not you might meet a vehicle and be unable to reach one of these havens in time.
It was lively work, I can assure you, driving a big load of hay over there, after having already come over some rough ground; a little extra tilt, and the whole thing might be thrown over the precipice on to the track, and then into the river.
One day we met a buggy on this hill before we could get quite into the wider place, but we were fortunately on the inside, and so stood still to let the trap pass us. Of course, our load of hay took a good deal of room, and it was only by the very barest chance that they managed to pass. I expected every second to see them precipitated below, but the buggy being narrow, they could just squeeze by. If it had been an ordinary waggon, they could not have done it. One of us would have had to back.
I was very glad when the moving was over, for I certainly considered it dangerous work travelling with big loads as we did. Of course, for ordinary travelling to town it was not so
A ROUGH BIT OF ROAD.
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bad, but to be perched away up on top of a big load of hay, and with nothing to hang on to if it slipped-well, I'd rather be excused from any more.
The new farm was not so large, nor nearly so well kept, as the one Anderson had left, and in fact I guess it was rather a come-down for him. Still, one could hardly wonder at it from the amount of money he must have spent in drink. His visits to town were very frequent, and I can hardly say that I ever saw him come back quite sober. I am surprised that he did not get a farm of his own, which he could easily have done by going a little further west and "homesteading " eighty acres. Of course, it would entail some. hard work, breaking the land, and so on ; but then he would have had the satisfaction of knowing that any improvements which he made on the farm would be for his own benefit, and not for a landlord's.
Besides this, all the crops he could raise would be his own entirely, without a third part having to go to the owner as at present. That is the usual rent when cash payment is not decided on, which it seldom is. But I
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don't think Anderson had enough energy in him to start a prairie farm for himself, and he could not live far away from a town and whisky. .
Anderson had a nephew, who was a mail carrier between Manhattan and a town thirty- five miles up the Blue River, who used to come and stay with us overnight twice a week, when at this end of the journey. His father had the contract for carrying the mails twice a week each way, but the son usually did the work, which in winter was pretty rough.
No matter what the weather was, he must go, and though he was certain that he might get stuck in a drift, he must make a start. Sometimes he drove a little buggy, and some- , times he rode horseback, and though he was often delayed by the badness of the roads, he managed to pull through somehow. He always carried a couple of revolvers with him, in case he should be stopped by anyone, but I never heard of him being molested. I guess the mails between those towns were not worth much.
Our new farm was situated right on the banks of the Kansas River, and the land was
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very sandy ; still, it was good corn land, though one effect was that it was overrun with sand-burrs, -- vile weeds, all prickles, which rendered it almost impossible to walk about bare-footed. as one would like to do. They are not content with being stationary, but a little wind will start the dead branches and seed-pods rolling, and they stick to every- thing they touch. The cactus is nothing to them. Creek farms are always more or less infested with them, but they are comparatively scarce on the prairie.
The new house was but a two-roomed affair, with a basement beneath, and as we were rather a large family,-ten in number,-it was none too large for us. Still, we managed somehow, Henry and I sleeping down below while we were there; but we did not stay long.
There was a peculiar hollow in the land, a sort of natural sink, with a good-sized pond in the bottom, and the house and out-buildings were built round about it. The stables were of the kind known as " Kansas stables," that is, built with a few forked posts stuck in the ground, with poles laid across, and the roof
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and sides built up with sods, brush, manure, and rubbish of all sorts.
As Tom Crofter was living with the old man, after we had mended up the fences,- which were in a very bad condition,-and got in the crops, there was no more work for Henry and me, as two men were more than enough to run the farm through the summer. Henry got work with a neighbouring German, and I hired out with a farmer named White- ,.man, some four miles higher up the river.
Tom Crofter had rented a small piece of land adjoining Whiteman's farm, and I went up to help plough it and plant corn. We had rather a fine time up here, for we camped out during our stay, preferring to do that than to go home every night. ' There was an empty loghouse on the place, which we tried to sleep in on the first night, but we were woke up by the rats running all over us. I tell you we cleared out of there in a hurry, as the shanty was infested with them.
On the following night we just lit our fire and cooked our supper at some distance from the building, and then rolled ourselves up in our blankets on the ground. There we could
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sleep in peace, for even if roofless, we were ratless.
In the morning we took a dip in the lake near by, and then, after breakfast, were ready to start ploughing again.
While engaged on this work, Whiteman came over to have a look at us, and asked if I wanted work. I told him I should be out in a short time, and he hired me for six months at ten dollars, including, of course, board and lodging.
CHAPTER XI.
ANOTHER CHANGE.
The Whiteman family-John Hardy-Beer gardens-Harvest- ing-Fourth of July-Heavy. storm-Swimming in the cornfields-Horses on the railroad-A funeral-The Eureka Valley-The lake - Thrashing-A panther- Another chance of adoption-My watch.
WHEN our job was done I returned home with Tom and worked a few more days for Anderson, and then packed up my very few belongings and went to Whiteman's.
I found that the family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Whiteman and four daughters, and there was besides a hired man, John Hardy. They lived in quite a fine house, having actually five rooms in it, with a verandah and mosquito blinds of green muslin ; the largest and most comfortable house I had seen on a Kansas farm. His farm, too, was in fine con- dition, had an osage-orange hedge all round it; and a nice orchard, and he was building a
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splendid big stone barn and stable, the largest in the neighbourhood.
The family was much better educated than most of the people I had mixed with, but were considered rather straight-laced by the neighbours, for Whiteman did not swear, except on very special occasions, and on Sundays nearly all the family drove over in the buggy to Manhattan to attend meeting. I believe that they were both members of a Church, but I guess I have seen Whiteman thrash one or two of his daughters for quite a slight offence, until he was about tired out. I didn't think that that showed a remarkably Christian spirit.
Hardy and I had Sundays to ourselves after the " chores " were done. We were allowed to take a horse, and were at liberty for the rest of the day to go where we liked. Occa- sionally we went to meeting at the school- house on the hill; but more frequently we amused ourselves walking or riding about in the woods around the lake, or swimming in the river. Now and then I went down to see my old friends, the Andersons, who were always pleased to have me call.
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Hardy, though, used to go very often on Sundays to some German beer gardens in the woods near town, where all sorts of amuse- ments were carried on, just the same as on the continent, -music, dancing, beer-drinking, card-playing, etc. I went with him once to see what it was like; but as I never was fond of dancing, and was a total abstainer, I did not care to go again.
The beer drunk was only lager, and very mild, so that no harm ever arose on that score, and perhaps there was no more harm in spending Sunday in that way than in the way most young fellows do over there,-fishing, shooting, swimming, or horse-running.
The summer wore on without anything of special importance arising ; we " cultivated " our corn, and then harvesting came on, during which period we had a busy time. Of course, we three could not do it all, and the neighbours helped one another, as the usual custom is. The grain was all cut by machine ; one never. sees a reaping-hook out there. It requires about six men to keep up with a machine. Binding is nice work, but rather hard, and it wants some practice to make a good tight job
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of the sheaves. I could get along very well, and keep my station clear as well as the rest of them ; but one has to be on the jump all the time, to get all bound and out of the way before the machine comes round again.
We had a lot of this work, for Whiteman, having a good many acres himself, it, of course, took us a good many days' work to counterbalance those on which the different neighbours worked for us.
On the fourth of July we had a holiday, and all repaired to the woods near Manhattan, where a grand picnic was held. We had a splendid time and a most substantial spread under the trees. Then there were " spread eagle" speeches, music, dancing, and all kinds of games, followed in the evening by a grand display of fireworks. Liquor was very plenti- ful, and I am sorry to say that some of the party, John Hardy amongst the number, got rather elated in consequence. He emptied ten pint bottles of lager beer, which apparently had no effect upon him, but when later in the day he capped these with a few glasses of whisky, he began to get boisterous, and to so misconduct himself, that Whiteman, who had
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a great dislike for such practices, gave him notice to quit.
He was replaced by Dick Foote, White- man's nephew, who had just come out from Indiana. He was a decent young fellow, and we got along very well together.
When the harvesting was about finished, Whiteman and his wife went east to see the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition and to visit friends, and were. absent some two months, during which time Dick and. I ran the farm, ploughing the stubble land up, and getting ready for the next crops, besides cutting and getting in all the hay.
While they were absent we had a terrific thunder-storm and heavy rain, which did a good deal of damage about the country. There was such a quantity of water fell, that in one part of the corn-field, where there was a little hollow running across, there was a fast-rushing stream four feet deep, right up to the ears of maize. Dick and I waded in to see how deep it was, and were carried off our feet and had to swim for it. At another part of the farm we had a lot of hay cut, and this was washed away until it was caught
ANOTHER CHANGE. 207
and deposited on top of the hedge. All this was where, in the ordinary way, no water ran at all, simply in a little dip in the land:
. During the storm, which was in the night, one of the bullocks in the corral was struck and killed by lightning. In the morning we drove the cattle out and started them away a little bit, and then skinned and buried the ox so as to get him out of the sight of the others ; but during the following night the prairie wolves dug the hole open and exposed him to view, and then what a fuss the cattle made when they smelled the blood ! They bellowed and snorted and tore up the ground with their hoofs; they fought and gored and trampled upon each other in their excitement, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we managed to get them away from the spot.
We afterwards dragged the carcass a mile away, and left it to be devoured by the wolves and buzzards.
It is strange that cattle should make such a disturbance over blood; they seemed perfectly mad for the time being.
Towards the first evening after the storm I had to go out and hunt the cattle up for the
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night, and I had a nice time of it. It was usually done by one of the daughters, who could all ride first rate, but on this occasion, as there was so much water about, I thought it better to go myself. I found the herd all right after a while and started for home, but on the way we had to cross a spot where there was usually about a foot of water. This evening, though, I found that it seemed very deep, but the cattle started across and so I followed. Presently the water came up to my feet and then to my knees, so I drew my legs up and sat on the saddle with my feet on the pony's withers, for I didn't care about getting wet through again just then.
However, it was no good, for before long the water reached up to the saddle, and in a few minutes the whole herd was swimming. I put my feet down and stuck to the pony, and as a horse when swimming is pretty deep under water except for his head and neck, of course I got soaked up as high as my chest. Still we reached the opposite bank in safety, and I guess I took those cattle home at a good sharp rate to get them warm and dry, for the nights were beginning to get chilly now.
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