THE
LAND-TAKING
Toward
the Sunset
I
Bright,
clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens cut down on it
around the entire horizon. . . . Bright, clear sky, to-day, to-morrow, and for
all time to come.
.
. . And sun! And still more sun! It set the heavens afire every morning; it
grew with the day to quivering golden light--then softened into all the shades
of red and purple as evening fell. . . . Pure colour everywhere. A gust of
wind, sweeping across the plain, threw into life waves of yellow and blue and
green. Now and then a dead black wave would race over the scene . . . a cloud's
gliding shadow . . . now and then. . . .
It
was late afternoon. A small caravan was pushing its way through the tall grass.
The track that it left behind was like the wake of a boat--except that instead
of widening out astern it closed in again.
"Tish-ah!"
said the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . . Never had it said
anything else--never would it say anything else. It bent resiliently under the
trampling feet; it did not break, but it complained aloud every time--for
nothing like this had ever happened to it before. . . . "Tish-ah,
tish-ah!" it cried, and rose up in surprise to look at this rough, hard
thing that had crushed it to the ground so rudely, and then moved on.
A
stocky, broad-shouldered man walked at the head of the caravan. He seemed
shorter than he really was, because of the tall grass around him and the
broad-brimmed hat of coarse straw which he wore. A few steps behind him
followed a boy of about nine years of age. The boy's blond hair was clearly
marked against his brown, sunburnt neck; but the man's hair and neck were of
exactly the same shade of brown. From the looks of these two, and still more
from their gait, it was easy to guess that here walked father and son.
Behind
them a team of oxen jogged along; the oxen were drawing a vehicle which once
upon a time might have been a wagon, but which now, on account of its many and
grave infirmities, ought long since to have been consigned to the scrap
heap--exactly the place, in point of fact, where the man had picked it up. Over
the wagon box long willow saplings had been bent, in the form of arches in a
church chancel--six of them in all. On these arches, and tied down to the body
on each side, were spread first of all two handwoven blankets, that might well
have adorned the walls of some manor house in the olden times; on top of the
blankets were thrown two sheepskin robes, with the wool side down, which were used
for bed-coverings at night. The rear of the wagon was stowed full of numberless
articles, all the way up to the top. A large immigrant chest at the bottom of
the pile, very long and high, devoured a big share of the space; around and
above it were piled household utensils, tools, implements, and all their
clothing.
Hitched
to this wagon and trailing behind was another vehicle, homemade and very
curious-looking, so solidly and quaintly constructed that it might easily have
won a place in any museum. Indeed, it appeared strong enough to stand all the
jolting from the Atlantic to the Pacific. . . . It, too, was a wagon, after a
fashion; at least, it had been intended for such. The wheels were made from
pieces of plank fitting roughly together; the box, considerably wider than that
of the first wagon, was also loaded full of provisions and household gear,
covered over with canvas and lashed down securely. Both wagons creaked and
groaned loudly every time they bounced over a tussock or hove out of a hollow.
. . . "Squeak, squeak!" said the one. . . . "Squeak,
squeak!" answered the other. . . . The strident sound broke the silence of
centuries.
A
short distance behind the wagons followed a brindle cow. The caravan moved so
slowly that she occasionally had time to stop and snatch a few mouthfuls,
though there was never a chance for many at a time. But what little she got in
this way she sorely needed. She had been jogging along all day, swinging and
switching her tail, the rudder of the caravan. Soon it would be night, and then
her part of the work would come--to furnish milk for the evening porridge, for
all the company up ahead.
Across
the front end of the box of the first wagon lay a rough piece of plank. On the
right side of this plank sat a woman with a white kerchief over her head,
driving the oxen. Against her thigh rested the blond head of a little girl, who
was stretched out on the plank and sleeping sweetly. Now and then the hand of
the mother moved across the child's face to chase away the mosquitoes, which
had begun to gather as the sun lowered. On the left side of the plank, beyond
the girl, sat a boy about seven years old--a well-grown lad, his skin deeply
tanned, a certain clever, watchful gleam in his eyes. With hands folded over
one knee, he looked straight ahead.
This
was the caravan of Per Hansa, who with his family and all his earthly
possessions was moving west from Fillmore County, Minnesota, to Dakota
Territory. There he intended to take up land and build himself a home; he was
going to do something remarkable out there, which should become known far and
wide. No lack of opportunity in that country, he had been told! . . . Per Hansa
himself strode ahead and laid out the course; the boy Ole, or Olamand, followed
closely after, and explored it. Beret, the wife, drove the oxen and took care
of little Anna Marie, pet-named And-Ongen (which means
"The Duckling"), who was usually bubbling over with happiness. Hans
Kristian, whose everyday name was Store-Hans (meaning
"Big Hans," to distinguish him from his godfather, who was also named
Hans, but who, of course, was three times his size), sat there on the wagon,
and saw to it that everyone attended to business. . . . The cow Rosie trailed
behind, swinging and switching her tail, following the caravan farther and
farther yet into the endless vista of the plain.
"Tish-ah,
tish-ah!" cried the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . .
II
The
caravan seemed a miserably frail and Lilliputian thing as it crept over the
boundless prairie toward the sky line. Of road or trail there lay not a trace
ahead; as soon as the grass had straightened up again behind, no one could have
told the direction from which it had come or whither it was bound. The whole
train--Per Hansa with his wife and children, the oxen, the wagons, the cow, and
all--might just as well have dropped down out of the sky. Nor was it at all
impossible to imagine that they were trying to get back there again; their
course was always the same--straight toward the west, straight toward the sky
line. . . .
Poverty-stricken,
unspeakably forlorn, the caravan creaked along, advancing at a snail's pace,
deeper and deeper into a bluish-green infinity--on and on, and always farther
on. . . . It steered for Sunset Land! . . .
For
more than three weeks now, and well into the fourth, this caravan had been
crawling across the plain. . . . Early in the journey it had passed through
Blue Earth; it had left Chain Lakes behind; and one fine day it had crept into
Jackson, on the Des Moines River. But that seemed ages ago. . . . From Jackson,
after a short lay-up, it had pushed on westward--always westward--to
Worthington, then to Rock River. . . . A little west of Rock River, Per Hansa
had lost the trail completely. Since then he had not been able to find it
again; at this moment he literally did not know where he was, nor how to get to
the place he had to reach. But Split Rock Creek must lie out there somewhere in
the sun; if he could only find that landmark, he could pick his way still
farther without much trouble. . . . Strange that he hadn't reached Split Rock
Creek before this time! According to his directions, he should have been there
two or three days ago; but he hadn't seen anything that even looked like the
place. . . . Oh, my God! If something didn't turn up soon! . . . My God! . . .
The
wagons creaked and groaned. Per Hansa's eyes wandered over the plain. His
bearded face swung constantly from side to side as he examined every inch of
ground from the northeast to the southwest. At times he gave his whole
attention to that part of the plain lying between him and the western sky line;
with head bent forward and eyes fixed and searching, he would sniff the air,
like an animal trying to find the scent. Every now and then he glanced at an
old silver watch which he carried in his left hand; but his gaze would quickly
wander off again, to take up its fruitless search of the empty horizon.
It
was now nearing six o'clock. Since three in the afternoon he had been certain
of his course; at that time he had taken his bearings by means of his watch and
the sun. . . . Out here one had to get one's cross-bearings from the very day
itself--then trust to luck. . . .
For
a long while the little company had been silent. Per Hansa turned halfway
around, and without slackening his pace spoke to the boy walking behind.
"Go
back and drive for a while now, Ola.1 . . . You must
talk to mother, too, so that it won't be so lonesome for her. And be sure to
keep as sharp a lookout as you can."
"I'm
not tired yet!" said the boy, loath to leave the van.
"Go
back, anyway! Maybe you're not, but I can feel it beginning to tell on me.
We'll have to start cooking the porridge pretty soon. . . . You go back, and
hold her on the sun for a while longer."
"Do
you think we'll catch up with them to-night, Dad?" The boy was still
undecided.
"Good
Lord, no! They've got too long a start on us. . . . Look sharp, now! If you
happen to see anything suspicious, sing out!" . . . Per Hansa glanced
again at his watch, turned forward, and strode steadily onward.
Ole
said no more; he stepped out of the track and stood there waiting till the
train came up. Then Store-Hans jumped down nimbly, while the other climbed up
and took his seat.
"Have
you seen anything?" the mother asked in an anxious voice.
"Why,
no . . . not yet," answered the boy, evasively.
"I
wonder if we shall ever see them again," she said, as if speaking to
herself, and looked down at the ground. "This seems to be taking us to the
end of the world . . . beyond the end of the world!"
Store-Hans,
who was still walking beside the wagon, heard what she said and looked up at
her. The buoyancy of childhood shone in his brown face. . . . Too bad that
mother should be so scared! . . .
"Yes,
Mother, but when we're both steering for the sun, we'll both land in the same
place, won't we? . . . The sun is a sure guide, you know!"
These
were the very words which he had heard his father use the night before; now he
repeated them. To Store-Hans the truth of them seemed as clear as the sun
itself; in the first place, because dad had said it, and then because it
sounded so reasonable.
He
hurried up alongside his father and laid his hand in his--he always felt safer
thus.
The
two walked on side by side. Now and then the boy stole a glance at the face
beside him, which was as stern and fixed as the prairie on which they were
walking. He was anxious to talk, but couldn't find anything to say that sounded
grown-up enough; and so he kept quiet. At last, however, the silence grew too
heavy for him to bear. He tried to say indifferently, just like his father:
"When
I'm a man and have horses, I'm going to make a road over these plains, and . .
. and put up some posts for people to follow. Don't you think that'll be a good
idea?"
A
slight chuckle came from the bearded face set toward the sun.
"Sure
thing, Store-Hans--you'll manage that all right. . . . I might find time to
help you an hour or two, now and then."
The
boy knew by his father's voice that he was in a talkative mood. This made him
so glad, that he forgot himself and did something that his mother always
objected to; he began to whistle, and tried to take just as long strides as his
father. But he could only make the grass say: "Swish-sh, swish-sh!"
On
and on they went, farther out toward Sunset Land--farther into the deep glow of
the evening.
The
mother had taken little Anna up in her lap and was now leaning backward as much
as she could; it gave such relief to her tired muscles. The caresses of the
child and her lively chatter made her forget for a moment care and anxiety, and
that vague sense of the unknown which bore in on them so strongly from all
directions. . . . Ole sat there and drove like a full-grown man; by some means
or other he managed to get more speed out of the oxen than the mother had
done--she noticed this herself. His eyes were searching the prairie far and
near.
Out
on the sky line the huge plain now began to swell and rise, almost as if an
abscess were forming under the skin of the earth. Although this elevation lay
somewhat out of his course, Per Hansa swung over and held straight toward the
highest part of it.
The
afternoon breeze lulled, and finally dropped off altogether. The sun, whose
golden lustre had faded imperceptibly into a reddish hue, shone now with a dull
light, yet strong and clear; in a short while, deeper tones of violet began to
creep across the red. The great ball grew enormous; it retreated farther and
farther into the empty reaches of the western sky; then it sank suddenly. . . .
The spell of evening quickly crowded in and laid hold of them all; the oxen
wagged their ears; Rosie lifted her voice in a long moo, which died out slowly
in the great stillness. At the moment when the sun closed his eye, the vastness
of the plain seemed to rise up on every hand--and suddenly the landscape had
grown desolate; something bleak and cold had come into the silence, filling it
with terror. . . . Behind them, along the way they had come, the plain lay dark
green and lifeless, under the gathering shadow of the dim, purple sky.
Ole
sat motionless at his mother's side. The falling of evening had made such a
deep impression on him that his throat felt dry; he wanted to express some of
the emotions that overwhelmed him, but only choked when he tried.
"Did
you ever see anything so beautiful!" he whispered at last, and gave a
heavy sigh. . . . Low down in the northwest, above the little hill, a few
fleecy clouds hovered, betokening fair weather; now they were fringed with
shining gold, which glowed with a mellow light. As if they had no weight, they
floated lightly there. . . .
