Chapter IV: Part 4

And occasionally a turtle would drop off those bushes into the swimming hole. It was said by oldtimers that should a turtle nip you that it would not let loose until sundown. Other oldsters said it would hang on until it thundered. The adventurous youngsters—usually ready to try anything—never, to my knowledge, tried to find out which way was right. With brassy skies and prolonged summer droughts; with thunder clouds few and far between, made it too risky. At that time swim-suits were unknown here — maybe just not used—and always after a swim with the Peters girls, we would have to walk home in our wet pants.

That chain of water holes along a three-mile treeless water course, was said to have been “buffalo” holes. But this I was inclined to doubt, after seeing the remains of true buffalo wallows in Western Kansas. My Uncle Nick Bristow said there were no buffalo here when he came, and that so far as he knew no one before him had seen any. But in my time, the whole plains country west of the Blue river was swarming with them. They were shamefully slaughtered by eastern outfitted crews, for their hides. I believe that Zan Gray ’ s novel, “The Thundering Herd, ” was inspired by the big herds of buffalo in Southwestern Kansas.

Then there were the “second” pools, a longer wash, one mile farther south, fed partly by the Bradford spring, which we would patronize in dry times when the stream connecting the “first” pools would stop running.

Back at the tanyard pool: Those girls, full of high spirits and gay chatter, scooped up our clothing, such as it was, and stood on the bank laughing at us. Save for the one with head so nattily ensconced in tree crotch, all were in water up to necks, and thinking some rather ugly thoughts, we were, I can assure you, most miserable. Miserable, however, does not fully define the plight of the featherless bird on the bank.

Then, holding a yapping little dog to a bulging bosom, a Good Samaritan came moving in. Her smiling face was framed in a lovely orange bonnet. She interceded for the boys. The girls were adamant, heartless. For her pains, the intermediary was called “Mother Fuzzicks”—then, and there-after. She was in truth the mother of the brave Indian fighter mentioned in an earlier article.

In all fairness to those girls I should say that they were, probably, possessed of the idea that their appearance in this manner might cure a certain habitue of the water hole of being neglectful of his duties at home, and maybe cause him to choose better company as well. They could not be censured for that. They were nice girls, those intruders.

It was our life-saver who undertook to solve the problem for us—the little fellow of multiple peculiarities, the most pronounced of which, as you have been informed, was displayed in his crossing himself three times before going into the water.

I rather think that one, maybe two, of Michael’s older sisters were among that hilarious lot. But as to that I cannot be sure. Much water has gone over the dam since that day and on some points things are a bit foggy. It is one of the tricks of memory—that parts of a recalled incident will stand out clearly while other parts remain, shadowy and tantalizingly, just outside the grasp of the mind.

So, then, of those damsels I make no identifications — this on account of much fog. Still, casting back through the mists of many years, I can sense enough of the old thing to cause me to suspect that I could almost spit on one of those erstwhile trim maidens, now grown stout, from where I write. Not, however, that I would want to do so at this late date.

With a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes, Michael said: “Lave them to me boys. By-gorry I’ll show them a trick with a hole in it; I will so I will!” Much stress was laid upon the last phrase. It contained the true Irish accent. A trick with a hole in it! An old saying, of course — much used then.

Manifestly, Michael had decided, as any fine boy of the period would, to deal modestly with the girls—or, at least, with as much modesty as the exigencies of the situation would permit—but he had reckoned without taking into account the destructive forces of Time upon discarded tinware.

Someone, pointing to a stick on the bank, said, “Take that and wallop ‘em good!” It was a portion from the butt end of a well seasoned sumac.

“Aye, I have it!” mouthed Michael. At the same time he fished out of the mud at the edge of the pond an old weather-beaten dishpan, one of many that had been used in the tannery for various purposes. This he swung in front of him.

Then, with surprising alacrity and apparent confidence in himself and the implement of his veiling, he bounded up the bank, pivoting at the top long enough to cast a reassuring look over his shoulder to his buddies in the water. The gang beamed approvingly on their savior.

Michael advanced on the intruders, shouting in a rather thin voice, “Drop the rags, and scram!” He waved his cudgel. No results. Michael didn’t like having his efforts go for naught that way. The laughter went out of his eyes. His Irish was up. He resisted an impulse at belligerence. Then, “Vamoose, I tell you, or bygorry you’ll be knowing the feel of this shillelagh!” Now, however, his belligerent interest was superseded by new elements.

The girls did not budge. Not then. They laughed mightily. All but one. The Good Samaritan shook with suppressed laughter. Her orange bonnet bobbed in fine harmony. The little doggie barked. With deep concern and echoes of mortification trailing in her voice, the laughless one, stepping forward—it was now observed that she held in her hand a shillelagh of her own, once again of magic sumac origin—exclaimed, “Holy horrors! Look Michael! Your manners! There do be a hole in your shield!”

This he took to indicate her desire for him to depart — as, indeed, it did. And Michael, our defender, “took water.”

You must believe me now when I say to you that the never-to-be-dispensed-with three-time act, peculiarly and persistently the boy’s very own, was delayed somewhat.

“You bet!”

MISS INTERPRETED My mother cautioned my sister Nannie when a very little girl as she was going out to play, to look good for snakes. After she had returned, Nannie told her mother that she had looked everywhere and did not see “ary snake.” Asked what would she have done had she found one, Nannie said, “I would of bringed it to you.”

THE “CIRCUS” LAYOUT Published in Wetmore Spectator,

January 10, 1936.

By John T. Bristow

Now, I trust “Buddy” will be satisfied with the foregoing narration of events at the old swimming hole. He really should be. He is in it—figuring inversely, up to his neck.

Since the actual distance from the swimming hole to the tanyard was but twenty steps—and I mean literally steps—there should be no difficulty in making the switch over. Those twenty steps did, however, at times, present physical hazards. They were dirt steps carved out on a rather steeply inclined bank, up which the tanner’s sons carried water in buckets from pond to tanvat. Barefooted, with pants rolled up to our knees, we would dig in with our toes when going up with the filled buckets, always spilling a little water on the way, until those steps would become a veritable otter’s slide. As a boy’s bare heels, in the old days, were poorly fashioned for digging in, the water carriers would then have to use the longer rope-protected path provided for making the descent with the empty buckets. One slippery slide on one’s backside was a hint that it was time to make the switch.

But a rehash of the “circus layout” as my Old Pal puts it, is maybe going to be disappointing, as I can now think of nothing in this connection to pin on Buddy. However, I suppose it might have been considered—for recreation purposes only—as a sort of adjunct to the tannery. The trapeze, horizontal bars, and spring-board, were only about fifty feet removed from the tanvats. And then, too, the lot had the tanyard smell.

Ringling Brothers wagon circus had recently made a stand here, and the “fever” among the local youngsters was running high. Activity about the lot was both spirited and awkward, with a lively bunch willing to try anything—once.

The real trouble was, we had only one Star performer. Charley Askren was, before he got injured in a fall, a trapeze and bar performer with the Dan Rice circus. He was a welcome instructor. And though he could still do some wonderful stunts, I think there are none I want to mention here, except maybe the time he let me slip through his hands in a rather daring act, the fall to the ground breaking my left arm.

This statement, without qualification, would hardly do justice to my old team-mate. Had we made it, the act would have been a honey. And had Charley not said, grandly, to a “skirted” audience, “This is going to be good. Keep your eyes pinned on this Johnny boy, the G-R-E-A-T and only—,” in real circus ballyhoo fashion, it might not have been a flop. Charley used a lot of circus terms in his work with us.

The trouble was, I “weakened”—just a wee bit, to be sure—at the moment when I took the air, and after making a complete turn came down also a wee bit tardy for Charley to get a firm hold on me, in his head-down swinging position. Had he caught me by the wrists, he would have tossed me, on the third swing, face about, back to the bar from which I had made the takeoff.

In practice, another boy — usually George Foreman, brother of Mrs. L. C. McVay and Mrs. R. A. DeForest — would stand by to right me, in case of a slip. George was tall and very active. Sometimes we would change positions in this act. I know now that this would have been a grand time for me to have called out, in the usual way, “Let George do it!”

Sure, we had a well-filled straw-tick which was always placed under the weaklings—but who was there among us that would have wanted to have it brought out in the presence of lady visitors? Of the two lady spectators, one was a redhead. She fell in love with Charley—and married him. Charley had done a lot of impressive flipping and flopping to gain his position on the bar for the act. The redhead’s younger black; haired sister (Anna) was the better looking, and near my age—but, as of the moment, I did not shine as I hoped I might. And then, too, I had that broken arm to think about. Dr. Thomas Milam “splinted” it up drum-tight, according to ancient practice—but, by midnight, he had to do it all over again.

Then, my Dad came onto the lot, and without any coaching whatsoever, did some pretty tall kicking. Not the circus kind, however. The “circus” paraphernalia was then moved up town to a vacant spot alongside Than Morris’ corn cribs on the lots west of where the Dr. Lapham home now stands. But it was no go. The tannery was the natural place for such things.

Charley Askren came to us, as a young man, in the early 70’s. He was a carpenter. He married Lib Fleming. And notwithstanding his serious injury caused by the collapse of a trapeze under the Dan Rice bigtop, he lived to be quite an old man. He died at his home in Atchison last year. Here’s hoping that his kid co-performer — the G-R-E-A-T and only”—may live as long.

Honesty — The Better Policy NOTE—Some seventy-five years ago I accidentally dropped a five-dollar gold piece into one of the big vats at our old tanyard on the creek bank near the town bridge at the foot of Kansas Avenue which gold piece was never recovered.

The old bridge has now been removed, and a new one—156-foot span—is being constructed over a newly dug creek channel sixty-five yards south of the old one, on a grade ten feet above the old road. In building up the grade between the old bridge site and the railroad, Albert Tanking, of Seneca, operator of a County bulldozer, today—June 11, 1949—moved the ground where the old tanvats were buried.

As he made the excavation I noticed no signs of the old sunken vats—but it is none the less certain that my five-dollar gold piece is now deposited somewhere along the west slope of the fill, or in the “sunken garden” between the fill and the newly cut drain-ditch paralleling it. After it rains on the works it is possible that I might go down there and pick it up. But I think that I shall leave this for the kids to exploit. It was a sort of kid’s keepsake, anyway.

That five-dollar gold piece was first given me some years earlier, in change, by mistake for a nickel. I thought I had been cheated. I took it back to Peter Shavey, who had a confectionery store in the old part of the building now occupied by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik. He praised me for being an honest boy—and he loaded me up with candy and oranges. And then he said, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to give you this gold piece for a keepsake, something to remind you always that it pays to be honest.” And think of it — the old Frenchman was illegally selling whiskey and unlawfully operating a poker game in the back room.

I said, “Thank you, Mr. Shavey—but I still have not got my nickel back.”

He laughed, “Here, honest boy, here’s your nickel.” And now I can’t be sure If Mr. Peter Shavey inspired this noble trait of honesty in me—or if it just comes natural.

INNOCENT FALSEHOOD About twenty years ago, I was going with “Dutch” Roderick, in his car, to Kansas City, starting at four o’clock in the morning—and Minnie Cawood, with her two and one-half year old Ruthie, were going along as far as Leavenworth. We stopped at the H. P. Cawood home, and “tooted.” Minnie came out, and Harry followed, carrying Ruthie in his arms. She was fussy, and Harry said, “Don’t cry—your partner is out here in the car.” Ruthie said—well, had she not been such a sweet kid as to call me her partner, I’d be tempted to say she told a “white” lie, when she said, “I thought he would be there.”

FATHER AND SONS Published in Wetmore Spectator,

March 20, 1936

By John T. Bristow

T his, then, is the continuation of the story of my father’s tanyard; with related incidents—hoarded memories of the old days back a half century, and more. They are solemn reminders that “Time flies.”

That tanyard was, I might say, a howling success while it lasted. Besides the tanyard, my father owned a bunch of boys, and those boys, semi-obedient and helpful, really did some commendable things, but when encouraged and abetted by the other town boys of that happy, care-free age, their doings were not always something to be commended.

Taken by the large—including, of course, the English and the Irish and the “Dutch,” and a couple of Swedes — they were, I must admit, a dare-devil bunch. And I might as well confess now that I was, perhaps, the most devilish one of them all. Anyhow, I became a printer’s “devil” at an early age.

My father made good leather—and he knew how to get the most out of it. Being a shoemaker, he made it up into good boots and shoes and gave his boys a good leather dressing whenever they needed it—that is, when their deviltry came within his notice. The Lord knows there were hundreds of times when they escaped only by narrow margins. And had my father been a little more vigilant, this day of which I write promised to be the red-letter day.

There were two outstanding events that day, either of which would have merited knee-strap activity. In case you don’t know, the shoemaker’s knee-strap, besides being useful to hold a shoe in place while the artisan works, is a persuasive instrument of correction when applied with vim and vigor at the right time and place.

As already informed, in a previous article, the creek had been dammed and there was a fully officered Damsite Company, with Michael Norton as life-saver, whose actual services, as Jake Geyer now recalls, never amounted to more than his crossing himself three times before going into the water. A large wooden box, with metal bottom, used for cooking the sumac-tanbark mixture, when not otherwise in use served as a boat on that fine body of water.

Jim Cardwell, a Kentuckian — and brother-in-law of Andy Maxwell, the Indian fighter mentioned in previous writings—who held a responsible position as coal-heaver at the railroad chutes close to the tanyard, when not otherwise engaged, helped the boys occasionally with the work of maintaining the dam—and even helped my father sometimes. All this he did out of the goodness of his heart, glad to be helpful. He was a grand old sport, even with his one weakness. Jim loved his booze and seemed to have a mania for sharing his bottle with others. He even gave Eagle Eye, the Indian featured in a preceding story, a nip of his “firewater” one day, and my father raised Ned about that. It was unlawful to give liquor to an Indian.

Having the distinction of being the only enterprise of the kind in this part of the West, that tanyard was made a sort of port-of-call for all comers—local and transient.

“Lord” Perry graced the tannery with his august presence one day. He was of the old English Colony folk and drunk or sober, proclaimed himself a British peer. He was a “remittance” man.

On this occasion, after riding in from his Colony home, Perry had stopped up town and was comfortably full when he reached the tanyard. He slipped the reins over his horse’s head and asked me to hold the animal while he held audience with Jim Cardwell. “Hand if you let ‘er go,” he warned, “Hi’ll cut y’r hears hoff.” I dropped the reins as soon as he was in “spirited” conversation with Jim. The “Lord” soon forgot about me—and the horse also.

“Lord” Perry had the poise and the marks of the gentleman he represented himself to be. Also he loved his drink, and indulged himself freely. When he had taken on about so much, he would invariably mount a chair, or anything handy that he could climb upon, and attempt to make a speech, always prefacing his harangue with “Hi’m a gentleman hand a scholar, by-god-sir, by-gosh!”

In this instance, Perry had climbed upon the tank-boat which was standing on edge. After making his usual salutory and puncturing it with his long arms waving hither and thither, he stood for some moments groping for words which did not present themselves with what might be called kaleidoscopic rapidity. Then one of the gang—designated here as the one intrusted to ‘old the Nobleman’s ‘orse — casually leaned against the prop, causing it to topple from under the distinguished Englishman.

His Lordship then lost some of his aristocratic poise and a modicum of his temper. A nervous person, with bombastic tendencies, he literally exploded when he hit the well-tramped terrain about the tanvats. To be accurate, he made a rather awkward display of himself in a furious outburst of Anglo-American profanity, in which he branded, correctly, a certain member of the gang as a “Blarsted, ’ artless hupstart!”

“Tut, tut, my Lord,” said Jim. “It was an accident.”

“Haccident, my hye!” retorted Perry, sharply. Jim Cardwell then felt it incumbent upon himself to offer something to assuage his Lordship’s agony, to pour balm upon his troubled soul. Good old Jim! How could we have managed without him. He once move proffered his bottle. And another drink was directed with grace down the Perry gullet.

At the tanyard there were six vats, each, four by six feet, which were set three feet into the ground, with the tops about one foot above ground.

A wild black cherry tree, at this time loaded with ripe cherries, stood close to one of those vats. On account of its fruit and its fine shade it was the delight of all the boys. Especially was it inviting to my little brother Davey Cullom, who, though fourth in point of spacings from being the baby or of the home, was still his mother’s darling little curly-headed man.

There was an erroneous notion that black cherries would make one tipsy—in a mild way. It was also claimed that choke cherries, some of which grew in the next bend above oh small trees like plum trees, were poisonous. That was erroneous, too.

Davey Cullom attempted to walk around on the edge of one of those tanvats, and fell in. The vat was filled with strong ooze, leachings from the oakbark and sumac. With the process then employed by my father it took four months to tan a calfskin—but Davey Cullom got his hide tanned in about fifteen minutes. Not with the ooze, however. It was because he could not walk, in a test, the twelve-foot length of a ten-inch board without stepping off.

Davey told his father that he had eaten too many cherries. But the gang knew he was fibbing. Davey Cullom was already “pickled” when he fell into that tanvat. And had it been any place other than the tanyard, my father could have had olfactory evidence of his offspring’s condition—but in a tanyard, there is but one smell.

After it was all over but the shouting, Davey’s father shrilled, “Howl, you pusillanimous little devil, howl! Maybe you’ll now stay out of that cherry tree.”

Just at that moment Jim Cardwell came staggering up from the creek bank, flourishing his bottle. “Anybody want a drink?” he queried. My father took the bottle and threw it into the creek. He never drank. He was awfully peeved. He swore. And let me say now whatever my father did, he did it well. “Jim,” he accused, “you’ve been giving Davey whiskey from your rotten old bottle!”Davey Cullom stopped his howling long enough to say, “No, daddy, it was the cherries; honest it was.” He supplemented his little lie with the further information that it was not the choke cherries, but the black cherries, that he had eaten. Then my father said, “I’ll cut that damned black cherry tree down tomorrow.”

Jim Cardwell laughed, drunkenly, and inquired, “Got a match, Bill?” My father didn’t smoke, and he didn’t have a match. Then Jim mumbled, “Furnish my own whiskey, find my own match.” He fumbled in his pockets and produced a match.

Jim walked over to the curly-headed boy who had lied so cleverly, and said, “Now, Davey, we can show Bill that you didn’t drink any of Jim’s old rot-gut.” Placing the match and a dollar in Davey’s hands, he said, “Bet you that dollar you can’t blow out the match.” Jim looked at us boys and grinned in a maudlin way. “Light the match and then blow it out, Davey, and the dollar is yours. John and all the boys here know you won’t take a dare; and I dare you!” he taunted. It was then I wished that I could make little crosses like Michael Norton to ward off impending disaster.

Jim staggered backwards a little as he continued. “But don’t light the match, Davey, until I get away. I know my old whiskey breath will burn like a house afire.” Davey Cullom stared, looked foolish and finally said, “I don’t want your dollar, Mr. Cardwell.”

I shall now explain. Speaking for the gang as well as myself, we thought Davey would put the stuff to his little lips, then, with a wry face, push it away—perhaps spill it on the ground, which, of course, would have tickled us immensely. But the little fellow, feeling that he must make sure of winning the dare, took not one but two small swigs of the raw stuff. Booze was booze then, and it took only a very little of it to make a small boy wobble. If it will help any to put over my alibi I will say now that the “pusillanimous little devil” made that face.

Now a bright idea struck one of the gang. I believe it might have been Will Gill—now Dr. W. W. Gill, of Enid, Oklahoma. He would know, of course. Anyway, someone had said, “Come Jim, let’s get your bottle.” They managed somehow to get into the tank-boat and they rowed out to deep water. And there, from some unexplained cause, the boat capsized. Michael Norton crossed himself three times.

Then the whole bunch—lifesaver, officers, and all—plunged into the water without stopping to remove clothing, which wouldn’t have been a very big job, at that. Jim was saved, of course. And appreciably sobered.

As intimated in the foregoing paragraph, the clothing worn by the tanyard gang during the summer months was almost nil—negligible, at any rate. Always there were rents and patches, and more rents. But the gang did not care.

The next day after Davey’s debauch my father came blustering into the house, and bellowed, “Now, who in hell has taken my axe?” My mother said to him in her sweet, calm way, “Oh, don’t be so fussy, William—Davey loaned your axe to Jim Cardwell last night.”

Attaching no significance to this fact, nor sensing forebodings, my father laughingly said, “I wonder what Jim thought he could do with an axe, in his pickled condition?” I should like to tell you now that he found that out, to his dismay, all too soon.

He was a good feeler, was my father, happy as a lark when things went right—and not at all ugly even when he swore, not counting of course the tempo of the sulphurous words of easement which he sometimes released. Just habitual, understand. The indiscriminate use of swearwords was as natural as long-whiskers to the old pioneer. He whistled a lot, and sometimes tried to sing, but he was hot very good at that.

Having first boots to mend for a patron of his shoe-shop, my father was late in reaching the tannery this day. The ruffled condition which had broken forth with the axe inquiry now relegated from his thoughts, he whistled while he worked, and this too in bad taste in the presence of his patron.

It had fallen to my lot to remain at the house for a while, the home and the shoeshop being one and the same place. A packing case containing alum, tallow, neatsfoot oil, and lampblack, had been received by express the day previous. I was to take from this packing box some alum, powder it fine, then dissolve it in warm water. It was to be used at the tannery in the day’s workout of the hides from one of the vats. It was to firm them. A hide in the jelly stage is as slippery as an eel, and it was always a chore to get them safely landed on the work bench.

My father would work the ooze out of the hides with a slicker—a piece of plate glass ground smooth on the edge. Then he would rub the alum in with the same devise, before returning them to the vat which would be refilled with fresh ooze. Later, after the six vats were worked out, the hides would again be put upon the bench, when tallow and neats-foot oil would be worked into them with that same slicker. It would come into play again when he polished the blackened leather. All handlings at the bench called for vigorous rubbings. So vigorously did he attack them that he would sweat. Oh, God, how that man did sweat! Being in fine fettle, and late on the job this day, he would rush the work, and whistle—and sweat all the more.

Consider now for a moment that cherished black cherry tree—the tree which, in a spasm of idle talk, my father had threatened to cut down. It was a large tree, as black cherry trees grow, more than a foot through, and tall with good spread. Under this wild cherry tree reposed my father’s work-bench. Also under this tree was the ash-hopper in which lye was made from wood-ashes to remove the hair from the hides. As a protector from the hot summer sun the tree was well nigh indispensable.

The sun rose that July morning sixty years ago on a rain-soaked world—a perfumed, growing world; sparkling; invigorating. The brook at the tannery, slightly augmented by the early morning shower, gave forth a soft, dreamy murmur as it poured over the dam. Birds sang sweetly in the tree tops. Jim sang also, though rather poorly, as he put the finishing touches on the job to which he had set himself. Save for the depressing knowledge that later in the day things would sizzle in steaming humidity, with old expansion of noisome tannery fumes, all was fine and vely.

Came now my father, gayly whistling, to his beloved tannery. Davey followed. The other boys were already there. With a puzzled look on his face the daddy of that happy-go-lucky bunch stopped suddenly in his tracks. He surveyed the surroundings in considerable disgust.

At first I thought my father was so overcome by the shock that he was not going to say anything. Well, he didn’t—exactly. Maybe he couldn’t. But it was none the less certain that a violent change of mood had taken place. The thing he saw had stilled his gay whistle—and whereas only a few moments before could his voice but have taken up the glad song of his heart he would have sung beautifully, now he cursed prodigiously!

And Davey howled some more.

That “damned” black cherry tree was gone—cut down, trimmed, and neatly piled. Jim had mistaken Davey’s purpose in bringing him the axe. He had done his work well. The morning sun flooded the tanvats and the work-bench. By noon it would beat down upon them with torrid intensity.

PLUGGING FOR HER DADDY Little Janet, four-year-old daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Leland Latham, was at the home of J. E. (Dutch) Roderick. Thinking to get a reaction from Janet, “Dutch” said in a sort of off-hand way to no one in particular, “Wish I knew where to find a good veterinarian?” The little Latham girl said, “My daddy is a vet’narian. If you want to get spayed, he can do it.”

THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. HENRY, et al. Not Hitherto Published—1947.

By John T. Bristow

The last three preceding articles were done at the request of one of the old tanyard-swimming hole gang whom I dubbed “Buddy.” It really was a triple order. At the same time I was committed to still another request. Went out to one of Buddy’s buddies to verify data pertaining to Buddy’s written request and ran head-on into another one—the one I’m going to tackle now, together with other incidents.

It is a dangerous operation, this thing of running in unrelated episodes, and if in attempting it I should find myself up in the air going around in circles with no place to land, I shall have to call on Buddy’s buddy to “talk” me down. Though no longer in our midst, Buddy’s octogenarian buddy still lives. And it will be a pleasure to grant his request.

In reminiscing one incident calls up another, and that one still another, and so on ad infinitum—and anything of the time and place is considered fair game, if you can capture it without maiming it, or without encumbering something else. In presenting the Strange Case of Mr. Henry, I shall try to ease it in without a jarring note. But, to do this, I must go back to the “circus” lot, grab onto one of my co-performers, and work up to it through a chain of co-incidental events.

George Foreman was here at that time going to school, and learning telegraphy with his brother-in-law, L. C. (Cass) McVay. George was my closest boy friend. After graduating in telegraphy, he worked for the railroad company out on the west end of the Central Branch—and later blossomed out as a fullblown lawyer in a finely appointed Denver office, all his own. When I called on him there he laughingly remarked, “Here I am, a big lawyer in a big city—with no clients.” In later years I saw him up at Blackhawk doing assay work for a Colorado mining company. This time he aid, “I’ve found out that I am a better assayer than I ever *was a lawyer.” He went from there to Butte, Montana, still following the assay business. He never married.

His sister, Alice Foreman-McVay, with whom George made his home, came here from a highly cultured community over by the river in Doniphan county, as the bride of Cass McVay. And, being a refined lady with a fine show of modesty, notably out-classing the common herd, got the unearned name of being a “stuck-up.” But she lived that down nicely, simply by carrying on in her own sweet way oblivious to it all. Alice McVay had the happy faculty of attending strictly to her own knitting—and letting the world go by. She was, in truth, the town’s most gracious and beloved woman. And had she aspired to it, she could have been nominated as the outstanding model of social perfection, displacing one who had held that distinction from the town’s beginning.

Up to this time, our people had not been what one might call connoisseurs in the art of classifying the townfolk. In the old days, social standing was largely measured by wealth — even make-believe wealth. For example, Eliza Morris, (Mrs. Bill), as the leading merchant’s wife—and a big hearted woman—was looked upon as the leader in society, one who set the pattern. The fact that she said “bekase” for because, with many another outmoded expression, did not disqualify her—but she lost caste when she sallied forth to church wearing her new Easter bonnet wrong-side-to. But, let it be remembered, she had a way with the youngsters about town that was taking.

After her husband’s death, which occurred in the eighth year after coming here, Alice McVay could have married, in later years, Henry DeForest, the town’s top eligible bachelor, and while she greatly admired him, as did everyone else, she simply would not “desert” her three children — Harvey, Myrtle, and Louis. I was favored with this bit of information for having “tended” store for Mr. Henry while he accompanied the lady with her purchases to her home. Besides teaching me double-entry book-keeping of evenings, Mr. Henry would sometimes get confidential on other matters. He told me himself that Alice McVay’s love for her children was the one thing which caused her to forego a marriage with him. And then too, Mr. Henry was markedly devoted to his aristocratic mother, which fact might have had some bearing on what to my mind should have developed into a most charming romance. His mother spoke of him always as Mr. Henry.

Alice McVay had ample means to rear her children — and rear them she did right here in Wetmore. Then the family moved to Whittier, California. Besides his savings, Cass McVay and his brother Bill, had each inherited $7,000 from the family estate shortly before Cass died. Alice was a step-sister, and also shared in the cut.

Cass McVay was a thrifty man, a real gentleman. Aside from his position as station agent at the C. B. U. P. depot—it was a Union Pacific line then, and before that organized as the Atchison and Pike’s Peak railroad—Cass owned a lumber yard, and operated a small grain elevator, powered by a donkey. I know it was a donkey for when I would sometimes whip him up in order to lift the grain faster so that I might get off early to play, “one old cat” with the town boys, he would bray just like a donkey. Cass McVay built the dwelling later owned by Dr. Guy S. Graham. Close in now, it was considered “away out in the cow country” then. In marked contrast, Bill McVay squandered his inheritance, in drink. He had Spanish blood in his veins, along with his other short comings. Bill McVay married Johnny Thomas’ oldest sister, Jemima.

The DeForest-McVay romance was not Mr. Henry’s first. That came earlier in life. The girl was the sister of Seth Handley, who was Mr. Henry’s partner in the implement business on first coming to Wetmore. Adherence to a family brand of religion — something like that which threatened the love of the King of England and Wally — was said to have prevented marriage. She was reputedly a divorcee.

In reviewing this romance, I am uncovering no skeletons, giving away no secrets. The story has been told and retold, in whispers and snatches, with varying degrees of accuracy. Clean and beautiful beyond compare, it was not a thing to be hidden under a bushel.

I did not get the divorce angle in the case of the Handley girl from Mr. Henry, or any other member of his family. Had understood all along that it was nothing more than family objections occasioned by a doting mother’s idea of her son’s superior breeding that was holding the romance in check. But John Thomas, one of the few oldtimers left, tells me now that he got the impression of the divorce from his brother-in-law, Moulton DeForest. So then, I think, much as I dislike to, we shall have to accept it as authentic.

This causes me to speculate.

Henry Clay DeForest was 26 years old when he came here. Seth Handley was about the same age. His sister was younger. This would have afforded scant time for the girl to have married and become divorced before the beginning of her romance with Mr. Henry. And moreover, I cannot imagine Mr. Henry deliberately paying court to a divorced woman, knowing the while the family feelings, the Church restrictions, and above all his aristocratic mother’s set views on such matters. The romance dated back to Madison, Wisconsin, beyond the time he came to Wetmore — likely back to school days. And in that event, accepting the divorce angle, it very well could have been a case where the man had “Loved and Lost,” with the old flame carrying on after Reno.

The town people said the same thing about Augusta Ann DeForest as was wrongfully said about Alice McVay — and she lived up to it, nobly. I wouldn’t know what, if anything, she had in her own right to justify this, but she had the DeForest name to build on—and that was a million.

The DeForests were of French Huguenot stock. Joseph DeForest, grandfather of Mr. Henry, was reputedly, at one time, a very wealthy man. He made an endowment to Yale college—hence the schooling there of Moulton and Mr. Henry.

Augusta Ann did not play the aristocracy game offensively. With courteous dignity, she played it faultlessly. It was well known that she had definite ideas about gentlemen in general marrying beneath their station and, it was said, she saw to it that her hired girls—in one long-lasting instance an extraordinarily pretty maiden — would have no chance, under her roof, to make google eyes at her boys.

In the process of making, Mr. Henry was not touched with this better than thou idea—and it seems that father Isaac Newton had none of it. In fact, Isaac was not at all times in complete agreement with his spouse.

Mr. Henry was not Augusta Ann’s oldest, nor yet her youngest. He was seventh in a family of eight boys. Even so, he displayed no necromantic talent, despite the ancient superstition. But he sure had a lot of the worthwhile kind of talent. Then, too, that run of seven might have been broken by the birth of a girl. I never learned just where she came in, did not even know of Mrs. John C. Kridler until she came here from Denver with her three fine little girls — Lettie, Grace, and Blanche. Jane DeForest-Kridler was now a divorcee—something more for the aristocratic Augusta Ann to frown upon.

Augusta Ann was a mite heavy on her feet, and on her infrequent appearances in public leaned heavily upon her Mr. Henry. And though not of a mind to recognize caste, our people paid her marked respect, and were free in saying that it was mighty nice of Mr. Henry, tall and stately, to give his mother, short and dumpy, his arm on all occasions. It was truly a most beautiful mother-son attachment.

It would, perhaps, be too much to say that in this unusual show of attention Mr. Henry had hopes of bringing about a change in his mother’s estimation of his girl. But never doubt he had hopes, enduring hopes, that in riding the thing out something favorable would turn up. The way I had it in mind, Mr. Henry did not want to break with the family—nor did he have any intention of ever giving up his girl. This awkward situation made it inadvisable for him to bring her here.

One time, after I had gotten myself rather too deeply in the mining game for comfort, Mr. Henry told me that he also had, some years earlier, taken a flyer in mining with his old partner, Seth Handley, at Grass Valley, California. But when the conversation was terminated, I was of the opinion that he had, in fact, only put his sweetheart on ice, so to speak, for safe keeping against the time when the family winds might blow less raw. And had the Aristocratic Augusta Ann have passed on before the girl I think Mr. Henry, divorcee or no, would have cast his religion to the winds—as did The King.

Somehow, I don’t like the divorce angle.

Seth Handley’s sister died at the little mining town of Grass Valley, in California, where her brother was a prospector. Mr. Henry went to Omaha to meet the Union Pacific train bearing his old partner, Seth, and the remains on the way back east for burial. On his return home, Mr. Henry was visibly shaken. It was a sad day for him. Few people here ever knew just who it was that held such a strangle hold on Mr. Henry’s affections.

From my early association with Mr. Henry and Seth I got the impression that there was more between them than just being partners. Later, I had it from one or the other of them, maybe both, that the girl in the case was Seth’s sister. Their implement house and yard was just across the street from our home, down by the tracks, on “Smoky Row.” And though less than half their age, my mother said I was always under foot when they wanted to go about their work. The year was 1872. But if I were not under foot at the moment when Seth wanted to go hunting, he would come to the house and ask me to go along. He would shoot anything that could fly. And Seth remembered, years later. He sent his respects to me from Omaha by Mr. Henry. At that time I was “helping out” in the DeForest general store.

I suspect there were some things the aristocratic Augusta Ann did not know about her favorite son. While vacationing in Colorado Mr. Henry, with the Handley girl—who was supposed to be in California—rode horses on the trail to the top of Pike’s Peak. Miss Handley rode a sidesaddle, the ancient kind where the lady puts her left foot in the stirrup and throws her right leg over the left fork of the split pommel—and holds on for dear life. That was at a time when it was considered vulgar for a lady to straddle a horse. Also it was before the cog-railroad mounted the Peak, even before the time of the carriage road up the north side of the mountain.

Mr. Henry’s eyes sparkled when he told me it was a wonderful trip—one I should not miss—and though a little difficult coming down, especially for the ladies, he said he enjoyed it immensely. That was quite understandable. Love had come to Mr. Henry wrapped in trouble. Here now for a day at least he was bound by no thongs. Here, with the girl who was the most precious one in the world to him, his spirits could soar—unhampered, up to the clouds.

Under Mr. Henry’s oral guidance, I also made that trip all by my lonesome—that is, without my girl. Later, I went to the top again with THE Girl, and I can tell you there was a difference. We were in love, a maid and a man—intoxicated with the joy that only the first love of the young knows. And the clouds came down to where one could almost reach up and touch them—just as Mr. Henry had said they would.

I have learned, as doubtless Mr. Henry had learned, that the show spots in this old world of ours take on beauty and meaning when you have someone along—preferably THE ONE—to help you enjoy them. It’s truly a situation where two hearts can beat as one. And it’s worth a million to see the shine come into her eyes.

Might say here that it was while on an editorial junket to Colorado Springs—with THE Girl—that I made this great discovery. It was her first trip to the mountains, and the shine was in her eyes—big. I’m glad that memory holds the picture of the girl, who, in all her radiant loveliness, walked by my side all through that week with but one tiny shadow to flit across her faultless blue sky.

And while she had, with justification, came near showing temper one morning, when, in following the crowd, I had innocently led her away from the historic grave of Helen Hunt-Jackson, on the mountain above the Seven Falls, down the gravel slide, thereby ruining a pair of new shoes for her, she was still THE Girl that made all the difference. Compared with some of the other women who took the plunge, her squawk was mild indeed—and most ladylike. The well-dressed women in that day wore high kid shoes and silk stockings.

The gravel slide is—or was—about three hundred feet downslope from the grave, along the mountain at a left turn, where all join hands, stick feet in the gravel, stand erect, pulling first one foot up and then the other to avoid being swamped, while the whole mass slips away to the canyon several hundred feet below. And there you were—right at the trail, with the laborious climb down the seven flights of steps avoided.

The mutilation of those new shoes at a time like that was truly a disconcerting thing to befall the “perfect 34” girl—we had ‘em then—who had only the day before been declared the neatest dressed and most attractive woman in the editorial party. She had form, poise, personality—and a wonderfully good dressmaker. However, before the day was done, she evened the score—and gloried in it.

The Association members held their annual meeting in the parlors of the Alamo Hotel that evening, and through the courtesy of my good friend, Harvey Hyde, of the Holton Signal, I was nominated and elected vice-president. This gesture cost me. Any one of the editorial party could have testified that Mr. Harvey had joyously climbed down off the “water wagon” on his first trip to Oldtown—Colorado City — halfway between Colorado Springs and Manitou. That I was paying for the whisky without participating in the drinking thereof, I cannot deny. But if I should say that he never gave me as much as a smell of the stuff, I would not be telling the truth. By pre-arrangement, Harvey’s wife was sharing her room with my girl, and I wars sharing my room with Harvey—and there was nothing I could do about it. A bargain was a bargain—and neither of us had the faintest notion of welshing.

When the speech-making was getting dangerously close to the vice-president’s turn, I slipped out. Motivated by strictly personal interest, Mr. Harvey followed. And though I did, later, get away with the acknowledged best write-up of the outing, I couldn’t have said one word in that meeting, with the Pike’s Peak Press Club in attendance, for all of Cheyenne mountain, with the famous Seven Falls and the gravel slide thrown in—and THE Girl knew this.

Also, as it turned out, my girl carried off the acknowledged speech-making honors—following some very fuzzy ones. I never could understand why relatively smart people would insist on pushing the ill-equipped fellow out into the open. When the call came Major J. F. Clough, of the Sabetha Republican, president elect—the old piker had just delegated another to do his talking—said, “we must hear from the vice-president; someone please fetch him back in.”

The Major, who, incidentally, in partnership with Theodore J. Wolfley, established the Wetmore Spectator, in 1882, and therefore was a sort of godfather to my paper, looked over to where THE Girl was seated, with Mrs. Hyde and other women including his own daughter, Miss Bay. Then THE Girl raised her 118 pounds up to her full 5-6 height, in her scuffed shoes, saying, mirthfully, “He has gone out with Mr. Hyde. You’ll not see HIM again tonight.”

The applause, started by the ladies—all of whom had scuffed shoes, and instantly taken up by the men, all of whom had gotten from their women a neat and not a gentle telling off—was enough to frighten THE Girl. The shine having already gotten back into her eyes, THE Girl, in associating me as of the moment with Mr. Harvey, was actually trying to cover up for me for running out on them. But the inference, nevertheless, pointed toward Oldtown.

There were some in the party who were not bona fide editors—that had worked transportation through the newspapers. A Wetmore shoe merchant had made a deal with a county paper. The outing was a courtesy gesture of the railroad—principally the Rock Island.

Might say here that the next year—1892—the Association arranged with the Union Pacific for transportation to Salt Lake City, concluding the outing again at Colorado Springs—and it was almost a complete sell-out on the part of the newspapers. We were short ticketed to Grand Island, there to meet the through train carrying a Company representative who would ask us some questions about our papers, and supply us with passes for the round trip. When he came to me, after working pretty well through the cars carrying the “editors,” he laughed and said, “You are the second newspaperman I have found, so far.” I told him he should find at least one more who knew the password. My partner had been coached. Though not present himself, Ewing Herbert, of the Hiawatha World, was elected president. And though a mighty good newspaperman, he did not seem to have’ influence with the railroads. Our Association never got another complimentary outing. But, personally, I remained in good standing with the railroads, and got everything asked for—all told about 250,000 miles of free travel. In addition THE Girl—Miss Myrtle Mercer—had a Missouri Pacific pass, and Moulton DeForest, our proofreader, had one for nearly ten years. Newspapers do not get them so easily now—if at all.

Also, there were five girls in the Colorado Springs editorial party. The secretary, Clyde McManigal, of the Horton Commercial, had written the single editors telling them to bring their girls along—that the Association had arranged to have a chaperon look after them. The chaperon proved to be a grass widow, a newspaper owner in a nearby town—and right off she found herself a man. The fact that he was a married man, a shoe merchant from my home town, by the way, made no difference—not until they got home.

Mr. Henry had come to the Spectator office, bringing copy for a change of his advertisement, and tarried a few minutes to converse with me about our Colorado outing. I showed him the proof of my write-up. He said he would not take time to read it just then, but he marveled at the four fine wood cuts illustrating the Pike’s Peak trip—and marveled some more when I told him they were engraved right there in the office by my brother Sam.

Might add that editor Clough said in his paper, the Sabetha Republican, “The Wetmore Spectator has a genius in the office in the person of the editor’s brother, a wood engraver. Last week it published engravings of scenery about Pike’s Peak equal to any we have ever seen. They are true to nature and finely executed.” He said, further, “We also notice that nearly all the papers gave the Spectator credit for having the best write-up of the excursion.” Think maybe those engravings had influenced some of the decisions.