A MILE north from where stood the house of St.
Jean Baptiste, there lived a quaint old man.
He was a widower; at least this was the general
opinion, especially when he so claimed to be. In a new
country there may be found among those who settle much
that is unusual, not to say quaint and oftentimes mysterious.
And in the case of this man, by name illustrious, there was
all this and some more.
Augustus M. Barr, he registered, and from England he
hailed. How long since does not concern this story at this
stage. Besides, he never told any one when, or why
well, he had been in America long enough to secure the
claim he held and that was sufficient. But that Barr had
been a man of some note back from where he came, there
could be little doubt. Among the things to prove it, he was
very much of a linguist, being well versed in English,
French, Polish, German; the Scandinavian he thoroughly
understood and Latin, that was easy!
He had been a preacher and had pastored many years in
a Baker street church, London. Then, it seems, he con-
cluded after all that there was no God; there was no Satan
nor Hell either so he gave up the ministry and became
an infidel. And so we have him. But there was some-
thing A. M. Barr had never told but that was the mystery.
And while he will be concerned with our story, let us
not forget that two miles and more west of the little town
of Dallas, there lived another, a Jew. He was not a mer-
chant, nor was he a trader; then, Jews who are not the one
or the other are not the usual Jew, apparently. Well, Syfe
wasn't, for that was his name, Isaac Syfe, and from far
away Assyria he had come. He was dark of visage with
dark hair, and piercing but lurking eyes with brows that
ran together; while his nose was long and seemed to hang
down at the point, reminding one of the ancient Judas.
His mouth was small and close; and there was always a
cigarette between the dark lips. He was of medium size,
somewhere in the thirties, perhaps, lived alone, on a home-
stead that was his own, and so we have Isaac Syfe. But
there is another still.
He lived about as far southwest of Dallas as Syfe
lived to the west and, unlike Syfe, he was light, a blond,
thick, short and stout. His neck was muscular and slightly
bull like; while his features were distinctly Germanic: his
face was rounded and healthy with cheeks soft and red,
and they called him Kaden, Peter Kaden. He also held
a claim, having purchased a relinquishment in the opening,
lived alone as did Syfe and numerous other bachelors, and
did his own cooking, washing and ironing.
Augustus M. Barr appeared very much impressed with
Jean Baptiste. He was a judge of men, withal, and much
impressed with Baptiste as a personality; but the fact that
Baptiste had broken one hundred and thirty acres on his
homestead and now had it ready for crop, the first year of
settlement; and had wisely invested in another quarter
upon which a girl had made proof, delighted Barr. He
admired the younger man's viewpoint and optimism. So
when Barr was in town, and the conversation happened
around that way, he was ever pleased to speak his praise
of Baptiste.
It was the day of the Indian episode when Barr, driving
a team hitched to a spring wagon, came to town, hoping
that the lumber yard had received the much needed coal.
"And how about the coal," cried Barr to the lumberman
before he drew his team to a stop.
"Coal a plenty," replied the lumberman cheerfully.
"Good, good, good!" exclaimed Barr, his distinguished
old face lighting up with great delight.
"Yep," let out the lumberman, coming toward the buggy.
"I've weighed you, and round to the bin is the coal. St.
Jean Baptiste arrived last night that is, I think he got
home last night, although he brought the coal this morning,
two loads, four tons."
"Eighty hundred pounds of coal, you don't say! And
it was Jean Baptiste who brought it! Now, say, wasn't
that great! Not another man on this whole Reservation
save he could have made it," he ended admiringly.
"Jean Baptiste is the man who can bring it if anybody,"
rejoined the other.
At this moment a large, stout man came driving up in a
one horse rig.
"Any coal?" he called lazily from his seat.
"Plenty," cried Barr.
"Thank God," exclaimed the other, whose name was
Stark, and who held the claim that cornered with the town
on the northeast, and therefore joined with the Baptiste
claim on the east.
"Thank Jean Baptiste," advised Barr. "He's the man
that brought it."
"So?" said Stark thoughtfully. "When?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
“That's what the lumberman said."
"Well. I'll be blowed!"
"You'll be warmed, I guess."
"Well, I should say!"
"That Baptiste is some fellow."
"Well, yes. Although I sometimes think he is a fool."
"Oh, not so rash!"
"Any man's a fool that would have left Bonesteel with
loads yesterday."
"Then I suppose we should be thankful to the fool. A
fool's errand will in this case mean many lazy men's com-
fort."
"And last summer you recall how it rained?"
"I sure do."
"Well, you know that fellow would go out and work in
the rain."
"And has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop
while I have but thirty."
"I have but ten, but-"
"You will be in the hole at least behind at the end of
this summer."
"But I'm advertised to prove up."
"And leave the country when you have done so."
"Well, of course. I have a house and lot and three acres
back in Iowa."
"And Jean Baptiste has 320 acres. In a few years he
will have a rich, wonderful farm that will be a factor in the
local history and development of this country; it will also
mean something for posterity."
"Well, I don't care."
"You drew your land and got it free excepting four
dollars an acre to the government. Baptiste bought his and
paid for the relinquishment. You were lucky, but it will
be up to Jean Baptiste and his kind to make the country.
Had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all
be in Jerusalem, or the jungle. Let's load the coal."
"Good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the
two were at the bin. "Lot's o' truth in it, too. Old Stark
needed it. He's too lazy to hitch up a team, so rides to
town in that little buggy with one horse hitched to it."
"What are you talking about?" inquired another, coming
up at this moment.
"Jean Baptiste."
"So?"
“Barr and Stark have just had a set-to about him."
"M-m?"
"Stark says a man that would come from Bonesteel a
day like yesterday was a fool."
"Why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep
from freezing, then?"
"Well, Stark is too lazy to care. He's advertised to
prove up, you know, and he always has something to say
about working."
"Used to come to town after the mail during the rainy
spell last summer, and upon seeing Baptiste at work in the
field, cry 'Just look at that fool n******g, a workin' in the
rain.'" Both laughed. A few minutes later the town was
thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last
chapter.
Now it happened that day that Augustus M. Barr went to
the postoffice and received a heavy envelope. He glanced
through the contents with a serious face, and put the papers
in his pocket. On the way to his claim, he took them out
and went through them again, and returned them to his
pocket. A few minutes later he reached into the pocket,
drew out what he thought to be the papers, and silently
tore them to threads, and flung the bundle of paper to the
winds.
When Jean Baptiste left the town for his little sod house
on the hill, he saw A. M. Barr just ahead of him. He fol-
lowed the same route that Barr had taken, and when he
reached the draw on the town site that lay between his place
and the town, he espied some papers. He picked them up,
continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of
paper that Barr had cast away. He idly opened the package
he held. He wondered at the contents and as he read them
through he became curious. The papers had to do with
something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe, and
Peter Kaden.
"Now that is singular," he said to himself. He con-
tinued to read through the papers, and as he did so, another
fact became clear to him. Kaden was a sad character.
And because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any friend-
ship, lived alone and never visited, the people had begun
to regard him as crazy. But now Jean Baptiste understood
something that neither he, nor any of the people in the
country had dreamed of. He read on. He recalled that
the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined but
strange at times, had stayed at the Barr claim. Barr had
introduced her as his niece. The people wondered at her
seclusion. She had a fine claim. Barr had come to him
once and spoken about selling it, stating that the girl had
fallen heir to an estate in England and was compelled to
return therewith. . . . Later he had succeeded in selling
the place. She had disappeared; but he had never forgotten
the expressions he had observed upon the face of Christine. . . .
He had thought it singular at the time but had thought
little of it since. He read further into the papers, and
learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning
her he could gather nothing definite. He could not under-
stand about Christine either, except that she had fallen heir
to nothing in England; was not there, but not more than
three hundred miles from where he stood at that moment.
But there was before him what he did understand, and
which was that there was something between Augustus M.
Barr, Isaac Syfe, and Peter Kaden, and something was
going to happen.