A Half-Quarter Section

I

THE Judge of the county watched a haze of sunlit dust settle like pollen on the road, and an oxcart disappear behind it.

‘Fourteen, that ’ull be,’ he said. ‘Fourteen sence morn.’

Pop Downing laid down his quill beside a gourd half full of red lead tempered with turpentine.

‘By Gollup,’ he exclaimed, ‘that ull fitch ’em. What time I’ve sit her to dry by the fire on the old woman’s johnny-board, and yankied her over’th a coat of beeswax, she ’ull be the ornament of this-yer Bar and Land Office.’

One of his companions removed his moccasins from the window sill and spat on the verandah flooring.

‘Et’s drawed out right pretty,’ he admitted. ‘Thur’s the whole town laid out neat as good riven, and no fuss ner shavens. A brick schoolhouse, too, ’uth real glass windies, and a lashen of meetenhouses, not to say a courthouse ’uth two stories and a cuploe, all carded out pretty ’n’ proper.’

A tall yellow man, landlord of Sweet’s Hotel, tended bar through the open window to the group lounging on the porch.

’This hotel es n’t no Land Office jest because happens the Agent’s setten on the porch of her,’ he protested. He leaned over the sill and squinted upsydownsy at the plan. ‘What d’y’ aim t’ call her?’

Pop Downing ran his scarlet fingers through his matted white hair and frowned perplexedly. The others watched him in silence. There were perhaps a dozen men on the verandah, sitting on long puncheons, — lengths of log rived off smooth on one side and resting on roughly split legs, — or spraddling in crude hewn chairs, or lying on their backs on the wedgesplit flooring, staring up through the cottonwoods into the metallic sky of the late May afternoon. They were dressed for the most part in blue janes, but here and there one flaunted a pair of cotton trousers cut in flaring Dutch fashion, or fringed buckskins. At the elbow of each, on the floor of the rude trestle which served for open-air bar, stood a pewter mug of corn whiskey. In the dusty road which was the street, four grown men knelt playing marbles, laughing and shouting like boys.

Slightly above the town, on the crest of a bluff, stood an ancient limestone building, once a fort but now a French nunnery, and near it the French Catholic Church. These were decaying monuments to the original French settlers of the town, who could be sharply distinguished from the American settlers by their ‘cappos,’ or capes with hoods, and their headgear of gayly printed cotton kerchiefs. They were mostly Mississippi boaters, and no American who thought anything of himself would make way on the street for their slight, dark figures.

‘You mought call her New Kaskasky,’ volunteered one of the men on the verandah, after a period of deep thought. ‘See-en this-yur town es Kaskasky, the name would be a right fitten one. And the “New” afurt adds to the flavor, like cheese to pie.’

A man next the speaker took a great pinch of snuff from the valley between two twisted knuckles, and lengthened the sniff into a snort of derision.

‘Kaskasky!’ he said. ‘What kinda name es Kaskasky? Ever’ time you mention et, I ’low I thenk of my old woman gritten hominy ’uth a hominy gritter. Kaskasky! W’y, a man roughens up his throat a-sayen of et.’ He took a long pull from his mug to ease the harshness resulting from the articulation of the word.

Yet the name ‘Kaskaskia’ once sounded sweetly enough in the ears of Louis of France, in the days when that city was the capital and stronghold of his possessions in the New World. Three quarters of a century later the name rang again in the ears of a French monarch, this time less sweetly, when the fortress fell to the terrible LongKnives of the Kentucky whites. From that time forth its importance had declined, until from a flourishing city of seven thousand it had become, in 1840, a small settlement numbering scarcely a thousand inhabitants, whose log huts and wooden public buildings contrasted strangely with the dressed and plastered limestone fortress that still stood above it.

In the days of the town’s supremacy towns and cities flourished best in the heart of the forests lining the Mississippi. Now that the fertility of the prairie land had been discovered and turned to profit, the settlement was kept alive only by the fact that within the boundaries of the township the steep bluffs ended and the rolling prairies began. In another seventyfive years the railroad and radio would destroy the characteristic turns of speech of the farming folk, and the few remaining French and ‘breeds’ would be set to work in factories. Then, tired of waiting, the Mississippi was to reach out absently one day and with a careless sweep of its yellow paw undermine the old fortress. Cameras were to click as a few spectators indifferently watched the heavy dressed stones crumbling sullenly into the waters over which they had once so proudly domineered.

II

One of the loungers at Sweet’s sat up slowly, reached luxuriously behind him for his plug, and, having bitten off a chew, gazed comfortably around him.

‘Seems to me you-all ur shinen a coon what es n’t ben treed,’ he said. ‘Seems to me kinda like tiren out tongue-senew, namen a town what don’t exest yit. You got a right pretty draw’n laid out thur, Top, and don’t know’s I’ve seen a thong so gaudy and fanciful sence the hangen of Bennett. But Kaskasky Landen es Kaskasky Landen — forty rod of sand bottom and a couple acre cottonwood. Pop, your town es all ’n your eye.’

‘En my eye, my eye!’ exclaimed Top Downing illogically, bringing down his fist with a crash on the trestle board where his drawing lay. ‘Bottom ur no bottom, that piece of land es mine, ’uth a patent signed by Martin Van Buren, all wrote out neat and legal, ’uth the name of Ezekiel Downing across the top of her. Ef I choose to call her the Land of Goshen, I kin do so, by Gollup, and kin sell town lots in her to all and sendry, es long es the same es free, white ’n’ twenty-one, and able to sign thur name by hand of wrote ur cross mark.’ He looked triumphantly around the company. ‘And the name of her’s goen to be — ’

Pop Downing paused and looked around him into faces touched with amusement or good-natured curiosity.

‘Downingville,’ he said. ‘Downingville, Illinois, U. S. A.!’

There was a roar of approving laughter. The county surveyor, a loosely set-up man with a lean, horselike head, laughed in a series of dry, staccato barks, at the end of which he stared around the circle, meeting the eye of each of his companions, nodding with a quick, sharp little shake of his head to one after another. The Judge laughed with a round ho-ho, taking no notice of his fellows, wiping his eyes on his broadcloth coat tail. Jeff Shorcly, with his habitual gesture, thrust his hand under his great black beard and lifted his voice with a roar like the Mississippi in flood, then suddenly closed his jaws with a snap and stared truculently at the others. Pop Downing laughed, too, with a little thin teehee, mingled with small sneezes, chuckles, and broken syllables of profanity, carefully twisting up a corner of his bandanna and applying it to the corners of his eyes as his laughter wore itself out.

Three of the four men at marbles looked up with sympathetic grins. The fourth, profiting by his opponents’ inattention, neglected to knuckle down, and managed to shoot every pellet out of the ring. With a howl, the players turned again to the shrewd fellow, and with cries of ‘Punch ’um!’ ‘Git ’urn, Jos!’ ‘Overs!’ fell to belaboring him with good-natured blows, behind each of which lay two hundred pounds of muscle and bone.

‘Yankicd agin!’ shouted one of them.

As if at a cue, Top Downing laid back his throat and began to sing in a high quavering voice, keeping time to the punches resounding on the ribs of the victim, one of the thousand stanzas of a ditty that once rang all up and down the length of the Mississippi: —

The surveyor flung his legs over an arm of his chair, and contributed another stanza: —

The group, with a vindictive howl, joined in on the chorus: —

Jeff Shorely thrust his hand under his beard, lifted his chin, and roared: —

A locust started its ripsaw in one of the trees surrounding the verandah, and, as if warned by its sultry drone, the men halted their singing and reached each one for his mug. The landlord rested his shirt sleeves on the sill and grunted approvingly.

‘A thirsty gullet,’ he remarked, ‘es the ree-ward of a good holler. Drenk hearty, boys. The next round es on Sweet.’

A man at the farther end of the open-air bar peered down the road between cupped hands.

‘Four, this trep,’ he said. ’How many’s that, Jedge?’

The Judge wiped his lips with his coat tail and stared absently at the road.

‘That ’ull make eighteen to-day,’ he announced finally. ‘Counten the young-uns.’

The others followed his gaze. At the head of a team walked a tall man, in janes and moccasins, his butternut shirt open at the throat. His two horses were hitched one behind the other, their work collars simply a pair of old leather breeches stuffed with straw and astraddle their shoulders. The traces were thongs of plaited corn husk, reaching from the breeches legs to the axletrees. The wagon itself had no tires to its wheels, and its bed consisted of sawn lengths of board resting upon the axles. Over the slats were thrown a corn-husk mattress and some blankets, upon which sat a woman, the whites of her eyes flashing oddly out of a sun-browned face. She held a child in her arms. Behind the wagon trotted a boy of perhaps six years. An exact replica of his father, he curvetted astride the stump of a bull whip discarded by some cattle drover farther east, swatting it with his palms and shouting shrilly.

The man halted his team with a word and stood staring unblinkingly at the marble players in the road, as if striving to accustom himself to the idea of men settled, at home and content, in a territory which was to him merely a passing-place.

‘Howdy,’ said one of the players, squatting upon his heels and reaching for his plug.

The stranger tried to spit, but succeeded only in making a convulsive movement with his throat. When his voice came, it was hushed and breathless, like the rattle of pebbles in a dried-up creek bed.

‘Howdy,’ he breathed.

‘Goen fur?’

The man’s throat twitched again with that nameless convulsive quiver.

‘ Further’n that,’ he said.

‘Stay’n’ hev a drenk. And a swallow’ a melk fer your old woman.’

The man glanced up at the sun, a quarter down its setting course. ‘No time,’ said his breathless voice, almost as if it were speaking of its own accord. ’Got to move on. Gitten West.’

‘Missouri, stranger?’

‘Gitten West. Geddap.’

The boy, who had listened attentively during the conversation, edged up shyly to the group around his father.

‘Ask us agin!’ he cried shrilly. ‘Ask us agin whur we’re a-goen!’

‘Whur you goen, sonny?’ asked one of the players indulgently, making a sudden reach for the tike as he pranced about them on his bull whip.

The youngster evaded the attempt to seize him and drew himself up proudly, a ludicrous caricature of the older man. The team lurched forward against the corn-husk traces, and the wagon started.

‘Gitten West,’ mimicked the boy. ‘Geddap!’ With a screaming gurgle of laughter he touched up his steed and pranced after the cloud of dust that was his ambient home.

Pop Downing grunted comfortably.

‘Beggist raree-show on airth, right her’ ’n this town. All you gotta pay es the price of a mug of corn licker on Sweet’s porch, and set and glance your eye. Settlers. My Gawd, what a raft of ’em! And all gitten West. West!’

He looked round at his companions.

‘Whur es this-yur West whur they’re all a-gitten to?’ he asked. ‘Out in Pennsylvanny et’s Ohio that’s the West. En Ohio et’s Illinois. En Illinois ef a man says he’s gitten West you kin tuck en your pants’ legs and wager et’s Missouri he’s lighten out fer. And en Missouri et’s Gawd knows whur. West! Hell, there es n’t no sech place.’

There was no sound of approval or dissent from the group.

‘Passen through,’ went on Pop. ‘All hours of the night and day, passen through. Some of ’em stops to hev a drenk, some of ’em stops to say howdy, and some of ’em don’t stop long enough to spet. Women, young-uns, boys, men, dogs, oxen, crittern, sheep. Riden, walken, a-sleepen, waken. And all goen West. West, by Judas, fer all the worl ’s ef thur was sech a place. Et gevs a man the fan-tods.’

The loungers remained silent and would not look at each other. As if to lessen their embarrassment, the county surveyor unwrapped his legs from about the leg of a chair and peered critically in the opposite direction to that from which the little caravan had come.

‘Lookut comen,’ he said at last. ‘Ploughs a right crooked furrow.’

At the farther end of the dirt street appeared a brave figure. The wide road hardly contained his path as he swept uncertainly from rut to bank. He was dressed in new yellow coat and trousers, the latter carefully pressed at the sides. His coat lurched open at every step, allowing to appear a flannel waistcoat, woven crimson flowers on a light ground.

As the group focused its attention on the new arrival, he sat down with a groan and clumsily unlaced his great yellow shoes. With some effort he pulled them off his bare feet, knotting the laces and flinging them around his neck. A broad smile of relief spread placidly, like a pool of sorghum, over his face.

‘By Gollup,’ said somebody, ‘et’s young Lundy back from Cencennatty.’

III

The marble players left off their game as the boy arrived in front of the verandah. The loungers leaned forward to hear what he had to say. His fair hair was plastered close to his scalp with pomatum and sweat; his pudgy red cheeks glowed with heat and shook with excitement. He stood swaying in the middle of the road, and out of his mouth words began to tumble. He was very drunk and very much in earnest.

‘En the town of Ceneennatty,’ announced young Lundy, ‘thur twentyfour meetenhouses. I ben en ever’ one ’f ’um. Thur forty-nine bar, a collidge, and two museum. I ben stood drenks en all the bar, and brung me hack picture cards of the collidge and museum.’

He stopped, drew a long breath, and flapped his broad tongue over his upper lip to lick off the sweat.

‘En the town of Ceneennatty thur grestmills and sawmills, and they work ’em all by steam. I seen ’em all. They got the best levee on the river, and the strongest current fer fefty mile aroun’. I swum that current.’

He paused to illustrate the assertion, lost and recovered his balance, then went gravely on.

‘They got eighteen magazines and newspapers, and I bought a copy ’f ever’ one ’f ’um, figgeren that when I git too old to drove I mought learn to read. Thur forty-sex thousen, three hunder’ ’n’ eighty-two people en the town of Ceneennatty, not counten niggers and Yankee singen masters, and I seen the whole forty-sex thousen, three hunder’ ’n’ eighty-two on the streets, and some ’f ’um twicet.’

The boy paused to take thought, teetering gravely from heel to toe, then ended his tirade in a burst of rhetoric.

‘En the town of Ceneennatty ever’body talks grammar and them foreign tongues, and land sells fer forty dollar a acre. They smoke seegars stida chewen ’em, and Fourth a July comes ever’ other Tuesday. And them that lives en her calls her the Queen of the West, fer all she lies bang en the middle of the Eastern Hemisphere.’

Young Lundy reached out his hand, and as if by magic it held a full pewter mug. He took a long pull, and shuddered slightly. Then, fixing his eyes on the verandah thatch, he intoned the following string of facts in a singsong voice, like a child reading from a primer.

‘I ben forty-one day driven sex hunder’ ’n’ fourteen head a cattle, all under three year and untaxahle. They averaged fefty stone. My cast was ten head, at eighteen dollar a head. We’s ’leven men, counten me and my longtailed horse. We took forty-one day driven to git to Ceneennatty, and the herd ’rived en better condition than she started. My sheer’s a hunder’ ’n’ eighty dollar, ’uth drover’s wages at fefty cents a day. I stayed five day en the town of Ceneennatty, and come back by passenger boat, taken twelve day ’n’ nine hour. The nine hour’s ’casioned by striken a planter off Births Point and sloven a hole size of a washtub forrard. I won forty dollar at cards aboard the boat, and lost sexty. My partner, Jake Fairly, married a girl aboard the boat afur I coidd chance myself to speak to her, and the pair ’f ’um stayed on board, bound fer Cairo, en Egypt, Illinois. So I got off at Kaskasky Landen, ’uth ninety dollar en my pocket, and slipped en the clay and mired my do es. The whole trep heven took fefty-eight day, nine and one-half hour, complete, total, and to date.’

The county surveyor scratched the back of his head and stared quizzically at the speaker.

‘Rec’lect hard,’ he admonished, ‘Hes n’t cha fergot somethen?’

The bartender leaned out of the window and growled.

‘Hev done, and let the lad be. Set down, young Lundy, and take your shoes off from aroun’ your neck and git sociable.’

He reached a long arm out of the window for the boy’s mug. Lundy approached diffidently. He caught sight of Pop Downing’s map, still spread out on the table, weighted down at each corner with an empty mug.

‘Wheeroo!’ he exclaimed. ‘Pretty, es n’t et? Whut mought et be?’

Pop hastily covered a major portion of the plan of Downingville with one elbow.

‘Nothen much,’ disclaimed Pop Downing, furtively. ”T es n’t only a draw’n, sort of.’

The boy shouldered the older man away, planted his hands astride the gayly colored plan, and stared between them.

‘Cencennatty,’ he muttered. ‘No, ’t es n’t. Et’s begger, and the streets es wider. Priest! Whur mought et be?’

Somebody snickered. Young Lundy brought his eyes up slowly from the drawing and stared around the circle. A white spot appeared under each of his cheek bones.

‘Tell me, then,’ he commanded. ‘Whut es this-yur a draw’n of? Tell me, then, some ’f you. Whur mought sech a town be?’

Pop avoided the boy’s gaze, and the county surveyor spoke for him.

‘Et’s Kaskasky Landen,’ he explained.

‘Kaskasky Landen,’ muttered the boy. ‘Kaskasky Landen, whur I lef’ my rifle and my telescope bag. When I come from thur, jest now, thur war n’t only one house to et, a house that hed n’t no roof yit. Whut kinda sass ’r’ you aimen to gev me?’

‘Leastways,’ qualified the surveyor, ‘et’s the Landen the way Pop says she’s goen to be. And the name of her es — ’

‘Downingville!’ shrieked Pop Downing, at bay. ‘ Downingville, young Lundy. Downingville, Illinois, U. S. A.!’

‘Downingville,’ echoed the boy.

‘And whut mought be the price of town lots en her, now? Whut mought the price of this-yur lot be?’ He placed a finger at the junction of two wide streets, at the end of which were limned, respectively, a schoolhouse and a church.

Pop Downing winced and ducked his head. When he raised it, the boy still stared at him. There was no evading his question.

‘I was thenken,’ he said, ‘of ashen twelve dollar, specie, fer that lot, but — ’

The boy thrust a hand inside his waistcoat and pulled out a buckskin bag, on the side of which an Indian head was crudely burnt, and jerked open the mouth.

‘Twelve dollar, specie,’ he repeated, flinging the amount at Pop Downing’s knees. ‘Do I git a recipee, er whut?’

Pop shamefacedly pocketed the money, edged over to a corner of the table, and with the quill laboriously wrote out a receipt. The boy thrust it away in the pouch, and without a further glance at the old man lowered himself into a chair before the plan of Downingville. He placed his chin on his folded arms, and stared before his nose at the portion of the plan that represented the town lot he had just purchased. Its government value, as determined by the auction upset, was perhaps sixty cents.

IV

Pop Downing sat down on the top step leading to the verandah. For a long time he was silent, watching the sun sink below the trees along the bluffs of the Landing. As the light ebbed, he slowly recovered his cheerfulness. With a stealthy movement, he drew the specie from his pocket and re-counted it softly, whistling between his teeth. From the hollow of young Lundy’s arms on the table came a gentle snore. Pop looked up, still whistling softly, and saw the first stars begin to wink.

Somewhere down the street a window glowed yellow. A woman’s voice called. A boy separated himself from a group stealing down the road in single file and broke away in the direction of the light. The file wavered, hesitated, then scattered as if blown apart by the gust of wind that raised a series of dust devils before it.

One by one the men on Sweet’s verandah rose and slipped away, too good neighbors for the formality of a good-night. The dusk drooped quickly, as it does on the prairie. A cow waiting to be milked lowed somewhere in a pasture. At length there were left on the verandah only the Judge, silent in a dark corner, the boy Lundy asleep at the table, and Pop Downing, seated on the step whistling out the stars.

A pair of oxen shambled into view down the road, drawing a heavy wagon hitched by thongs to their horns. The driver halted them opposite the verandah and flung his whip into the vehicle. There was a murmur of another voice. A passenger clambered heavily over a wheel, and, taking the driver’s arm, jumped to the ground. The pair hesitated a moment, then walked slowly to the verandah steps and stood before Pop Downing, without a word.

Pop stared curiously through the dusk at the couple. The driver was perhaps five feet ten, heavy in proportion. He was dressed simply in a blue shirt, corduroy trousers, and drover’s boots. He wore no hat, and his bare hands hung at his sides. His companion was a woman, little better than a girl, but heavy-boned and erect. Her eyes were dark, with a light in them like the reflection of a lantern in deep water at night. Pop saw that she was great with child.

‘Howdy,’ said Pop at last. ‘Goen fur, stranger?’

The man stirred. ‘I reckon not,’ he said simply. ‘I seen a stretch of land east a piece, and I — Where could I find the land agent of this county?’

‘I’m him,’ said Pop. ‘Whut kin I do fer you?’

‘I seen a stretch of land east a piece,’ repeated the man. ‘It was just before topping the knoll, a mile back, lying to the south of the road.’

‘That ’ud be the eighty lyen next George Smalley’s place,’ said Pop. ‘Eighty acre. A half-quarter section.’

‘Can it be bought?’

‘I reckon.’

‘And the price?’

‘Dollar ’n’ a quarter a acre, specie. Bank notes at 10 per cent descount.’

The man let out his breath softly. Without speaking, he reached into his shirt and brought out a leather purse, from which he counted a hundred dollars in gold coins into Pop Downing’s hands. Pop slid the heavy double eagles into his pocket, and in the light of the bar window wrote out a rough receipt.

‘The east half of the northeast quarter of section four, this township,’ said Pop. ‘ I’ll enter et fer you, and the President ’ull mail your patent from Washington when he kin git round to et. Better git the land fenced en soon’s may be. Take ’bout nine er ten thousen rail, ’uth a three-mile haul. Cost you ’bout a dollar a hundred, er you kin splet ’em yoursel’.'

The man took his receipt and nodded. ‘I’ll split ’em myself,’ he agreed, flexing an arm, then fell silent again, listening closely to Pop’s instructions and remarks.

‘You’ll need a strong plough to break up your eighty, and sod corn, and a Collins axe, ef you es n’t got one already, and wedges. You got a rifle, a course. Sod corn costs thirty cent a bushel, and seeds ’bout four acre. You need a roller, rope, and bucket fer your well. Fall seed wheat comes eighty cent a bushel. Cattle and horses es liable to a ad valorim tax at three year old. Your old woman ’ull hev a spennen wheel and loom. Land es n’t taxable untel five year from dale of purchase. Thur’s a tax on clocks and watches, ef you hev any sech. You’re liable to two days’ work on the state road, and sex month cn the milishy — but you won’t be called out — at reg’lar pay. When you git en your fall seed, thur’s squirrel hunten and coon hunten, and horse racen. Ninepins es agin the law en these parts, so we plays tenpins, Sundays.’

The woman plucked at her husband’s arm. The man nodded, and sent her back to the wagon with a gentle push. The moon began to rise over the prairie. The two men fell silent, listening to the snores of the boy on the verandah. Pop Downing shifted his position on the step and spoke, very softly, as if afraid to break a spell.

‘Et’s good land, that eighty,’ he said. ‘None better. . . . Rich dirt. Good loom, though; not too rich. . . . Deep, too. I could n’t make bottom.’

Pop paused and considered. ‘And well dreened. . . . Thur’s a crick runs below et. Thur’s a shady piece, too. A knoll, ’uth half a dozen heckory trees. . . . Et’s good land, that eighty. . . . Et’s sweet land.’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I tasted it.’

He turned to go, bringing both fists up to a level with his head, his shoulder muscles rippling through his shirt. Pop considered him, surprisedly, against the moon.

‘Me and my old woman kin put you up fer the night,’ offered Pop. ‘Plenty room en our house now.’

The man whirled around again, facing Pop. He brought his clenched hands down to his sides. When he spoke, his voice rang out strangely along the shadowy street.

‘No, I thank you,’ he said, and his oxen lifted their heads as if at a command. ‘Me and my woman, we aim to spend the night — on our land.’

He strode rapidly to his team, swung them about, and started them back in the direction from which he had come. Pop sat rubbing his stubbled chin with the heel of his palm, his eyes following them meditatively.

There was a rustle in the corner, and the Judge’s voice came out of the darkness.

‘Twenty,’ said the voice.