Читать книгу Song of Years - Bess Streeter Aldrich - Страница 4

One week later found Wayne Lockwood nearing the end of his second journey to the Valley of the Red Cedar, nearly back to the quarter-section he had chosen with such swiftness of decision, and tramped a hundred weary miles to obtain. This time, however, he had his newly purchased team and wagon, a plow and a few other tools, a buffalo robe, a hidebound chest with brass bands which his grandfather had once carried to sea, and a box of bedding from his parents’ home there in the New England hills, these last two having been left in Dubuque until his entry was made.

All these days he had been on the westbound trail again, from Dubuque to Delhi, with its one-roomed log house for travelers, from Delhi to Independence and its slightly larger log tavern, from Independence to Prairie Rapids with not a single cabin ever in sight between these points.

The previous night he had stayed at Prairie Rapids and now he was on the last lap of the long journey, driving the five miles across the prairie to his land. His land! It gave him a queer feeling in which pride and a sense of responsibility were the leading emotions, but running through both, like a scarlet thread in a gray coat, was the boyish jubilation over winning out in the entry of it. All he needed to cheer him in any moment of homesickness or fear for his ultimate success in the new country was to recall that look of amazement and chagrin which had come over the face of the dapper young fellow whom he had beaten out of it. Even now as the new wagon jolted over the trail he laughed aloud at the remembrance.

Yes, it was his right, thanks to a quick decision and two good legs, and no finer land lay anywhere in the new state, he would wager. A little nearer to Sturgis Falls than to the Prairie Rapids settlement, and a mile north of the beaten trail which paralleled the river, it was ideally placed. Just which one of the two settlements he would like better, which he would honor with his patronage—he grinned at that—remained to be seen.

Because his mind was his only companion, he passed the time of his journeying with thoughts of the previous day’s happenings, pictures of it slipping through his head in changing sequence; the Prairie Rapids settlement as he had seen it the day before, a little handful of log cabins scattered over the prairie on both sides of the river, a few split-rail fences, a tent, two or three families still living by the side of their wagons.

He had fully expected to drive to his own land the evening before and sleep in the wagon, but reaching the settlement late, with threatening clouds rolling up from the west, he had decided to stay at the log tavern. Here he grinned to himself again at the memory of the evening spent at the Sherman House.

After he had made his team comfortable under the straw-thatched shed he had gone inside the tavern, had been talking to Mr. Sherman, with pen in hand ready to sign the register, when his rival for the land came in. He had relished that moment, that handing of the pen over to the dapper young fellow with a flourish in exaggerated politeness, as though the name of Mr. Bedson must necessarily precede that of Wayne Lockwood.

The chap had signed it with a cool nod of acknowledgment, and then, with his own underneath, the two names had stood there together on the book even as the two men were side by side.

Cady Bedson. Wayne Lockwood.

It was a queer episode and it made him wonder just how often they were going to run into each other out here. But it was the next move that had given him the best laugh. Mr. Sherman had said to a young boy standing near: “Show Mr. Bedson up to Room 12 and Mr. Lockwood to Room 16.”

“Room 12?” Cady Bedson had said in surprise. “Why, is that a single room?”

“Certainly,” the proprietor had answered seriously enough. And the two had gone up to the loft, not high enough in the center to allow a six-footer to stand straight, sloping to a mere three feet on the sides, an opening in each gable-end for ventilation, and eighteen bunks on the floor through which there was just room to walk, but very truly a “single room.” The boy had broken into loud guffawing and said proudly: “He cracks that joke every time.”

A calico curtain inclosed one bunk at each end which, a young blade on the pallet next to Wayne informed him with accompanying smirks, contained some brides and grooms.

Before the night was over the beds apparently were all occupied. They were hard and damp from a recent shower which had seeped in between the logs. The pillows were small and might have been stuffed with goose-quills. One fellow called down the loft stairs: “Hey, Sherman! I’m afraid to go to sleep . . . afraid a pillow will work into my ear,” which brought forth loud laughter.

All night there had been more or less commotion. A woman sobbed. A shower caused some one to find and put up an umbrella. Some of the roomers called out to keep quiet and let them sleep, others snored, oblivious to the thunder rattling around the log roof. This Bedson was not up yet when he left. Oh, well, he might never see the fellow again. There was no certainty he belonged permanently in these parts.

And now he was almost home. Home! That was a queer word to apply to the prairie grass and the creek and the clump of timber lying off there to the north. But in no time at all he would have a good snug cabin. He would break out the sod, raise fine crops, stock his farm, bring in sheep, buy more land. Ten years from now he would have a transplanted New England home, but larger and finer. It was a pleasant picture. He broke into singing, true and resonant:

“Oh, ye’ll tak’ the high road an’ I’ll tak’ the low road.

An I’ll be in Scotland before ye;

But I and my true love will never meet again—”

He broke off suddenly. There were the four cabins plainly visible now, scattered over the prairie, and a high spiral of smoke in a grove to the left gave mute evidence that another one nestled there in its shelter. Five cabins! There lived his neighbors. Who might they be and from whence had they come?

It gave him a queer sensation of excitement and curiosity not to know the answers, for his life in the next few years, no doubt, would be more or less intertwined with those of the unknown persons in the five prairie shelters.

On his own land at last he made camp in the little grove at the creek’s bend, grinning to himself at the welcome sight of his socks on a bush. His horses, having snatched greedily at the lush grass when first unharnessed, had settled down to a contented browsing as though discovering there was ample food to last forever.

The afternoon was spent in assembling wood for fires, choosing the site for his cabin, setting stakes to show its dimensions, clearing the brush, marking the trees to be cut. These were to-day’s small tasks. Not until the first tree was felled on the morrow would he feel that he was accomplishing anything.

He worked until dark, made a fire, and cooked corn-meal mush and slices of smoked meat which he ate with the hearty relish of a healthy young animal. Then he put green branches across the fire and went to see that the horses were comfortable, patting them, rubbing their noses, speaking to them as one would to humans, “Good night, Belle! Good night, Blackbird.” They responded with friendly little sounds and a nuzzling of their long lips.

All day at his work he had been busy and contented. Now he felt lonely here in the great expanse of prairie under the wide sky. Now he knew a mental and emotional let-down, experienced the flat feeling of an anticlimax after some great adventure. This was dull reality. To-night, home seemed very far away. All those days in which he had been traveling westward, hurrying to make true the dream of land that would be his own, home had been something from which he was released, something shaken off with boyish abandon so that he might be free to use the money given him by his seafaring grandfather as he wished. Now that the feverish activity of getting the claim was over, the decision made, a large share of his money spent, his severance from “the folks” complete, he was in a bit of a mental slump. Physical fear he had never known. But to-night the vastness of the prairie, the stillness of it, the lack of friendly voice, of human companion, was almost overwhelming. It was scarcely understandable when he had been alone and uncomplaining on the prairie during so many nights before.

He climbed into the wagon-box, pulled a blanket and the buffalo robe over him, for the night had taken on the chill dampness of falling dew. The silence of the prairie was almost as loud as ever noise could be. Then, suddenly, a wolf howled from some point along the creek bed. Another answered faintly from a distance. An owl hooted in the timber. Some little night creature started a tick-tacking in the grove near-by. All the silence of the prairie became pregnant with the sound of living things—things that crept and moved, hooted and howled, tapped and tiptoed, swayed the grass and stole forth from tree trunks.

More than he had ever wanted human companionship, he wished for it now. That girl—that schoolmate of his sister’s who had cried over him—probably she would have come out here with him if he . . . Lord, no, he hadn’t even liked her.

His mother had said: “Wayne, when the time comes for you to marry, come back here for a wife.”

He had laughed at that, telling her there was no one he would want, keeping it to himself that he could half-way visualize a girl—oh, maybe not her features, but she was there all right, dainty and demure, in a kind of a haze that framed her face like a white cloud.

He slipped his hands under his head and looked up at the long streaming white veils of film slipping between him and a million stars—long white veils—that framed a face—

And slept.

Thus did Wayne Lockwood, in the year 1854, in the young raw state of Iowa, sleep the first long night away under the prairie sky. And thus did the curtain go up on the little play which was to contain all the elements of every life’s drama: work, play, joy, sorrow, disappointment, achievement, love, hate.