Vanguards of the Plains.
by Margaret McCarter.
FOREWORD
Westward, along the level prairies of a kingdom yet to be, my memory runs, with a clear vision of the days when romance died not and strong hearts never failed. The glamour of the plains is before my eyes; the tingle of courage, danger-born, is in my pulse-beat; the soft hand of love is touching my hand. I live again the drama of life wherein there are no idle actors, no stale, unmeaning lines. And beyond the action, this way _up_ the years, there runs also the forward-gazing vision toward a new Hesperides:
Through the veins Of whose vast Empire flows, in strength"ning tides, Trade, the calm health of nations.
And sometimes I would doubt If statesmen, rocked and dandled into power, Could leave such legacies to kings.
I
THE BEGINNINGS OF A PLAINSMAN
There came a time in the law of life When over the nursing sod The shadows broke, and the soul awoke In a strange, dim dream of G.o.d.
--LANGDON SMITH.
It might have been but yesterday that I saw it all: the glinting sunlight on the yellow Missouri boiling endlessly along at the foot of the bluff; the flood-washed sands across the river; the tangle of tall, coa.r.s.e weeds fringing them, edged by the scrubby underbrush. And beyond that the big trees of the Missouri woodland, so level against the eastern horizon that I used to wonder if I might not walk upon their solid-looking tops if I could only reach them. I wondered, too, why the trees on our side of the river should vary so in height when those in the eastern distance were so evenly grown. One day I had asked Jondo the reason for this, and had learned that it was because of the level ground on the farther side of the valley. I began then to love the level places of the earth. I love them still. And, always excepting that one t.i.tanic rift, where the world stands edgewise, with the sublimity of the Almighty shimmering through its far depths, I love them more than any other thing that nature has yet offered to me.
But to come back to that picture of yesterday: old Fort Leavenworth on the bluff; the little and big ravines that billow the landscape about it; the faint lines of trails winding along the hillsides toward the southwest; the unclouded skies so everlastingly big and intensely blue; and, hanging like a spray of glorious blossoms flung high above me, the swaying folds of the wind-caressed flag, now drooping on its tall staff, now swelling full and free, straight from its gripping halyards.
Between me and the fort many people were pa.s.sing to and fro, some of whom were to walk with me down the long trail of years. Evermore that April day stands out as the beginning of things for me. Dim are the days behind it, a jumble of happy childish hours, each keen enough as the things of childhood go; but from that one day to the present hour the unforgotten deeds of busy years run clearly in my memory as I lift my pen to write somewhat of their dramatic record.
And that this may not seem all a backward gaze, let me face about and look forward from the beginning--a stretch of canvas, lurid sometimes, sometimes in glorious tinting, sometimes intensely dark, with rifts of lightning cleaving through its blackness. But nowhere dull, nowhere without design in every brush-stroke.
I had gone out on the bluff to watch for the big fish that Bill Banney, a young Kentuckian over at the fort, had told me were to be seen only on those April days when the Missouri was running north instead of south.
And that when little boys kept very still, the fish would come out of the water and play leap-frog on the sand-bars.
If I failed to see them this morning, I meant to run back to the parade-ground and play leap-frog myself with my cousin Beverly, who wanted proof for most of Bill Banney"s stories. Beverly was growing wise and lanky for his age. I was still chubby, and in most things innocent, and inclined to believe all that I heard, or I should not have been taken in by that fish story.
We were orphans with no recollection of any other home than the log house near the fort. We had been fathered and mothered by our uncle, Esmond Clarenden, owner of the little store across the square from our house, and a larger establishment down at Independence on the Missouri River.
Always a wonderful man to me was that Esmond Clarenden, product of one of the large old New England colleges. He found time to guard our young years with the same diplomatic system by which he controlled all of his business affairs. He laid his plans carefully and never swerved from carrying them through afterward; he insisted on order in everything; he rendered value for value in his contracts; he chose his employees carefully, and trusted them fully; he had a keen sense of humor, a genial spirit of good-will, and he loved little children. Fitted as he was by culture and genius to have entered into the greater opportunities of the Eastern States, he gave himself to the real up-building of the West, and in the larger comfort and prosperity and peace of the Kansas prairies of to-day his soul goes marching on.
The waters, as I watched them, were all running south toward that vague, down-stream world shut off by trees at a bend of the course. I waited a long time there for the current to shift to the north, wondering meanwhile about those level-topped forests, and what I might see beyond them if I were sitting on their flat crests. And, as I wondered, the first dim sense of being _shut in_ came filtering through my childish consciousness. I could not cross the river. Big as my playground had always been, I had never been out of sight of the fort"s flagstaff up-stream, nor down-stream. The wooded ravines blocked me on the southwest. What lay beyond these limits I had tried to picture again and again. I had been a dreamer all of my short life, and this new feeling of being shut in, held back, from something slipped upon me easily.
As I sat on the bluff in the April sunshine, I turned my face toward the west and stretched out my chubby arms for larger freedom. I wanted to _see the open level places_, wanted till it hurt me. I could cry easily enough for some things. I could not cry for this. It was too deep for tears to reach. Moreover, this new longing seemed to drop down on me suddenly and overwhelm me, until I felt almost as if I were caught in a net.
As I stared with half-seeing eyes toward the wooded ravines beyond the fort, suddenly through the budding branches I caught sight of a horseman riding down a half-marked trail into a deep hollow. Hors.e.m.e.n were common enough to forget in a moment, but when this one reappeared on the hither side of the ravine, I saw that the rider"s face was very dark, that his dress, from the sombrero to the spurred heel, was Mexican, and that he was heavily armed, even for a plainsman. When he reached the top of the bluff he made straight across the square toward my uncle Esmond Clarenden"s little storehouse, and I lost sight of him.
Something about him seemed familiar to me, for the gift of remembering faces was mine, even then. A fleeting childish memory called up such a face and dress somewhere back in the dim days of babyhood, with the haunting sound of a low, musical voice, speaking in the soft Castilian tongue.
But the memory vanished and I sat a long time gazing at the wooded west that hid the open West of my day-dreams.
Suddenly Jondo came riding up on his big black horse to the very edge of the bluff.
"You are such a little mite, I nearly forgot to see you," he called, cheerily. "Your Uncle Esmond wants you right away. Mat Nivers, or somebody else, sent me to run you down," he added, leaning over to lift me up to a seat on the horse behind him.
Few handsomer men ever graced a saddle. Big, broad-shouldered, muscular, yet agile, a head set like a Greek statue, and a face--n.o.body could ever make a picture of Jondo"s face for me--the curling brown hair, soft as a girl"s, the broad forehead, deep-set blue eyes, heavy dark brow, cheeks always ruddy through the plain"s tan, strong white teeth, firm square chin, and a smile like sunshine on the gray prairies. Eyes, lips, teeth--aye, the big heart behind them--all made that smile. No grander prince of men ever rode the trails or dared the dangers of the untamed West. I did not know his story for many years. I wish I might never have known it. But as he began with me, so he ended--brave, beloved old Jondo!
Down on the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden and Mat Nivers were sitting with their feet crossed under them, tailor fashion, facing each other and talking earnestly. Over by the fort, Esmond Clarenden stood under a big elm-tree. A round little, stout little man he was, whose st.u.r.dy strength and grace of bearing made up for his lack of height. Like a great green tent the boughs of the elm, just budding into leaf, drooped over him. A young army officer on a cavalry horse was talking with him as we came up.
"Run over there to Beverly now. Gail," my uncle said, with a wave of his hand.
I was always in awe of shoulder-straps, so I scampered away toward the children. But not until, child-like, I had stared at the three men long enough to take a child"s lasting estimate of things.
I carry still the keen impression of that moment when I took, unconsciously, the measure of the three: the mounted army man, commander of the fort, big in his official authority and force; Jondo on his great black horse, to me the heroic type of chivalric courage; and between the two, Esmond Clarenden, unmounted, with feet firmly planted, suggesting nothing heroic, nothing autocratic. And yet, as he stood there, square-built, solid, certain, he seemed in some dim way to be the real man of whom the other two were but shadows. It took a quarter of a century for me to put into words what I learned with one glance that day in my childhood.
As I came running toward the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden called out:
"Come here, Gail! Shut your little mouth and open your big ears, and I"ll tell you something. Maybe I"d better not tell you all at once, though. It might make you dizzy," he added, teasingly.
"And maybe you better had," Mat Nivers said, calmly.
"Maybe you"d better tell him yourself, if you feel that way," Beverly retorted.
"I guess I"ll do that," Mat began, with a twinkle in her big gray eyes; but my cousin interrupted her.
Beverly loved to tease Mat through me, but he never got far, for I relied on her to curb him; and she was not one to be ruffled by trifles.
Mat was an orphan and, like ourselves, a ward of Esmond Clarenden, but there were no ties of kinship between us. She was three years older than Beverly, and although she was no taller than he, she seemed like a woman to me, a keen-witted, good-natured child-woman, neat, cleanly, and contented. I wonder if many women get more out of life in these days of luxurious comforts than she found in the days of frontier hardships.
"Well, it"s this way, Gail. Mat doesn"t know the straight of it,"
Beverly began, dramatically. "There"s going to be a war, or something, in Mexico, or somewhere, and a lot of soldiers are coming here to drill, and drill, and drill. And then--"
The boy paused for effect.
"And then, and then, _and_ then--or some time," Mat Nivers mimicked, jumping into the pause. "Why, they"ll go to Mexico, or somewhere. And what Bev is really trying to tell hasn"t anything to do with it--not directly, anyhow," she added, wisely. "The only new thing is that Uncle Esmond is going to Santa Fe right away. You know he has bought goods of the Santa Fe traders since we couldn"t remember. And now he"s going down there himself, and he"s going to take you boys with him. That"s what Bev is trying to get out, or keep back."
"Whoopee-diddle-dee!" Beverly shouted, throwing himself backward and kicking up his heels.
I jumped up and capered about in glee at the thought of such a journey.
But my heart-throb of childish delight was checked, mid-beat.
"Won"t Mat go, too?" I asked, with a sudden pain at my throat. Mat Nivers was a part of life to me.
The smile fell away from the girl"s lips. Her big, sunshiny gray eyes and her laughing good nature always made her beautiful to Beverly and me.
"I don"t want to go and leave Mat," I insisted.
"Oh, I do," Beverly declared, boastingly. "It would be real nice and jolly without her. And what could a little girl do "way out on the prairies, and no mother to take care of her, while we were shooting Indians?"