Pilgrims of the plains : a romance of the Santa F

Front matter

PILGRIMS

DKYA'

A ROMANCE

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE FIRE-LIT HEARTH . 3

II. FOR THE SAVING OF THE LAD 6

Chapter I The Fire-lit Hearth

I WAS the last one in the procession of girls, when we took our candles last night to go up to bed. The procession was sedate and orderly enough till we were half-way up the stairs; and then the twins, scrambling up in front of Martha and Lucy, tried to blow the candle out. In the midst of the noisy romping I slipped away, and went back to the hearth where the firelight shone warm and bright; and I curled down on the rug, drowsily watching the thin flames playing around the half -burnt logs.

I did not know that father and mother were near me till mother drew her rocking-chair up close beside me and laid her hand on my head. I nestled comfortably against her knee while she undid my hair and braided it for the night, and finished the work with a soft light kiss in the middle of my fore head, just as she used to do when I was a little, little girl — before the twinnies came.

Father, with his eyes cast down and his hands clasped behind him, paced restlessly from the hearth to his desk, and out into the front entry, where our traveling chests almost blocked the way. I haH not been thinking of the journey that is before us, until the fire blazed up and showed me the chests there, all packed, ready for lifting into the springwagon when Monday morning comes.

I cannot get over the strangeness of it; that my frail brother is to be sent so far away from home, with only me, his sister — Delia Augusta Randall — as his nurse and companion; that we are to cross the wide western plains, with a trading caravan; that we are to visit the old Spanish city of Santa Fe! I cannot believe it, though for the past three weeks we have dreamed and talked of nothing else, and for the past two weeks have done nothing else but make preparation for the journey.

The sweet quiet of the night was broken by a sudden gusty wind from the east. The branches of the lilacs whipped sharply against the panes. The light ashes flew circling up the chimney, like a swarm of white butterflies. John, who has the front bedroom now, coughed the prolonged racking cough that we so much dread to hear, and I went in with mother to close the window and to tuck the bed clothes closer about him. His arms were out and all uncovered, but he promised he'd keep them under the blankets, if we'd go to bed, and go to sleep.

THE FIRE-LIT HEARTH 5

I heard the clock strike two; I heard the clock iirike three; I heard the clock strike four, and then I thought it time to get up!

I went into mother's room, and softly kissed her cheek — and she did not waken, as I fondly but selfishly hoped she would do.

I looked in where the girls were. Little motherly Martha had taken the naughty twinnies into bed with her, and Lucy lay curled up asleep in their trundle-bed.

I partly dressed myself, and went out of doors, along by the spring branch, up through the orchard, and back again down the lane; — and the locust blos soms dropped a sweet cold dew on my face and hair.

I was glad to creep back into my warm bed! I brought my Journal with me; and here I am, propped up with the bolster and pillows, writing when I ought to be down-stairs this minute helping with the breakfast.

I can smell the coffee, and hear the rattle of the dishes as Margaret sets the table. All the girls are busy but lazy Deya. Oh, oh! I thought I wouldn't be left very long to indulge myself after this fash ion! It is Mary-Belle who is calling, — "Dee-ya! Dee-ya! Breakfast's waitin'!"

Chapter II For The Saving Of The Lad

I HAVE two or three idle hours before me: there is not a thing to do, for the work was all done up before ever the girls and father started off to meeting. There is no one for me to talk to, for John and mother are out on the front porch — he lying on the couch and she sitting by his side, watch ing over him

I have been turning the blank pages of this my new Journal book, and I found myself regarding them earnestly and intently, as if I might in some way discern, beneath the fair white surface, the story that is to be traced upon them — the story of the journey that is to be.

The thought of the future, uncertain as it is, makes me shiver with dread. Yet I must believe that in the end all will be well.

We ought not to doubt that this that has come to pass is a special Providence in John's behalf, though it has seemed to come as by an accident — just the adding of a postscript to a letter, written by Hiram

Hubbard to Deacon Gentry. Hiram told us about it when he came down from Galena to talk things over.

"You see," Hiram said, "I'm to go out with the Deacon's caravan as wagon-master again this year, and I were writin' him when I'd be ready to make the start from Galena, and after I put my name to the end of it there was a inch to spare, and so I jest set down the news I'd been hearin' from Dixon, — seem' as how he used to live here. 'Bout the tornado sweepin' through the county, and how your two boys were ketched out in it — and George drowned in the river, — and John's health so poorly ever sence — and his cough, and all. I had clean forgot 'bout the Deacon and you folks bein* sech great friends till here come a letter from him, bidding me to come down to try to persuade you to let the boy go West with me.

"The Deacon says it will be the savin' of the lad if he can take him with him acrost the plains: and I don't see any reason to doubt it. Jest like it was with Will Gibbs, that lived over by Grand Detour — you remember Will Gibbs, that had the quick consumption, as they called it — well, four years of teamin' it out on the plains has worked a seemin' miracle, for him. He's as stout and hearty as you would wish to see anybody, — and what it done for him it ought to do for your John, sturdy little chap as he always were. I remember, when him and George was playin' round 'mong my tools in the blacksmith shop — burnin' their fingers on the hot irons and sech like — George were ten and John not more'n seven I reckon, and I teached 'em to rastle, — and it were never John that were the first to holler * Nough ! ' - — even though he were so much the littler. He were the pluckiest little feller I ever did see; and I don't s'pose he's changed sech a tumble lot jest along o' one spell of sickness! He'd be one of that kind that would have an amazin' strong grip on life, as I take it. They is that kind, that will stand twicet what other folks does, before they're ready to give up — and then they don't give up ! — and that sperit will make him pull through, if he has only the half of half a chanst!"

As we talked it over afterward mother tried to smile; and as for the rest of us, it was as if the purpose of the journey were already almost accom plished; — we were so sure that John would come back to us strong and well, even as the Deacon had said.

The new cheerfulness in the home atmosphere and the excitement of getting ready for the journey are having the best possible effect on John. He is gaining strength with every day. All the forces of his life seem to be rallying to sustain him till the fine pure air of the prairies can begin its healing restorative work. Nothing could have been better for John than to have Hiram with us. He stayed for three days though he was, I know, in a hurry to get back to Galena, to finish his preparations there. Hiram is a born story-teller and romancer. He does not hesitate to add a little something to the truth, if it makes a story better worth listening to. It isn't deception: *he is too transparent about it for that: it is like the license the poet is privileged to take, — like the rhetorician's figure of speech. And then there is always a very visible twinkle in his eye that seems to give us permission to do a little mental subtraction as we listen.

He has a fondness for big round numbers. "A million buffalo in one bunch, yes, that's what I'm sayin' ! I seen 'em, — yes, and felt 'em, too ! The * ground trembled like they was a yearthquake, and the bellerin' and tramplin' of all them hoofs was worse'n thunder! And wild horses ! Out there, nigh Pawnee Rock, one time, we was mighty nigh run down by a monstrous herd of 'em — hundreds of thousands of 'em, and not one less! And when we wanted to ketch a few, we shot 'em! That's the way they does it out there — nicks 'em acrost the neck bone, deep enough to stun 'em but not to kill 'em. It's a sight to see them wild things ' broken in' — the way they fights for their liberty ! They have to mighty nigh kill 'em before ever they gives up!"

Hiram thinks there is no place like Westport (where Deacon Gentry has his store). "It's right on the edge of civilization, as one might say. They ain't nothin' else beyond it. They ain't even a name for none of that country till you come plum to Mexico. But Westport is a thrivin' smart town and likely to keep on a growin', as I figger it. The Deacon's firm, Gentry and Newell, is doin' a power ful big business — a makin' money, hand over fist. I reckon the Deacon must have turned over nigh to fifty thousand dollars, sence he went there to Westport, — four years, come next Christmas.

"Some of them fellers from Kentucky and the South talk 'bout the Deacon bein' a ' master hand at a bargain,' and it's a fact that he does squiz a dollar pretty tight; but with his friends he's as free handed as they make 'em. He made no bones o' givin' me a hundred a month last season when I was wagon-master with the caravan, and this time he's promised to raise me to a hundred and ten. And that'll be for the full year. William Newell, that runs the branch house out to Santa Fe, is comin' home and

I'm to stay there and take his place, to see that the raskilly Mexes don't steal the Company blind!

"I'm thinkin' I'll make a good spec this year, for the Deacon is goin' to advance me my wages and invest it in trade, and that, with what I saved from last year, will make a right tidy sum.

"Deacon Gentry mostly calculates that he'll double or maybe thribble whatever he puts into his goods. Calico, what brings two dollars a yard in Santa Fe, only costs twenty-five cents in St. Louis, and it's the same way with silks and cutlery-stuff and fine liquors. The profits is enormous, that's what they be! Course one has to reckon out impost-duties — and they is scandalous high — and all the ordinary expenses, not forgettin' acci dents, which they is sure to be a plenty of; but, takin' it all-in-all, the profits is 'nough to satisfy any ordinary reasonable man."

Hiram hesitated, and cleared his throat, and in his most persuasive and engaging way went on.

"You see, Square, I know 'bout that there money you got from the sale of your York State prop'ty. Doctor Uttley told me. I don't know how 'tis that a man's neighbors gets to know so much 'bout a man's private bus'ness, but so 'tis! Well, him and me were kinder talkin' that it mightn't be such a bad plan for you to resk some of it in goods for the

Santa Fe trade, same's the Deacon's a-doin'. It's a pretty good time for a man to ontie the strings of his money-bags when he's got the chanst to double his capital, and all within six months! Now don't it look so?"

The gold was indeed lying untouched in the bottom drawer of the desk, — in the bags just as it came from York State. The days have been too full of trouble for father to care about it or think of ways of investing it. But now he is feeling differently and he thanked Hiram for reminding him of this opportunity.

John took up with the idea at once and com menced to figure on the possible, and impossible, profits; and he seemed to take so much interest in the business that father wrote to Deacon Gentry at once that he should furnish a good outfit — wagons, teams, and goods — to the extent of ten thousand dollars' worth, and have them ready against the time that the caravan should start for Santa Fe.

It was not then fully decided that I should go with John; so, in the letter, there was nothing said about me. Anna, Hiram's wife, has let Mr. Hiram know that she does not intend to be left behind in Galena, while he is spending the winter in Santa Fe. "She jest put down her foot that she was goin' with me this trip, whether or no! And I ain't reelly objectin', only jest 'nough to keep her on the tenter hooks a bit. She's that mild it's right divertin' to see her when she's a mite stirred up!"

It is a little unusual for women to go with the cara vans, and I know Hiram was thinking of Anna's com fort and pleasure when he tried to persuade mother that it would be a fine thing for me to go with John.

"You see, Mrs. Randall," Hiram said, "two women-folks can go anywhere together and be happy and contented, and Anna and Miss Deya would get along powerful well together. And havin' his sister 'long with him it would be more comfortable and homelike for John. As far as hardships is concerned, them that's lived here in Illinoys for the last five year ain't got no call to be afeared of what's likely to happen out on the plains. We, all on us, knows a thing or two 'bout Injins and varmints and storms and sech as that. The Trail from Independence to Santa Fe's as safe as the road from here to Pe-o-ry. Troops patrols it regler, and the Injins ain't no more obstreperous there than they is 'round here. I tell you, last season we only seen Injins twicet — and they was the beggin' kind, and not in any way what you could call hos-tile.

"Miss Deya would like it first-rate, I bet! We'd ketch a wild pony for her to ride; and she'd find the prairies jest covered with the purtiest kind of posies; and down to Santa F6 they'd be fandangoes and sech-like, and guitars a-playin', and all. They ain't no doubt she'd be right int'rested."

The minute he spoke I knew I had been dyin' to go, — only I had not thought it possible. Up to this time mother had not been at all reconciled to the thought of parting with John — each day as it passed made it seem only more and more hard — but now she yielded, all at once. Though her eyes filled with tears, she breathed a sigh, as of relief,

"Yes, if Deya goes " and that was the way she

gave her consent.

This was two weeks ago, and since that time we have been busy as bees, getting ready. It is fortu nate that mother is always forehanded with her spinning and weaving. She'd think herself thrift less and slack if she did not always have on hand enough of linens and linseys and jaconets and jeans for several seasons' wearing. The big closet shelves were full and all we had to do was choose and take what was needed.

"Many hands make light work," and where there are five girls in a family a little stint of sewing is soon done. Uncle Asaph said we chattered "like a passel of blackbirds," and I know we never stopped to punctuate our sentences except as we stopped to put a knot in our thread, or to thread our needles.

.

When it came time to pack our boxes everybody

wanted to help, and they all had suggestions to make. I really tried to follow Uncle Asaph's ad vice — not to put in any foolish finery and fal-lals, — but Lucy kept insisting that I ought to take my best clothes, and though I said no to that, she did manage to slip in two of my second-best gowns, and the red morocco slippers, and the red plaid silk that father bought for me in Washington, when he and George and I went back there to see President Harrison inaugurated.

I told Lucy it was ridiculous to think of taking a gown like that out on the plains.

"'Tisn't for the plains! It's for Santa Fe. You are going to Santa Fe, aren't you? And didn't you hear what Hiram said about the fandangoes and parties they'll be having? The Deacon being so well thought of, you will have invitations rof •course, and you wouldn't want to go in your old delaine and scandalize your friends and f am-i-lee, I hope!"

When Lucy makes up her mind, it's the easiest way just to let her have her way! She had packed the silk gown, with the mitts and undersleeves and all, in the very bottom of the chest, under the bottom tray, so it should not get crumpled and crushed, and I did not take it out. Maybe I will be glad to have it with me. Maybe I will have occasion to wear it.

This foolish talk about clothes ! — but it is only that I have nothing else to do. I am trifling away the time till the folks come home, and trying not to think of the weary miles, the weary hours, that lie between the present and the time of our home coming. Just at this moment I feel a strange sink ing of the heart. The house is so still — so lonely. I am sitting at father's desk

Last night I was sitting beside father on the settle, and he told me that there was something in the way of business that mother thought I ought to know.

"I have been thinking that as John has shown such an interest in this trading venture to Santa Fe, that I ought to have the purchase made in his name. The responsibility might be not a bad thing for him, and it is only setting him up in business a little earlier than I had thought to do. And so, when I wrote to the Deacon a few days ago, I told him to have the invoices made out in the firm name of Randall and Randall."

I was a little puzzled by the half quizzical look upon father's face, and by the tone of his voice as he said the last words. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak, and so I said, half-doubtfully, "You, and John?"

At that he smiled almost gaily. "No, not at all! Randall and Randall in this case means sister and brother — Deya and John ! What is strange in that, my child? xlt is only just, — so your mother and I both say. It is what I would have done for George if he had lived, — and now it is right that I should do this for you."

It was almost under his breath that he said, "Did you think, my daughter, that we have not known how you have tried to fill George's place in the home? — how many of his duties you have taken upon yourself? And now there are new responsi bilities that must be laid upon you, responsibilities too heavy for your young shoulders — only there is no one else "

"John's health and comfort will depend, largely, upon you. You must be a brother as well as a sister to him. You must prove yourself manly as well as womanly. You must take George's place, — and your own, besides!"

Praise does not make one proud. Praise is chastening — when one knows so well how difficult it is going to be to deserve it.

It was a very sober and a very humble Deya who knelt by her bedside last night.

Chapter III A Family Party

THE roads are not so bad, and John has stood the trip, thus far, better than we had dared to hope!

To-night while father was staking out the horses, I tied the buffalo robes to some bushes that were close by the fire, and so made a cozy little sheltered nook; and father and John are sitting there talking comfortably together, while I am trying to carry out my resolution to write a little every day in my book. I dare say I will keep this Journal in a scatter-brain, haphazard sort of fashion. Martha hinted as much! I always like to begin a diary, but there are always so many things happening to make one forget, or put off writing till a more con venient time. And when I look at a dozen or more blank dates I get discouraged and stop. But this time I have promised myself seriously that I will write down everything of importance that happens on this journey — perhaps not just at the minute, but anyway before I have a chance to disremember

AFAMILYPARTY 19

it! When we get out on the prairie there will be many tedious hours when I will be glad to have this to turn to for occupation. I know how it will be. The men-folks will be off, enjoying the pleasures of the chase — hunting deer and buffalo — and while they are galloping across valleys and out of sight over the hills, Anna and I will be obliged to sit quietly in our neat traveling carriage, with our hands primly folded in our laps — perhaps !

Before I forget it I ought to tell of our last after noon at home — only yesterday afternoon, and it seems a week ago. The day was not at all as we had hoped it would be — a long quiet restful day — a time for saying those last loving words that mean so much at parting; but perhaps it was best as it was. In the middle of the afternoon the kinfolks began to "drop in," and by four o'clock the yard and porches and house were "putty well crowdedup," as Uncle Asaph said. There were uncles and aunts and cousins and cousins-in-law — father's folks and mother's folks — Randalls and Warners and Demings and Smiths — forty-six of them, all told. Mary -Belle counted them when she set the plates around for supper.

Mother would have the cloth spread out on the grass in the front-yard, so there would be no necessity for anyone to have to wait for the second table.

"I never can enjoy my food properly," mother says, "if the children have to wait — poor little things, all of them wondering if there's going to be cake and chicken left for them, after we grown-ups are through eating!"

When Aunt Sarah and Aunt Augusta and Aunt Electa began to unpack their baskets, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that there would be enough of everything to "go round," but we all ate together just the same.

The chests that we thought were all ready for lifting into the wagon, had to be opened and re packed, for everyone brought something in the way of a gift, for John or for me, — books and wristers and a wammus for John, and a big, horrid, sharp "skinning knife" that he liked better than anything else. And there was a "kiss-me-quick" for me, and a reticule and porte-monnaie, and another diary book and the loveliest toilet-box that cousin Lottie made — the outside all covered with tiny sea-shells, and fitted on the inside with a mirror set in the lid, and there were divisions in the box for comb and brushes, and for the two jars of "face-cream" (which was Aunt Hattie B's gift) — made from the famous "Nellie Custis recipe."

A FAMILY PARTY 21

"You will need it," Aunt Hattie B. said, "when you get out on the prairie, to keep your face from freckling and blistering, for the sun and wind out there must be awful."

Uncle Jabez laughed.

"It will take more of that stuff than she's got to keep her face delicate and fair as you'd like to have it. She's none so white now, Deya ain't, and by the time she comes back after crossing that desert country twice, there ain't no telling what she'll look like — a copper colored Indian, probably ! "

It did not seem at all like the Sabbath! The children forgot that it was not an ordinary week day picnic gathering, and they played "Chase the Squirrel" and all their games, and no one cared to remind them that it was the first day of the week.

And, for the rest of us, the hours were given up to trivialities and gaiety, and laughter. They would have it so. And when it began to be dusk and it was time to go, there were no tearful good-byes to be v said ! They would only talk of the big Thanksgiving feast that should celebrate our return, of the bags of money that John and Deya would be proudly showing, of the romantic stories that they would be telling, — and they drove away down the locust lane, still laughing and singing.

So, in foolish gay fashion we spent those last hours, and it did make the parting easier for us all. We were able to keep up the fiction of cheerfulness after they were gone — and when we said Good night — and that was hard

It was not yet daylight when father took his place on the front seat of the spring wagon, — and John and I waved Good-bye to mother and the girls.

Chapter IV The Oak Tree Inn

THE wagon is drawn up under the friendly shelter of a wide-branched oak tree; at our feet a clear stream bubbles up out of the rocks : a high bank rises in the north to shut out the cold winds from the little grassy hollow.

We are not the only travelers who have rested and refreshed themselves at this woodland caravansery. Careless and cruel guests some of them have been, for the gnarly and twisted trunk of the old tree is blackened with smoke, and charred to its very heart by the flames of their campfires. Yet the tree goes on living — lifting its head to the blue of heaven — stretching out its protecting arms over the earth — bravely trying to fulfil its natural destiny as best it may, in spite of the fires that have burnt into the heart.

It hasn't stopped raining for a minute all day long. When I woke up at daylight it was pouring down hard, so I thought I never would be able to get breakfast, but father got a little fire started — a smoky, soggy, sulky fire — and I fixed the coffee in the pail, and the bacon in the skillet, and John's broth in the tin cup, before ever I got out of the wagon; and I took them and the umbrella and made a run for it! Lucky the umbrella was a big one! Father held it over the fire and over me, and some how the breakfast was cooked. But the rain ran off from the umbrella ribs, and fell into the hot fat, and it sizzled and spattered and burned my wrist, and the flame flared up in my face — and my temper flared up, too, but only for a minute.

Before breakfast was half over we decided that the rain was rather good fun after all — John, especially, but then it wasn't John's wrist that was burned!

We had to sit on the floor in the back part of the wagon, as the wind drove the rain directly in our faces when we tried to sit on the front seat with father. We piled the robes around us and sat there cozy and warm, and played checkers, while the horses splashed along through water and mire, and toiled up the rocky hills.

The checkermen slid all over the board, and when we went sliding down a clayey slope my book — this Journal book — slipped through under father's feet, and he just caught it as it was trying to leap overboard.