Winning the Wilderness Part 8

And again the same clear whisper that had spoken to her on the headland when she watched the September prairie fire, a voice from out of the vast immensity of the Universe, came to her soul with its calm strength.

"The eternal G.o.d is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms."

How many a time in the days of winning the wilderness did the blessed promise come to the pioneer women who braved the frontier to build the homes of a conquering nation.

"I can't try that blind game again for awhile," Virginia said to herself.

"I'll run up a distress signal; maybe somewhere help is coming to me. I know now how Jim felt all alone with only a dog's instinct to depend on.

I'm glad I've tried to help him, even if I have failed."

She unwound the long red scarf from her neck and bound her nubia closer about her throat. Then bending the tallest bush that she could reach she fastened the bright fabric to its upper limbs and let it swing to its place again. The scarf spread a little in the breeze and hung above her, a dumb signal of distress where help was not.

The minutes dragged by like hours to Virginia, trying vainly to decide on what to do next. The fury of a Plains blizzard would have quickly overcome her, but this was a lingering fight against cold and a pathless solitude.

Suddenly the memory of one lonely Sabbath day came to her, and how Asher, always resourceful, had said:

"When you are afraid, pray; but when you are lonely, sing."

She had prayed, and comfort had come with the prayer. She could sing for comfort, if for nothing else. Somebody might hear. And so she sang. The song heard sometimes in the little prayer meeting in some country church; sometimes by sick beds when the end of days is drawing near; sometimes in hours of shipwreck, above the roar of billows on wide, stormy seas; and sometimes on battlefields when mangled forms lie waiting the burial trench and the mournful drumbeat of the last Dead March--the same song rose now on the lonely prairie winds sweeping out across the hidden trails and bleak open plains.

Nearer, my G.o.d, to thee, Nearer to thee, E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me.

Still all my song shall be Nearer, my G.o.d, to thee, Nearer to thee.

CHAPTER V

A PLAINSMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

I have eaten your bread and salt, I have drunk your water and wine; The deaths ye died I have watched beside, And the lives ye led were mine.

--Kipling.

The little postoffice at Carey's Crossing in Wolf County was full of men waiting for the mail due at noon. Mail came thrice a week now, and business on the frontier was looking brighter. The postoffice was only one feature of the room it occupied. Drugs, hardware, horse-feed, groceries, and notions each had claims of their own, while beside the United States Mail Department was an inksplashed desk holding a hotel register, likewise inksplashed. Beyond the storeroom was a long, narrow dining room on one side and a few little cell-like rooms on the other with a crack of a hall between them leading back to the kitchen, the whole structure, only one story high, having more vertical boards than horizontal in its making. But the lettering over the front door bore the brave information that this was the Post Office, the General Merchandise Store, and the Jacobs House, all in one.

The rain of the night had shifted to a light snow that whiffed about in little white pellets, adding nothing to the land in the way of moisture, or beauty, or protection from cold. Just a chill fraying out of the rain's end that matched the bitterness of the wind's long sweep from out of the vast northwest. A gray sky was clamped down over all, so dull and monotonous, it seemed that no rainbow tint could ever again brighten the world.

"The stage is late again," observed one of the men.

"Always is when you want her particular." This from a large man who held the door open long enough to stare up the open street for the sign of the coming stage and to let in a surge of cold air at the same time.

"Well, shut the door, Champers. The stage doesn't come inside. It stops at Hans Wyker's saloon first, anyhow," one of the men behind a counter declared.

"If you'd open a bar here you'd do some business and run that Wyker fellow out. Steward, you and Jacobs are too danged satisfied with yourselves. We need some business spirit in this town if we want to get the county seat here," Champers declared.

"That may help your real estate, but it's not my kind of business, and no bar is going into this tavern," Jacobs replied, leaning his elbow against the back of Stewart, who was bending over the desk.

Stewart and Jacobs were young men, the former a finely built, fair-haired Scotchman from whom good nature, good health, and good morals fairly radiated; not the kind of man to become a leader, but rather to belong to the substantial following of a leader.

Jacobs was short, and slender, and dark--unmistakably of Jewish blood--with a keen black eye, quick motions, and the general air of a shrewd business man, letting no dollar escape him. He had also the air of a gentleman. n.o.body in Carey's Crossing had ever heard him swear--the language of the frontier always--nor seen him drink, nor had taken a parcel from his store that had been tied up with soiled fingers.

The Jacobs House register might be splashed with ink, but the ledger records of the business concern were a joy to the eye.

At Stewart's words Champers shut the door with a slam and bl.u.s.tered toward the stove, crowding smaller men out of their places before it.

"I am glad I don't have to run other men's affairs--"he began, when the rear door flew open and a slender young Negro hurried in with the announcement:

"De stage done sighted approachin' from de east, gen'lemen. Hit's done comin' into town right now."

"All right, Bo Peep; take care of the team," Stewart responded, and a general re-swarming of the crowd followed.

Just before the stage--a covered wagon drawn by two Indian ponies--reached the Jacobs House a young man crossed the street and entered the door. Some men are born with a presence that other men must recognize everywhere. To this man's quiet, "h.e.l.lo, gentlemen," the crowd responded, almost to a man:

"Good morning, Doctor."

"h.e.l.lo, Carey."

"h.e.l.lo, Doc."

Each man felt the wish to be recognized by such greeting, and a place was given him at once. Only Champers, the big man, turned away with a scowl.

"Always gets the best of everything, even to the first chance to get his mail," he muttered under his breath.

But the mail was soon of secondary interest to the dealer in real estate.

Letters were of less importance to him than strangers, and a stranger had registered at the desk and was waiting while Stewart called out the mail in the postoffice department. Champers leaned over the shoulders of shorter men to read the entry in a cramped little hand, the plain name, "Thomas Smith, Wilmington, Delaware." Then he looked at the man and drew his own conclusions.

Dr. Carey was standing beside the letter counter when Todd Stewart read out, "'Mr. James Shirley,'" and, with a little scrutiny--"'Southwest of Carey's Crossing.' Anybody here know Mr. James Shirley?"

The stranger made a hasty step forward, but Dr. Carey had already taken the letter.

"I'll take care of that for you, Stewart," he said quietly. And turning, he looked into the eyes of the stranger.

It was but a glance, and the latter stepped aside.

Men formed quick judgments on the frontier. As Carey pa.s.sed the register he read the latest entry there, and like Champers he too drew his own conclusions. At the door he turned and said to Jacobs.

"Tell Bo Peep to have your best horse ready by one o'clock for a long ride."

"All right, Doctor," Jacobs responded.

Half an hour later the Jacobs House dining room was crowded for the midday meal. By natural selection men fell into their places. Stewart and Jacobs, with Dr. Carey and Pryor Gaines, the young minister school teacher, had a table to themselves. The other patrons sat at the long board, while the little side table for two was filled today with Champers, the real estate man, and the latest arrival, Mr. Thomas Smith, of Wilmington, Delaware.

"Who's the man with the dark mustache up there?" Thomas Smith asked.

"Doc Carey," Champers replied with a scowl.

"You don't seem to need him?" There was a double meaning in the query, and Champers caught both.

"No ways," he responded.