THE LAND of LURE

A STORY OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER BASIN

By ELLIOTT SMITH

Author of "THE BELLS OF THE BOSQUE," "HULL 97."

1920
PRESS OF
SMITH-KINNEY COMPANY
Tacoma, Wash.

Copyright, 1920
By ELLIOTT SMITH

DEDICATED
TO MARIE SMITH—HIS WIFE

Although I was one of those who "Tried, failed and went away to try and forget, if possible," her unfaltering faithfulness, and endurance, made it possible for me to see and feel the things that I have written in this—HER BOOK.

—ELLIOTT SMITH.

Misshapen and dwaft by the pitiless rays of the desert sun.

INDEX TO CHAPTERS

The Land of Lure

CHAPTER I.

The ever present sage brush and tufts of scant bunch grass, dwaft by the ages of drouth and the pitiless glare of the hot sun's rays, bowed before each gust of the sand ladened wind and emitted weird and unearthly sounds, as if the deported denizens of the desert were warning the white man against the hopeless task of trying to wrest from the jack rabbit and coyote the haunts over which they had held undisputed sway for ages.

Deserted shacks, formerly the homes of earlier settlers, broken fences posts, with tangled strands of barbed wire, each told their story of a struggle for existence, defeat and departure, more pitiful than all the stories of Indian massacres ever written. Here was a battle field, the opposing forces being poverty, courage and determination, arrayed against the elements.

Reinforcements, in the way of hardy homesteaders, were being constantly drawn into this unequal contest, armed with no other weapon than the ever abiding hope that nature would so alter her laws as to conform to this particular locality, lured by the sound of those magic words: "A home of your own," were ready to come into this deserted territory and take up the legacies of blasted hopes, equipped with new ideas, and seemingly fortified by the unfortunate experiences of others who had made the trial, failed and gone their way to try and forget, if possible, the ordeal through which they had passed. Trusting that the touch of the magic wand, in the form of irrigation, would cause the crystal water to flow, and convert the region into a garden of untold wealth.

The winter preceding the March, during which our story opens, had been an exceptionally hard one in the Central and Middle Western states, floods and other unfortunate conditions having almost completely destroyed the crops and thereby entailing a loss that was keenly felt throughout the region, and causing a spirit of unrest among the poorer element; a desire for a chance to throw off the yoke of dependents, as wage earners, and to seek fields of greater opportunities. The newspapers and magazines were filled with articles lauding the "Back to the Soil" movement, and the country was flooded with pamphlets and folders, in which glowing descriptions of the opportunities afforded the homeseekers in the far Northwest was given.

The railroads whose lines reached this vast territory were making special rates to prospective home builders, and daily homeseekers' excursions were being run over these routes. Trains loaded with eager tourists, bound for the land of their dreams, the mecca of their hopes, the happy land of somewhere; firmly believing that they, at least, had within their reach the goal for which they, and many of their fathers, had striven for years. To some, and in fact to a great many, this dream was to become a reality, and to those whose hardy constitution and indomitable determination has made such a transformation possible, is due the development of an Empire in the far Northwest.

It is with one of these tourist families that our story has to deal. Travis Gully, a man of middle age, had been born and reared in the county of Champaign, Illinois, and had lived but a few miles from the town of that name, he had seen it grow from a small village to its present state of importance. In the neighborhood where he had lived he was well known, and generally liked. He had taken but casual interest in things socially, and had mingled but little with the young people of his set. He had always worked as a farmhand, and had acquired but little in the way of an education. At the age of twenty-three, he married Minnie Padgitt, the daughter of a country minister, and had settled down to the life of a farmer, on a rented farm. At the age of thirty-eight he was the father of four girls and one sturdy boy, and was still renting, having made but one change in location since his marriage. Content to toil for his family, never having had aroused in him a desire for a better lot in life. The ambition for a home of his own, having lain dormant for so long, it is not surprising that, when once awakened, it was all consuming. The awakening came suddenly during one of his regular weekly visits to town.

On this occasion, being attracted by a crowd on the station platform, Gully wandered down toward the center of excitement, and beheld a number of his friends, shaking hands and bidding goodbye to others of his acquaintances, who he judged from their dress and excited appearance, were evidently leaving on the train, that had just pulled in and now stood with engine panting and clanging bell, waiting for the signal to leave with its long string of coaches, the windows of which were raised on the station side, regardless of the cold snow-laden March wind that came in fitful gusts into the eager faces that peered in twos and threes from each window. Faces that bore the smile of comradeship, whether beaming on friend or stranger. Some were an enigma; back of the smile could be seen traces of sadness, sorrow at leaving old homes and friends, combined with expressions of firm determination to go brave-heartedly into the great unknown country.

With questioning gaze, Gully approached a group of his acquaintances, who stood apart from the crowd. As he came up, and before he could ask the cause of the excitement, he was greeted by one of the party:

"Hello, Trav! Going with us?" he asked, with outstretched hand.

Gully seized the proffered hand of his friend, William Gowell. "Going where?" he asked. "I did not know you were leaving, Bill."

"Sure," replied Gowell, "hadn't you heard about it? Going to the Northwest to take up a homestead. Lots of the people from here are going," and he named over several of their mutual friends, who had sold their possessions and were taking advantage of the homeseekers' rates. He told him of the great advantages offered by the new country, and added: "Better come on, Trav."

Travis Gully, after talking with his friends, was astonished and bewildered by what he learned. A special car had been sent into Chicago, loaded with a display of the products of this new country, specimens of timber, minerals, grain and fruit, apples, pears and peaches, the like of which had never before been seen. "And just think, such land as produced this fruit was free, open for settlement. All one had to do was to live on it for a while, and it was theirs."

As he listened to these astounding statements, he asked himself: "Why was it not possible for him to take advantage of this golden opportunity? Why could not he, like so many of his friends, sell out and follow in a few weeks? He would see what could be done." And with this resolve, fired by this new ambition to possess a home of his own, prompted by the advice of those of his friends who were casting their lot with those of the homeseekers, he eagerly sought out each source of information, even to making inquiry as to the probable cost of tickets for himself and family, and after bidding those of his friends who were going goodbye, he watched the train until it rounded a curve that hid it from view, and promising himself that he would follow at the earliest possible moment. With pockets bulging with folders, maps and descriptive literature, he hurried home with the eagerness of a child, to prepare his family for their first move into the land of unlimited possibilities.

Gully, upon his arrival home, was met at the gate by his two eldest girls, who, after opening the gate, received the few small bundles brought by their father, and scurried away to the house to announce his arrival. He watched them as they raced to the door. Ida, the eldest, a slight girl who had just entered her teens, had been her mother's help in caring for the younger members of the family, had taken up her share of the household duties since she could stand upon a chair at the kitchen table, and wash the few dishes after each meal, and then care for the ever present baby, while her mother took up the never ending duties of her sordid existence. This constant strain on the girl had robbed her of her natural childhood and aged her prematurely. This fact was noted by the father in his present frame of mind as it never had been before. He thought of the advantages of the freedom of the far Northwest, and pictured to himself the fields of waving grain, and over-burdened orchards, as shown in the booklets he had hastily scanned, and thought of them as his own, as a play ground for his children.

Driving into the barn yard, Gully cared for his team; each little chore, as it was done, was accompanied with thoughts that heretofore had never been taken into consideration. As he hung up the harness he viewed it critically, and wondered how much it would bring at a sale. He walked around his faithful team and asked himself if their age would impair their value. When he went to the crib for corn he estimated the quantity on hand, and calculated its probable worth. Never before had he considered his small possessions from such a view point.

So absorbed was he in this new mental activity that he took no note of time, and he was suddenly aroused by the children, who had been sent to tell him that supper was ready. On the way to the house, in response to the summons, his hand constantly clutched the papers in his pocket. Nervous and abstractedly he entered the kitchen, where his wife was busily engaged placed the supper on the table. So absorbed was she that she failed to notice his coming in; not until they were seated at the supper table did she note the change in his appearance, and then only after he had made some reference to the fact that he had seen William Gowell while in town, and that he was leaving the country; that the Moodys and Lanes and several others of their acquaintance had also gone on the same train. He then told her of all he had heard of this great country to which so many of their friends had gone, of his wish to go with his family and share the opportunities. He went into detail and explained what the cost of going would be; what he hoped to realize from the sale of their possessions, even if sold at a sacrifice.

He talked on feverishly, forgetting the frugal meal set before him, forgetting the tired children, who, little knowing the important part this proposed move was to play in their future, had eaten their supper, and all but the two eldest were nodding in their chairs. He showed his wife and the two oldest girls the illustrations in the folders, showing the pictures of just such farms as the last few hours had convinced him he might own.

Seizing a teaspoon from his untouched cup of coffee, he used the handle to point out rows of—to them meaningless—figures, compiled to show the millions of feet of timber, tons of grain and fruit produced. To him it was equally meaningless, except in a vague way. His untrained mind was incapable of grasping the extent of the information conveyed, but he had accepted it all as simple facts, for had not Gowell, Moody and Lane acknowledged their faith in it by going. Thus he talked on until exhausted. The family retired at an unusual hour, the wife and children to wonder what it was all about, and he to toss restlessly from the effects of an over exhausted mind.

He arose early the following morning, having formulated his plans during the restless night, and immediately began to put them into execution. He had decided to hold a public sale the following Saturday, and if successful, would be on his way to his future home the next Monday, on which date he had learned another homeseekers' excursion would come through his home town. To accomplish this would require rapid work, and before breakfast on the morning following this resolve, he was up assembling his few belongings, getting them in shape for the sale. Old farming implements were pulled from long forgotten nooks and corners, incomplete sets of harness and bridles were being over hauled and made fit to bring the best possible price, the flock of poultry was counted and an estimate made of their probable value, the two cows, with their calves, the three pigs, kept over to provide the following winter's supply of meat, his team, wagon and harness, together with his household goods, constituted his earthly possessions.

The few days following the hastily made plans were filled with incidents that tried the patience of the tired wife and mother. To her it was all like a dream. It was the first time she had ever been taken into her husband's confidence or been consulted as to his plans for the future. She did not realize that she was expected to express an opinion as to the wisdom of the proposed move; if he said it was advisable the matter was settled.

The constant demand on both her and the older children for assistance in assembling the various articles intended for the sale was met with unquestioning silence, and not until her aged father and mother came to see if the rumors of their departure which had reached them were true, did she realize to the fullest extent what her going away really meant; that it meant the leaving behind those aged parents, from whom she had never been separated except for a few miles; that it meant the severance of all the ties and scenes with which she had been associated from her earliest recollection to the present time.

The realization of this fact came upon her with a sudden shock that stirred within her the first semblence of rebellion that her simple nature had ever shown. To this feeling of remonstrance she gave way but for a moment, then with violent weeping she threw herself down at her mother's knee, and with her head buried in the aged woman's lap, the cradle of comfort she had always known, she vowed she would not go. "Travis was wrong; they were doing well enough where they were; father must stop him, and not let him sell everything and go away," but when the aged mother placed her trembling hand upon the bowed head and assured her that "Travis knew what was best, it was probably a wise move, she and father had talked the matter over as soon as they had heard that they were going, and regretted that they were not at an age, to accompany them. She must do as her husband said for his and the children's sakes, and then too," she added, "perhaps father and I can come later, after you are settled in your new home." With this assurance the kind old mother comforted her weeping daughter, who, after recovering from her first and only outbreak, arose and resumed her duties with such an attitude of utter indifference that her husband and father, who had been looking over the articles arranged for the sale the following day, saw no evidence of her grief upon returning to the house a few moments after the occurrence.

Gully's enthusiasm, as he discussed with his wife's father and mother the advantages of the new country to which he was going, knew no bounds. He had acquired from his constant reference to the descriptive literature he had in his possession a fund of facts and figures that were most convincing, and he referred them unhesitatingly to persons who had seen this exhibition car while on its tour, and who could verify the statements as set forth in the circulars. Thus he talked on until long after the supper, to which the old people had stayed, was over, and after promising to return the following day to be present at the sale, they had driven home.

CHAPTER II.

After the last of those who had bought had taken their purchases and departed, and but a few of the idle curious remained, viewing the small pile of articles that had proven unsalable, the reaction came to Travis Gully in a manner that fairly staggered him. As he beheld this remnant of his years of accumulation of personal effects laying discarded and rejected by all, he glanced in the direction of his huddled wife and children, who were awaiting the departure of the vehicle which was to carry them to her parents home. Haggard and dejected they looked. He had not counted on the effect on them, and it smote him. "Oh, well, they would soon be settled again, and in a home of their own, where every nail that was driven, every tree that was planted, would be for them, and would be theirs." With this consoling thought, he thrust his hand into his pocket and walked toward the barn. He started as his finger tips came in contact with the money, the proceeds of the sale. Drawing it forth, he held it for a moment and stared. This, then, was the price of his wife and children's content; t'was for the acquirement of this that he had dispoiled their poor little home, and they were, at that very moment, looking regretfully at the little pile of rubbish, each and every article of which, though refused by others, could be associated with some pleasant moment of their lives.

Returning the money to his pocket, and with such thoughts as the above filling his mind, he entered the barn. There, too, he was overcome with a feeling of loneliness; the empty stalls where for years his team had stood, the unfinished feed of hay in the manger just as they had left it when those faithful creatures had been led away by the hand of new owners; the cobs from which the corn had been eagerly bitten were still damp from contact with the mouths that had yielded so willingly to his guiding hand. Noting each little detail as it gnawed its way into his soul, he broke down, and with bowed head he wept as only a grief stricken man can, and thus they found him when he was sought, to tell him that they were ready to take him and his family, for the last time, from the home they had occupied for so many years.

The few unsold articles of household goods and those reserved to be taken on the trip, together with the family, were taken to the home of Mrs. Gully's parents, where they were to remain until final preparations for the journey were completed. The evening after and the day following the sale were both long to be remembered periods in the lives of those concerned. At intervals friends or relatives would call to bid farewell, and to wish the Gullys Godspeed on their journey. At such times the subject of the trip was taken up and discussed, but was referred to at other times as seldom as possible.

The term "The Northwest" was usually applied in a general way. None of those directly interested seemed to appreciate the vast area comprising this territory. Their conception of it was confined to an area about the size of the county in which they lived, or at best, a portion of their home state. They readily received and promised to deliver messages to those of their neighborhood who had preceded them on the journey.

The selection of a final destination was the question of most importance. The states of Montana, Idaho, Washington and Oregon each offered exceptional opportunities to the homesteaders with limited means. So after deciding to buy through tickets to a coast point, with stopover privilege, there was nothing to do but await the day of departure.

At last the Monday came that was to be an epoch in the lives of Travis Gully and his family. It being but a few miles to the station, an early noonday meal was eaten, bounteous supplies of lunches were stored neatly away for the travelers who, with their various trunks, satchels and bundles, were loaded into a wagon and sent to the village earlier in the day, the family following after lunch. The intervening time between their arrival at the station and that of the train upon which they were going was one of intense excitement. The unaccustomed ordeal of purchasing tickets, reserving berths in the tourist sleeper, and checking the baggage, together with constant interruptions with offers of well meant advice and suggestions from their friends, kept nerves strained to the breaking point.

At the sound of the whistle of the incoming train, hearts throbbed wildly, or missed a stroke; the children were hurriedly embraced, the parting kiss and tender final pat given; the mother and father came forward to bid Gully and his wife goodbye; then pent up feeling broke their bonds and mother and daughter wept in each others arms. Amid this scene of sorrow, excitement and flurry the train, with grinding brakes, hissing air valves and clanging bell, drew up to the station and stopped.

The time between the stopping of the train and the conductors deep, gutteral, "All aboard," seemed but the briefest, yet 'twas ample, and with final good-byes said and tears hastily dried, they were bundled helter skelter into their seats, and with the waving of many hands from the station platform, they were on their way.

As the train's speed increased and familiar objects were being rapidly left behind, with new and strange landscapes being reeled off, the children, with eager faces pressed closely to the car windows, gave joyous expressions of childish delight, while the mother sat silent, oblivious to her surroundings.

Travis Gully, with his newborn spirit of independent manhood struggling within him, sat stolidly awaiting the approaching conductor, as if uncertain of the fact that he was really going, until he had submitted the mass of yellow and green strips of cardboard, which he was firmly clutching in his hand, to that official for inspection.

Settled down at last for the long journey over new country, the constant change of new scenes and experiences kept the family entertained and their minds diverted from their personal discomforts, and they soon gave evidence of interest and delight. The wife's spirits being thus revived, she viewed the panorama of passing scenes with ever increasing interest, and discussed her future plans and hopes with feverish eagerness. As their first night as tourists approached, and the outer world was shut out by darkness, the berths were made ready by the deft hands of the train porter, and both upper and lower sections were huddled full of drowsy and fretful children. The unaccustomed noise and noisome atmosphere gave but little promise of rest for the tired father and mother. Long into the night they lay awake, their minds filled with hope, fear and uncertainty, that crowded their way to the front with such rapidly changing sensations that exhaustion finally overcame them, and with the constant rattle of the train, as it crossed the joints in the rails, dinning its way into their benumbed brains, they sank into unconsciousness.

Morning found them but little refreshed, but after partaking of the steaming coffee, prepared on a stove with which the car was equipped for the purpose, and eating a hearty meal, they took note of the changed appearance of the country through which they were passing. Miles and miles of flat level country, partially covered with snow, drifted by the winter wind, with an occasional spot swept bare, which showed the brown stubble of the wheat field or plowed ground made ready for the spring planting. Fences were rare, and looking out across the country, the home could be seen, and they appeared miles apart; straw stacks, around which frowsey haired horses and cattle stood, dotted the landscape.

The afternoon of their second day out the blue foothills of the Rockies could be seen in the distance, and as they gradually drew nearer, they were whirled through miles of barren waste of sage brush, the shrub that was to play an ever active part in their future lives.

The three days following were much the same; over mountains, valleys, plains and steams they were speeded until, becoming inured to the constant changes, they ceased to comment. The grandure of the scenery did not appeal to their undeveloped finer senses; they were simply awed by its vastness.

The morning of their arrival at Wenatchee, Washington, the point chosen for their first stop, was bright and clear. The fresh mountain air swept down from the pine covered slopes of the hills that surrounded one of the most fertile valleys in the state, in the heart of which nestled the little city, justly famed for its magnificent fruit. Miles of splendid orchards, starting at the very threshold of the business blocks, extended back to the hills on both sides of the valley. The low drone of the bees as they swarmed forth among the fast swelling buds in quest of the first sip of nectar, mingled with the roar of the turbulent Columbia river, and made music that soothed the tired travelers as nothing else could.

Travis Gully was impressed with the signs of plenty that were visable at every hand. By inquiry, he learned that hundreds of acres as valuable as that contained in the surrounding valley were available for homesteading. All it needed was water. He soon made the acquaintance of a professional "Locator," a human parasite that hovers around the border of all Government land. In this particular instance the "locator" was a venerable patriarch, with flowing white beard and benign countenance, who assured Gully that "He had just the place for him. It was about fifty miles back over the route he had come. Did he not remember that beautiful stretch of rolling land through which he had passed? That was the place. Thousands of acres of this fine land was now being taken up by homesteaders. He must act quickly or his opportunity would be gone." After listening to a glowing description of this paradise, Gully agreed to accompany him to see the land, which he did the following day.

There are times when it seems that fate plays into the hand of the trickster, and on this particular day nature was extremely lavish with her blessings. Never had the spring sun shone more brightly, the balmy air was laden with the elixir of good will and contentment, every soothing draught taken into the lungs spread like an intoxicant, filling the brain with dreams of success and achievements that danced just ahead, almost within reach, yet still to be striven for.

Gully, whose mind was filled with the contents of the circulars he had read, and who had seen the statements made therein, verified in the locality he had chosen to make his first stop, firmly believed in the possibilities of the land shown him, and made filing on it immediately upon his return to the town. He did not question the possibilities of irrigation or take into account its remoteness; neither did he investigate the results of past efforts put forth by others in this conquest of the desert. It was not a desert to him. The winter's snow, that had just disappeared, had left abundance of moisture in evidence. Grass was springing up in profusion, and countless wild flowers attested the fertility of the soil.

So after the necessary arrangements had been made, he came with his family, all eager to do their part in the preparation of their future home. Kind neighbors, though few there were, came with offers to help erect the house. The family was provided with shelter until such time as the structure was habitable, and they were happy under these new conditions; they who had never known a harsher fate than the demands of an exacting landlord for his annual toll, the regular routine of settling the yearly account with the trusting merchant in the nearby village, and a frugal existence through the winter on what remained of the year's yield. Oh! happy renter, there; should his yield be scant or insufficient, there was someone to appeal to for assistance, which was gladly given. The homefolks were there, and others to extend help and sympathy at the time of misfortune, but on the desert, what? A home of your own.

At last the home was completed; just two rooms, with a board roof, the outer walls adorned with tar paper held in place with laths, and when they moved in joy reigned in this primitive home. A rough board table, two benches and a cook stove, cooking utensils, still shining with the burnish of new tin, shone upon the walls just outside the kitchen door, a shelf with new tin basin and water pail were provided. The remaining room was furnished with two beds, built of scraps of lumber, the corners of the room forming one side and the head, discarded balewire, woven across, took the place of springs; three family portraits, done in crayon, a gaudy calendar of the year before, bearing the general merchandise advertisement of the faithful old merchant at home, a nickel alarm clock upon a shelf, and the home was furnished. But it was a home of their own.

CHAPTER III.

The weeks that followed, each day of which was fraught with hours of patient toil, clearing away the brush for the first spring planting, the honest father hewing a spot in the wilderness of sand and sage brush, the eager children rushing in at each stroke of the mattock, seizing the uprooted particles of brush and bearing them triumphantly away, to be placed on one of the many piles of rubbish that marked the path of this industrious toiler; the patient mother, appearing at the doorway, looking out across the miles of unchanging gray toward the far east with that indefinable expression of homesickness depicted upon her face. Of such scenes as this is the material made of which the everlasting monument, in the form of a prosperous farming district is built. Every fruit tree that grows in the far famed Northwest should be looked upon as a sprig in the laurel wreath with which to crown the brows of the sturdy homesteaders—those departed and yet to come.

At the close of each day, and after the evening meal, huge bonfires were lit in the clearing, around which the children danced gleefully, their shadows casting fantastic shapes in the background, where the gaunt and hungry coyote lurked, and at intervals mingled its voice in discordant note with their merry laughter, as if in vain endeavor to impress upon their minds the narrowness of the space that lay between their joyous anticipations and deepest gloom.

Planting time arrived with all its hopes for a bounteous yield. Each day was devoted to preparing the ground and planting. The winter just passed had afforded sufficient snow and moisture to produce perfect planting conditions, and many were the plans made for the expenditure of the proceeds of this first harvest for a good home, farming implements, and other necessities for successful farming.

The grain was sown, and the kitchen garden planted in precise rows and nicely shaped beds. A wagon load of scabrock was hauled from a dry coulee that wended its way diagonally across this vast area of sand and sage. These were used to form the border of prim walks and flower beds, each stone being placed in position and carefully embedded in the soft sand, each a cornerstone for the castle of hope, soon to be displaced by an inexorable nature, and to allow the upper structure of dreams to fall about the builder, a pall of utter disappointment.

Just a few days of alluring sunshine, only a few balmy nights, and the tiny plants were raising their tender shoots above the surface of the sand, which through its ages of shifting now refused to remain under control of mere man, and was growing restless, rolling in fiendish glee down the sides of the nicely formed flower beds and rollicking in sparkling bits across the walks, filling, with maddening persistance, every opening made in its surface by the upspringing plants.

The age worn battle between the Goddess Flora and the relentless desert was being fought over. She with all her garlands, was trying to wreath the brow of this gray monster, while he, with his withering sunrays and constant battering with tiny particles of sharp, flinty sand, was repulsing her every advance.

The Gods, Jupiter, Pluvius and Boreas, standing sponsors for the contending forces, intervened and changed at times what seemed certain victory. One with his gentle showers or torrential downpour would rush to the scene of the fray, settling the tiny grains of sand and thereby quelling the galling batteries that were assailing the tender plants, at the same time administering to their bruised and quivering stems and foliage; then, conscious of a kindly act, he sails away, seated upon his fleecy crafts of air, emitting an occasional growl, warning his enemy, the wind, against his return. Scarcely has his frown disappeared over the brow of the hills to the south, followed by his majestic guard of chariots, with billowing gold and silver plumage, when a faint whisper is heard in the grass. Hark! 'tis louder! See the tops of the bunchgrass moving restlessly; Old Boreas is stalking his enemy. He creeps prone upon the ground, like a serpent he raises his head with a hissing sound; on, upward to the top of the tallest reeking sage brush he crawls; maddened by the presence of those hated sparkling drops of crystal water that bedecks this misshapen shrub, he shakes them in myriads to the ground and laughs with glee. But in so doing he is restraining one of the arch fiends of the desert, the sand. At this discovery he shrieks with anger, and seizing the precious drops, hoists them into the air, scattering them in misty spray and hurries them miles through space, back to their natural haunts, where they are left to assemble themselves and await another call. Thus left to their own, again the sun and sand renew the attack, and wear down, by constant onslaught, every particle of vegetation not originally intended to laugh to scorn their every effort.

But the fortitude of those alien plants was noble; gallantly they withstood the siege. For days and weeks, constantly scorched and blistered during the day, they came up smiling in the morning, with heads erect, to greet the same sun their parent plant had known and throve under, but stung, whipped and tortured by the never ceasing, ever shifting myriads of cutting particles of sand, bleeding to the last infinitesimal mite, they had to die; they hung their noble heads, became discolored and withered, and when the morning sun shone forth it was upon the same dwarfed sage brush and hissing bunchgrass it had always known. The scabrock border, the horned toad that sought shelter beneath the protecting edges, all one color, gray, monotonous gray.

Small indeed would be the area of reclaimed land in the great northwest if each homesteader had given up hopes and abandoned his dreams with his first disappointment, and had he not awakened to renewed effort at each stroke of misfortune administered by what seemed to be a relentless fate.

Nature, in her lavish distribution of blessings, had not wholly forgotten this seemingly neglected spot. The nights were cool and refreshing, the air pure and uncontaminated, and both he and his family being blessed with rugged health. Travis Gully looked upon the havoc wrought with undaunted courage and determination. He submitted to the loss of his first planting with resignation, and hastened to seek means whereby he might provide food and other necessities for his family. To the north lay the never failing wheat fields of the Big Bend country; east, the Couer d'Alene mining district; and west of the Cascade Mountains the lumbering industries of the Puget Sound region. These each offered a solution of a means of livelihood, ample employment and good wages; but with the departure of the family from the homestead went the cherished dream of a home.

Often at night when the children, now grown sunburned and inured to the intense heat and blistering sands, were on their pallets, enjoying the peaceful sleep of tired but happy childhood, Gully and his wife would sit for hours and try to devise means whereby the coming winter might be lived through with some semblance of comfort. During these heart to heart talks, while seated before the door of their humble home, Gully's gaze would wander out across his broad acres, which under the pale starlight in this clear desert air, could easily be transformed, in vision, to fields of waving grain; conversation would cease; a restless move made by one of the children would attract the attention of the watchful mother, who, upon entering the house cautiously stepping with stealthy tread among the little sleeping forms, would approach the table, give the flame of the one small kerosene lamp a gentle turn upward and throw into bold relief every evidence of abject poverty within the confines of that one sparsely furnished room. With wide staring eyes she would hastily scan the face of each sleeping child as if in dread of finding the fiendish hand of hunger clutching at some innocent throat; but all is quiet. Passing a trembling hand across her weary forehead, she slowly turned, and as she did so, read in every object that met her gaze one word, sacrifice. The little blue overalls, with their numberless patches, and frayed and tattered hem, the little gingham aprons, worn threadbare by the constant nipping, picking and catching on the scraggling branches of the despised sage brush, all shrieked sacrifice. Suddenly, with a quick movement, a little foot is thrust from beneath the scant cover, and at the same time a varicolored sand lizzard scurries across the bare floor and disappears through a convenient crack. Seizing the lamp, she hurries to the side of the sleeping child, takes the little brown foot in her loving hands and seeks in vain for some mark of injury inflicted by the frightened lizzard; finding none, she places the little foot tenderly on the pallet and reaches for the cover; stops, and stares. What does she see? Only a little toe, the nail gone, a partially healed wound, showing where the cruel snag of the hated sage brush had torn its way into her very flesh and blood. With a groan she bows her head for a moment, then hastily scanning the room, she misses the little shoes and stockings so much needed for the protection of those little feet. Arising, she replaces the lamp upon the table, turns it low, and returns to her husband's side, prepared to make one of the greatest sacrifices ever made by a woman, and one of which little has even been said or written. She must tell him to go, and leave her and the children alone and unprotected in the desert. He must go, that they might live, go until the winter snows drive him home. O God! it would be lonely, days of constant watching across the quivering sea of unchanging gray, nights of wakeful listening, broken by the sound of the ghoulish yip of the hungry coyote and the mournful hoot of the ground owl.

Give honor to the famous women of our land, if you must. She who first made our glorious flag, those who devoted their lives to nursing back to health and strength our nation's heroes, and the sainted mothers of distinguished men; but, oh! remember the wives of the pioneer and homesteader, and ask yourself; is she not entitled to a place among these?

Travis Gully, being completely lost in his dreams of independence, had not missed her from his side. The good wife stole softly up to him, and placing her hand upon his knee, slipped down beside his chair. He, being thus suddenly aroused from his reverie, and noting her appearance of abject misery, assisted her to arise, drew her trembling form near him, and spoke cheerfully of the situation, assuring her all would be well in the end. He forbade her to discuss his departure at that time, and there beneath the broad expanse of star bedecked sky, surrounded by the vast and desolate desert, they renewed their faith in each other and resolved to continue the battle, and with revived hopes they planned for the future, and for hours rebuilt the castle so ruthlessly destroyed by the desert storm.

CHAPTER IV.

After the cistern had been dug and Gully, with painstaking care, was trying to cement the interior, patiently replacing each trovel of wet cement as it rolled from the sides, as the sand gave way and allowing it to fall repeatedly to the bottom, each time being taken up and carefully replaced, gradually setting, inch by inch, until the task was accomplished; his wife on the surface, mixing the sand and cement in small quantities and handing it down to him, as required; doing her part to conquer the wilderness as valiantly as any man; when there was a hurried scampering of little feet, and the children came breathlessly up, calling to their parent that "Wagons were coming, lots of them." This announcement to the uninitiated would seem but small cause for comment, but to those who live for weeks and months without the advent of a stranger within miles of their habitation, the approach of an unknown horseman or vehicle is hailed with excitement and wonder.

Gully hastily emerged from his work beneath the surface and looked inquiringly in the direction indicated by the excited youngsters, where a few miles to the west a dense cloud of dust could be seen. An occasional horseman, driving loose stock, or a covered wagon or buckboard, could be distinguished through the dense pall of dust that hung with maddening persistence over the approaching caravan. Speculation was rife among the now excited family, and many were the theories advanced as to the cause of this unusual sight. It being definitely determined that the approaching wagon train was wending its weary way along the road that terminated at their humble abode, hurried arrangements were made to greet the strangers, the children were assembled at the kitchen door, and their faces washed to remove, if possible, a small portion of the desert grime; their sunburned locks, that the wind had whipped into wild confusion, were hastily untangled, and arranged into semblence of order. When this task was completed and each little bronzed cheek shone with the too strenuous application of common laundry soap, that only resulted in bringing out in bold relief the myriads of copper colored freckles with which they were covered with generous profusion, they were admonished by their mother to "keep clean," and were allowed to scurry away, to watch in wide eyed wonder the approach of the strangers. The mother, with purely feminine instinct, removed all evidence of the white splashes of cement from her hands and shoes, changed her dress, and after these pitiful efforts at making herself presentable, joined with the waiting children.

Many of my readers have, no doubt, waited with feverish expectancy the ringing up of the curtain on some notable drama, or looked forward with a mingling of joyous anticipation and dread to the arrival of a relative or friend whom they had not seen for years. But few indeed are left who can describe or define the sensation of commingled joy, dread and uncertainty that fills the heart of the lonely homesteader on an occasion like this. Hours seemed to pass during the interval between the discovery of their approach and the arrival of the strangers, the hundreds of questions that rushed, unbidden, to the minds of the isolated desert dwellers. Who were they, and what was their motive for coming? Were they transient visitors on an idle tour, or some wandering band of nomads, drifting derelicts, who had strayed from the beaten paths to evade if possible, contact with civil authorities; or better yet, were they new neighbors coming to cast their lot with them, to assist in the reclamation, the conquest of the desert? Such were the multitude of questions recurring to the minds of the anxious watchers, each, in its turn, being cast aside to be replaced by others, in bewildering succession.

Travis Gully, who, owing to the narrowness of his self constituted domain and the wild desert environments, had allowed himself to drift backward, and contact with conditions with which he was unfamiliar had awakened in him the spirit of alert defensiveness of primitive man. He felt the sting of resentment at the approach of the strangers, and it was with a forced smile, and hesitating handshake that he greeted the foremost of the party, who had at last ridden within the front dooryard. Glancing over his shoulder, he assured himself of the safety of his family. The wife and three eldest children had remained standing near the door, while two little towheads, that protruded from behind the building, showed where the two youngest had taken refuge.

Gully invited the stranger to dismount, but the latter, thanking him curtly, remained mounted until the entire party, consisting of some twenty-five or thirty men, equipped with a complete field outfit, wagons loaded with tents and provisions, abundance of stock, both draft and pack animals, had arrived within hailing distance. Turning in his saddle, the chief, or man in charge, raised his gauntleted hand with a commanding jesture, and with brakeblocks grinding against glistening and heated tires, rattle of chains and shouts from the teamsters, the procession came to a stop. Dismounting, he gave a few instructions to his men, who remained on their wagons; then returning to the waiting homesteader, asked as to the conditions for making permanent camp in the neighborhood. On being assured that there was no water for the stock nearer than three miles, the windmill overtopping the well at that point being in full view, was pointed out to him, and minute directions for finding the road that ran tortuously through the miles of sagebrush to this oasis, was given. With a courteous bow, the chief mounted, gave orders to his men to follow, and moved off in the direction of the well.

As the last sound of the departing cavalcade was stifled in the muffling sand, Mrs. Gully came to where her husband was standing, gazing absently in the direction the strangers had gone. Who were they and what were they here for, was the absorbing and unanswered question; who was this clean, trim man, dressed in his khaki suit and neat leather leggings, who had such absolute authority over this thoroughly equipped expedition; not a homesteader, this was evident by his professional appearance; not a fugitive, because his manner was too gentle. Who was he, and what was his business?

CHAPTER V.

At last the day came when the mystery of their purpose was to be solved. On his first trip to the well for water with which to fill his now completed cistern, Gully noted a fact that had been overlooked by him on the occasion of their visit to his home; each wagon and all the equipment was stamped U. S. G. S. This fact, however, left no clue in his crude mind as to who they were, and not until he saw one of the party with an instrument on a tripod, mounted upon a small knoll near the road to his home, did he awake to the realization of the fact that they had something to do with a survey.

The task of filling the cistern consumed many days, and required numberless trips to and from the well. During these frequent visits the acquaintance of some of the men around camp was made and the information was volunteered by one of their number that they were a party of United States Geological Surveyors sent out by the Government to make a survey of the desert with the view to ascertaining if it was feasible to irrigate the region by gravity from some of the numerous lakes and streams that lay hidden away in the mountains that surrounded the entire valley.

Irrigation! So this was the reason for all this activity. Gully's heart leaped at the sound of this magic word. Here was the realization of his dream. It was to be—and why not? Was not the Government making the survey, had not the authorities awakened to the fact that here was a country of some seven hundred and fifty thousand acres of valuable land laying idle. Why not convert it into homes for thousands, who, like himself, though less venturesome, were dreaming of a home of their own. With gladdened heart, forgetful of poverty and past disappointments, he hurriedly filled his barrels with water and drove home eager to tell his wife the good news.

"I knew it was coming," he told her. Had he not talked with the men who had been sent to bring about this transformation? "Just think, Minnie," he exclaimed, "we are among the first. Others may follow, but we have our land."

Water, bright sparkling water, flowing in rippling streams; all they wanted; no more wearisome trips across the dry parched waste, with the constant drum, drum of the empty barrels dinning in his ears—no more return trips with the barrels filled at starting, but now sadly depleted, and the wagon box reeking and dripping with the waste caused by the splash, splash of the precious fluid. Irrigation—and a home of his own.

A few days after the discovery of the object of the party encamped at the well was made, it became generally known, and the glad news was being discussed in every home throughout the sparsely settled neighborhood. Men could be seen loitering around the camp or mingling with the surveyors in the field, eagerly gathering such scraps of information as was given out and hastily departing to add fuel to the already inflamed imagination of the settlers.

It never occurred to them that even though the survey resulted in a favorable report, it would probably take years before the accomplishment of the purpose for which it was being made, and the added strain of uncertainty, waiting and watching made the life of the homesteader more unbearable.

When the morning came for the departure of the little band of harvesters for the broad wheatfields of the big bend country, it was an unusual sight that greeted the vision. It had been previously arranged that they should assemble at the well and make that the starting point for their journey. Small puffs of dust might be seen arising miles away, each marking the approach of one or more of the sturdy homesteaders, many of whom had made the trip the fall before and knew of the many long hours of toil that awaited them. Yet they were marching forth, with grim determination to put as many hours into each day as mortal man could stand. It was their harvest as well as the wheat growers; their season for retrieving the few hard-earned dollars lost in seeding and planting during the spring just passed; theirs, to accumulate the necessary food and clothing for the wives and little ones they were leaving behind in the desert, to watch longingly for their return when the harvest was ended.

The party with which Gully was going had decided to take one wagon with four horses to convey their crew, with the camp equipment, to the grain fields. The men came in every conceivable means of conveyance, accompanied by a member or, in some instances, by the entire family, who were to return with the rigs to their homes, after seeing them safely on their way. Each came with his blanket roll neatly tied with a cord or strap. Two dilapidated telescope grips, made of canvas, were provided to carry the extra clothing of the party; a writing tablet and a package of plain white envelopes, by means of which the messages, scribbled with pencil, and often by lantern light, of love, sorrow, success or defeat, were to be conveyed to the lonely ones in the desert wilds; a spool of black cotton thread, some needles and a few extra buttons, for an emergency, were carefully stored deep in one corner of the grip. All to be used in common, all brothers in the wilds; there was no business rivalry, no competition there; just an equal desire that all might live.

They were late in getting started, owing to the distance some of them had to come, and when the last of the party rode up, seated upon a horse fully harnessed, complaining that his delay was caused by the collapsing of one of the wheels of his vehicle, the poor old weather beaten buggy rendered unserviceable by its constant use on many trips to and fro across the sandy waste; the spiteful particles of sand, gnawing, cutting and grinding their way into each tiny crevice, between the rim and spoke, into the hub and under the tire, until its wheels, after days, weeks and months of rattling, squeaking and groaning, could no longer stand the strain, the inanimate thing sank helplessly down, to be cast to one side, among the harsh, rasping sagebrush, and left there to sizzle, shrink and bleach in the blistering sun rays, until called for and taken helplessly back to the home of its owner for repairs, in the way of having hard bits of sun parched leather, cut from well worn and discarded shoes, forced between its once perfectly fitting rim and tire, the whole being wound and rewound with the indispensable balewire. Such an end; what could be expected of a thing of flesh and blood?

"Never mind," cried his waiting companions, cheerfully. "You can soak the old critter up in the irrigation ditch pretty soon." And with this merry jest, at the same time recalling to their minds the condition of their own means of conveyance, and also one of the many uses to which the abundance of water could be put when once turned loose, to run rampant across the stretch of barren waste. They prepared to start on their journey.

Each of the party, with sad heart and quivering voice, all doing their best to present an indifferent exterior, bade the waiting members of their families, the gathered neighbors, and the members of the survey crew a hearty goodbye, and drove northward, knowing full well that their toilsome progress across the valley would be followed by tear stained eyes and aching hearts, until the evening shades settled and the thin spiral column of dust, watched for a time after the object which caused it to mount high into the heated atmosphere had been hidden by a cloak of darkness.

The first night out the travelers spent at a small spring that flowed in a feeble stream down the rock ledge that formed the northern boundary of the desert, and sank from sight, being swallowed by the thirsty sands. It was a hard drive that brought them to this place, and during the hours that intervened between their departure from the well and arrival at their first camp, was spent in almost silence. Each of those present seemed lost in silent contemplation of the difficulties that confronted him. Various subjects had been brought up for discussion, followed for a few moments, and then were allowed to drop. All except Travis Gully, who was driving, seemed lost to their surroundings.

It was a varied assortment of which this little group of men was composed, taken at random from various points, from different walks of life, no common interest in the way of mechanics or profession, yet bound together by stronger ties, a mutual understanding of each other's absorbing ambition to build a home; appreciating to the fullest extent the difficulties and hardships endured, the disappointments and suffering caused by the one common affliction, poverty.

There was the muscular iron molder from Pittsburg, who would sit, with half closed eyes, and liken the heat of the desert to the fiery glow of the familiar furnaces; the clouds of dust to the dense smoke of his home city, and ask himself: "Had he moved wisely?" The pressman, from one of the largest printing establishments in Denver, who would in dreamy silence listen to the constant clatter of the wagon, and in fancy hearing the rumble of his once favorite machine, the press, rolling out in endless sheets items of news, gathered from all over the world; suddenly the wagon wheel strikes a stone, and with a lurch, he starts with outstretched hand to adjust a roller, replace a belt, or take up the torn web. Smiles feebly at his absentmindedness and resumes his seat. The professor, who for years taught in a college in Kansas, watched with earnest gaze each specimen of desert plant life that struggled for existence beside the dusty road, unable to release himself from the desire to increase his botanical knowledge. An exsoldier and Travis Gully, the farmer, completed this incongruous party.

Upon their arrival at the spring just before sundown, they arose from their seats in the wagon, cramped and dusty from their long ride, and shambling to the rock ledge, relieved their parched throats with copious draughts from the spring. Knowing that the scarcity of water on the road over which their route lay would necessitate a forced drive on the morrow, they hastily unharnessed the horses, gave them water and picketed them to munch the scant herbage until sufficiently cooled to be given their ration of grain, they then prepared their own frugal supper, after which, with pipes lit, and each seated around the smoldering sagebrush fire, their faces turned homeward, watched the shades of evening settle, and noted the twinkling lights that shone from their humble homes miles away across the level plain. Conversation no longer lagged; each was eager to express his views as to the result of the survey now being made, and the certainty of the wealth to follow the reclamation of the thousands of acres of fertile land that lay stretched for miles to the south. No one doubted for a moment but what it would come. Was not each of the railroads that extended across the great Continental Divide, advertising the fertile valleys of the Northwest as the goal of the poor man? Was not every Commercial Club in the cities through which these avenues of commerce and forerunners of civilization ran, sending out and scattering among the inhabitants of the entire territory from the Atlantic seaboard to the Rocky Mountains, pamphlets in which was set forth, in glowing word pictures, accounts of the possibilities of the undeveloped lands now laying idle, yours for the asking? Were they not morally responsible for the welfare of each family who, lured by their flattering descriptions, had given up their means of a livelihood, and sold their small accumulation of personal property, in most instances for what they could get; frequently scarcely enough to reach this land of dreams, and at best with but a few hundred dollars?

Would these mighty forces that were being brought to bear for the purpose of converting the undeveloped resources of this vast country into a merchantable article, going to accomplish their end by the sacrifice of thousands of human ambitions, and even lives? Certainly not; give them a chance.

This survey was being made with the view to placing within the reach of the settlers the means whereby wealth and affluence might be obtained.

Such was the opinion of all, and with optimistic views and hopes renewed, the blankets were unrolled and spread upon the bare ground, and with a cheery "Goodnight," each of these champions of right and justice lay down to enter the enchanted land of dreams, and live through the realization of all they had hoped for.

Just before daylight the following morning all were astir and the horses fed, and with the never to be forgotten acrid smell of burning sagebrush permeating the cool air, which, gathered amid the eternal snows that lay undisturbed for ages on the glistening sides of the mountain peaks to the west, was wafted and filtered through miles of spruce and pine forests and delivered in all its exhilerating morning freshness to fill with health and vigor the lungs of these conquerors of the wilderness; breakfast was eaten, blankets rolled, and just as the rosy tint of the pitiless sun shone in the east, the start was made.

The road which had led them for weary miles across the desert the afternoon before came to an abrupt ending at the spring. The solid cliff of basaltic rock formed an impassible barrier to the north. There seemed no reason for the road leading squarely up to the ledge other than to gain access to the scant water supply the small spring afforded, this spot having been for years the stopping place for weary travelers and hordes of thirsty stock. No road leading from the spring being visable, a return drive was made until a road leading directly east was encountered. This road was followed for several miles, when a break in the range of hills afforded an exit verging a little to the northeast. After a few miles the road turned directly north again, leading into a break in the barrier of hills and out through a coulee to the plateau, where lay the wheat fields that were the destination of the little band of harvesters.

The trip through the coulee, once made, would never be forgotten. Immediately at the entrance of the funnel like gorge, with its precipitous walls of stone towering in heights from a few hundred to two thousand feet, the way seemed blocked by a lake several miles in length. Clear and cool it lay, constantly lashed into fury by the strong current of air rushing from the chasm above. The white, foam crested waves, spending their force upon the sandy shore at the lower end, retreating after each attack, leaving behind a deposit of white frothy foam that was picked up by the wind and scattered far beyond the reach of the next incoming wave, there to be dried by the sun, and the residue, a white crystal, powdered salts, left sparkling in the sunlight. Nothing in the way of vegetation except a species of harsh quackgrass grew within the radius covered by this deposit. The waters of this lake possessed strong mineral properties that were fatal to plant life, also rendering it extremely nauseating and unfit for drinking. Owing to this fact, it had been known to the Indians of Chief Moses' tribe as "Poison Water." Yet cool and sparkling it lay, a gem in the barren gulch, relieving the eye of those who chanced to pass that way, but often proving a sad disappointment to both the travel worn man and beast, who, unacquainted with its peculiar qualities, upon first beholding its rippling surface, hastened to its brink to appease a desert born thirst.