THE DAY was cold and dark and dreary. A storm
raged over the prairie, a storm of the kind that
seem to come only over the northwest. Over the
wide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as
if terribly angry. It raced across the level stretches, swept
down into the draws, where draws were, tumbled against the
hillsides, regained its equilibrium and tore madly down the
other side, as if to destroy all in its path. A heavy snow
had fallen all the morning, but about noon it had changed to
fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and made
going against it very difficult. Notwithstanding, through
it directly against it at most times, The Homesteader
struggled resolutely forward. He was shielded in a meas-
ure by the horses he was driving, whose bulks prevented
the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at
all times. At other times and especially when following
a level stretch he got close to the side of the front wagon
with its large box loaded with coal, which towered above his
head and shoulders.
Before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail,
despite the heavy snow that had fallen that morning, was
outlined. Perhaps it was because he had followed it he
and his horses so often before in the two years since he
had been West, that he was able to keep to its narrow way
without difficulty today. And still, following it was not as
difficult as following other trails, for it was an old, old
trail. So old indeed was it, that nobody knew just how
old it was, nor how far it reached. It was said that Custer
had gone that way to meet his ma**acre; that Sitting Bull
knew it best; but to The Homesteader, he hoped to be able
to follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the
way. When night came but upon that he had not reck-
oned! To be caught upon it by darkness was certain d**h,
and he didn't want to die.
He was young, The Homesteader just pa**ed twenty-
two and vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous. His
height was over six feet and while he was slender he was
not too much so. His shoulders were slightly round but
not stooped. His great height gave him an advantage now.
He followed his horses with long, rangy strides, turning his
head frequently as if to give the blood a chance to circulate
about and under the skin of his wide forehead. The fury of
the storm appeared to grow worse, judging from the way the
horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it was growing
colder. Almost continually some of the horses were striking
the ice from their nosepoinis; while very often The Home-
steader had to rest the lines he held while he forced the
blood to his finger tips with long swings of his arms back
and forth across his breast.
His claim lay many miles yet before him, and his con-
tinual gaze toward the west was to ascertain how long the
light of day was likely to hold out. Behind, far to the rear,
lay the little town of Bonesteel which he had left that morn-
ing, and now regretted having done so. But the storm had
not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he
had conjectured it would be better to reach home before it
became too deep or badly drifted. As it was now he was
encountering all this and some more.
"Damn!" he cried as they pa**ed down a slope to where
the land divided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest
His course lay directly northwest, straight against the wind
which he could only avoid by hanging the lines over the
lever of the brake and fall in behind the trail wagon.
But this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from
the horses. He had walked all the way, for to walk was
apparently the only way 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
just above the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from
beneath the clouds. On either side of it, great, gasping sun-
dogs struggled. They seemed to vie with the red sinking
orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing in that direc-
tion they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank
lower and lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with
a mighty force for only a few minutes later the sun had
fallen into the great abyss below and the 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 he was 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 was not able to reckon; but out of the now
pitch darkness he became conscious of a peculiar longing.
He had a vision of his sod house that stood on the claim,
and he saw the small barn with its shed and the stalls for
four. He saw the little house again with its one room,
the little monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and
imagined himself putting a pan of baking powder bread
therein. He saw his bed, a large, wide, dirty 'tis true
but a warm bed, nevertheless. He fancied himself creeping
tinder the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did.
He could not understand his prolific thoughts that followed.
He thought of his boyhood back in old Illinois; he
took stock of the surroundings he had left there; he
lived briefly through the discontentment that had ulti-
mately inspired him to come West. And then he had
again those dreams. Regardless of where his train of
wandering thoughts began or of where 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 had never been a real girl for Jean Baptiste, for
this was his name. In the years that had preceded his
coming hither, it had been one relentless effort to get the
few thousands together with which to start when he finally
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 that was his, for his father had been
poor but this instant belongs elsewhere. His heritage,
then, had been his indefatigable will; his firm determination
to make his way; his great desire to make good. But we
follow Jean Baptiste and the girl.
Only a myth was she. She had come in a day dream
when he came West, but strangely she had stayed. And,
singularly as it may seem, he was confident she would come
in person some day. He talked with her when he was
lonely, and that was almost every day. He told her why
he had come West, because he felt it was the place for young
manhood. Here with the unbroken prairie all about him;
with its virgin soil and undeveloped resources; and the fact
that all the east, that part of the east that was Iowa and
Illinois had once been as this now was, had once been as
wild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more
indeed, not so much. Here could a young man work
out his own destiny. As Iowa and Illinois had been de-
veloped, so could this so would this also be developed.
And as railways had formed a network of those states, so
in time would they reach this territory as well. In fact it
was inevitable what was to come, the prime essential, there-
fore, for his youth, was to begin with the beginning and
so he had done.
So he had come, had Jean Baptiste, and was living alone
with a great hope; with a great hope for the future of this
little empire out there in the hollow of God's hand; with
a great love, too, for her, his dream girl. So in his pro-
lific visions he talked on with her. He told her that it was
a long way to the railroad now thirty-two miles. He had
that far to haul the coal he and others burned. There were
yet no fences, and while there were section lines, they were
rarely followed. It was nearer by trail. But he was
patient, he was perseverant. Time would bring all else
and her. He had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she
might not be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but
she was good. Always he understood everything that was
hers, and he was confident she would understand him. Her
name was sweet and easily pronounced. How he loved to
call it!
He staggered at times now and didn't know why. He had
wanted to be home and in his bed where he could sleep;
but home as he now regarded it was too far. He couldn't
make it, and didn't need to. Why should they blunder and
pull so hard to get home when all about them was a place
where they could rest. The prairie was all about; and he
had slept on the ground before with only the soft gra** be-
neath him. Why, then, must he 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 right where he was. He called to the horses.
But somehow they didn't seem to hear. He called again
then, he thought, louder, and still they failed to hear. He
wondered at their stubbornness. They were good horses
and had never disobeyed before. He called now again at
the top of his voice, but they heeded him not; in the mean-
time 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-f*gged mind, there was
a resolution that made him cling to them, but struggling to
pull them down to a stop he continued.
And as he followed them now onward toward the sod
house that stood on the claim, all realism seemed to desert
him; he became a chilled mechanician; he seemed to have
pa**ed into the infinite where all was vague; where turmoil
and peculiar strife only abided. . . . For Jean Baptiste did
not understand that he was on the verge of freezing.
Stewarts were pleased with the country. They had ar-
rived in early January. The weather had not been bad,
although the wind blew much stronger here than it did in
Indiana. However, they had not forgotten how it blew
in Western Kansas and were therefore accustomed to it.
The house upon the place they had rented was small,
just four rooms, but it was well built and was warm. A
village was not far. The people in it called it a town, but
you see they were enthusiastic. To be more amply pro-
vided they could get what they needed at Gregory which
was seven miles. Seven miles was not far to one who could
ride horseback, and this Agnes 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 to saddle Dolly, the gray mare
that was their best.
"Tut, tut, papa," she chided. "This is a day to take the
benefit of this wonderful air. The low altitude of Nubbin
Ridge made me sallow; there was no blood in my cheeks.
Here ah, a nice horseback ride to Gregory will be the
best yet for me!"
"I don't like the wind and so much snow with it," he
muttered, looking out with a frown upon his face.
"But the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost
ready. "It's letting up."
"It's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing
colder."
"Better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her
lithe young body as agile as an athlete's. "Now, dada," she
let out winsomely, "I shall dash up to Gregory, get all we
need, and be back before the sun goes down!" And with
that she kissed away further protest, swung open wide the
door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. A
moment later 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!"