Chapter III: Part 3

“Think of it? I think it is nothing but a lot of granite rubbish and
nasty glittering mica that isn’t worth ten cents an acre!”

So vanished my dream. So melted my wealth away. So toppled my airy
castle to the earth and left me stricken and forlorn.

Moralizing, I observed, then, that “all that glitters is not gold.”

Mr. Ballou said that I could go further than that, and lay it up among
my treasures of knowledge, that _nothing_ that glitters is gold. So I
learned then, once for all, that gold in its native state is but dull,
unornamental stuff, and that only lowborn metals excite the admiration
of the ignorant with an ostentatious glitter. However, like the rest
of the world, I still go on underrating men of gold and glorifying men
of mica. Commonplace human nature cannot rise above that.

The Ranching Frontier

The Long Drive

Before the Texans won independence from Mexico, stocks of Spanish cattle owned by Mexicans ranged the plains of southern Texas. Then the Mexicans were driven out, and their cattle ran wild. By the time of the Civil War, herds of wild longhorns roamed the Texas ranges. As the population of the United States grew and the railroads pushed into the trans-Mississippi region, the cattle industry became big business. Texas ranchers began rounding up the wild cattle and driving them to market over various trails, the best known of which probably is the Chisholm Trail. Ranching soon spread to other western states clear to the Canadian border. The decades following the Civil War were the golden age of the cowboy.

Andy Adams Encounters Rustlers

Andy Adams, who was born in Georgia of Scotch-Irish parents, moved to Texas after the Civil War. He grew up in the cattle country and naturally drifted into cow-punching as a career. When he was in his early twenties, he joined a long cattle drive from Texas to Montana under the leadership of a foreman named Jim Flood. The expedition, which he describes vividly in _The Log of a Cowboy_, began along the Rio Grande River in Texas in April, 1882. Six men rode on either side of a long cow column that stretched out over three quarters of a mile of crooked trail. The main problem until the herd reached the Colorado River in central Texas was to find watering places, but as the animals approached the river, the cowboys learned that rustlers were active in that area. Their chief worry was that the rustlers would sneak into their midst at night, stampede the cattle, and then drive off part of the herd under cover of darkness.

We camped that night some five or six miles back from the river on the
last divide. From the time the second guard went on until the third
was relieved, we took the precaution of keeping a scout outriding from
a half to three quarters of a mile distant from the herd, Flood and
Honeyman serving in that capacity. Every precaution was taken to
prevent a surprise; and in case anything did happen, our night horses
tied to the wagon wheels stood ready and saddled and bridled for any
emergency. But the night passed without incident.

An hour or two after the herd had started the next morning, four
well-mounted, strange men rode up from the westward, and representing
themselves as trail cutters, asked for our foreman. Flood met them, in
his usual quiet manner, and after admitting that we had been troubled
more or less with range cattle, assured our callers that if there was
anything in the herd in the brands they represented, he would gladly
hold it up and give them every opportunity to cut their cattle out. As
he was anxious to cross the river before noon, he invited the visitors
to stay for dinner, assuring them that before starting the herd in the
afternoon, he would throw the cattle together for their inspection.
Flood made himself very agreeable, inquiring into cattle and range
matters in general as well as the stage of water in the river ahead.
The spokesman of the trail cutters met Flood’s invitation to dinner
with excuses about the pressing demands on his time, and urged, if it
did not seriously interfere with our plans, that he be allowed to
inspect the herd before crossing the river. His reasons seemed trivial
and our foreman was not convinced.

“You see, gentlemen,” he said, “in handling these southern cattle, we
must take advantage of occasions. We have timed our morning’s drive so
as to reach the river during the warmest hour of the day, or as near
noon as possible. You can hardly imagine what a difference there is,
in fording this herd, between a cool, cloudy day and a clear, hot one.
You see the herd is strung out nearly a mile in length now, and to
hold them up and waste an hour or more for your inspection would
seriously disturb our plans. And then our wagon and _remuda_ [_spare
horses_] have gone on with orders to noon at the first good camp
beyond the river. I perfectly understand your reasons, and you equally
understand mine; but I will send a man or two back to help you recross
any cattle you may find in our herd. Now, if a couple of you gentlemen
will ride around on the far side with me, and the others will ride up
near the lead, we will trail the cattle across when we reach the river
without cutting the herd into blocks.”

Flood’s affability, coupled with the fact that the lead cattle were
nearly up to the river, won his point. Our visitors could only yield,
and rode forward with our lead swing men to assist in forcing the lead
cattle into the river. It was swift water, but otherwise an easy
crossing, and we allowed the herd, after coming out on the farther
side, to spread out and graze forward at its pleasure. The wagon and
saddle stock were in sight about a mile ahead, and leaving two men on
herd to drift the cattle in the right direction, the rest of us rode
leisurely on to the wagon, where dinner was waiting. Flood treated our
callers with marked courtesy during dinner, and casually inquired if
any of their number had seen any cattle that day or the day previous
in the Ellison road brand. They had not, they said, explaining that
their range lay on both sides of the Concho, and that during the trail
season they kept all their cattle between that river and the main
Colorado. Their work had kept them on their own range recently, except
when trail herds were passing and needed to be looked through for
strays. It sounded as though our trail cutters could also use
diplomacy on occasion.

When dinner was over and we had caught horses for the afternoon and
were ready to mount, Flood asked our guests for their credentials as
duly authorized trail cutters. They replied that they had none, but
offered in explanation the statement that they were merely cutting in
the interest of the immediate locality, which required no written
authority.

Then the previous affability of our foreman turned into iron. “Well,
men,” said he, “if you have no authority to cut this trail, then you
don’t cut this herd. I must have inspection papers before I can move a
brand out of the county in which it is bred, and I’ll certainly let no
other man, local or duly appointed, cut an animal out of this herd
without written and certified authority. You know that without being
told, or ought to. I respect the rights of every man posted on a trail
to cut it. If you want to see my inspection papers, you have a right
to demand them, and in turn I demand of you your credentials, showing
who you work for and the list of brands you represent; otherwise no
harm’s done; nor do you cut any herd that I’m driving.”

“Well,” said one of the men, “I saw a couple of head in my own
individual brand as we rode up the herd. I’d like to see the man who
says that I haven’t the right to claim my own brand, anywhere I find
it.”

“If there’s anything in our herd in your individual brand,” said
Flood, “all you have to do is to give me the brand, and I’ll cut it
for you. What’s your brand?”

“The ‘Window Sash.’”

“Have any of you boys seen such a brand in our herd?” inquired Flood,
turning to us as we all stood by our horses ready to start.

The strangers, who actually were rustlers, had hoped to bluff Flood out of some cattle. All herds traveling across unfenced range managed to pick up strays from time to time. When Flood would not let the men get away with their trick, they fell back on claiming cows with the “Window Sash” brand. Three such animals had found their way into the big herd as it moved north. After the rustlers angrily drove off their trio of scrawny cows, Flood met some Texas Rangers under the command of Corporal Homes. They laid a trap for the rustlers, who had threatened to return.

Hames at once assumed charge of the herd, Flood gladly rendering every
assistance possible. We night herded as usual, but during the two
middle guards, Hames sent out four of his Rangers to scout the
immediate outlying country, though, as we expected, they met with no
adventure. At daybreak the Rangers threw their packs into our wagon
and their loose stock into our _remuda_, and riding up the trail a
mile or more, left us, keeping well out of sight. We were all hopeful
now that the trail cutters of the day before would make good their
word and return. In this hope we killed time for several hours that
morning, grazing the cattle and holding the wagon in the rear. Sending
the wagon ahead of the herd had been agreed on as the signal between
our foreman and the Ranger corporal, at first sight of any posse
behind us. We were beginning to despair of their coming, when a dust
cloud appeared several miles back down the trail. We at once hurried
the wagon and _remuda_ ahead to warn the Rangers, and allowed the
cattle to string out nearly a mile in length.

A fortunate rise in the trail gave us a glimpse of the cavalcade in
our rear, which was entirely too large to be any portion of Straw’s
[_foreman of a herd that the rustlers had stampeded earlier_] outfit;
and shortly we were overtaken by our trail cutters of the day before,
now increased to twenty-two mounted men. Flood was intentionally in
the lead of the herd, and the entire outfit galloped forward to stop
the cattle. When they had nearly reached the lead, Flood turned back
and met the rustlers.

“Well, I’m as good as my word,” said the leader, “and I’m here to trim
your herd as I promised you I would. Throw off and hold up your
cattle, or I’ll do it for you.”

Several of our outfit rode up at this juncture in time to hear Flood’s
reply: “If you think you’re equal to the occasion, hold them up
yourself. If I had as big an outfit as you have, I wouldn’t ask any
man to help me. I want to watch a Colorado River outfit work a herd—I
might learn something. My outfit will take a rest, or perhaps hold the
cut or otherwise clerk for you. But be careful and don’t claim
anything that you are not certain is your own, for I reserve the right
to look over your cut before you drive it away.”

The rustlers rode in a body to the lead, and when they had thrown the
herd off the trail, about half of them rode back and drifted towards
the rear cattle. Flood called our outfit to one side and gave us our
instructions, the herd being entirely turned over to the rustlers.
After they began cutting, we rode around and pretended to assist in
holding the cut as the strays in our herd were being cut out.... Not a
man of us even cast a glance up the trail, or in the direction of the
Rangers; but when the work was over, Flood protested with the leader
of the rustlers over some five or six head of dim-branded cattle which
actually belonged to our herd. But he was exultant and would listen to
no protests, and attempted to drive away the cut, now numbering nearly
fifty head. Then we rode across their front and stopped them. In the
parley which ensued, harsh words were passing, when one of our outfit
blurted out in well-feigned surprise——

“Hello, who’s that, coming over there?”

A squad of men were riding leisurely through our abandoned herd,
coming over to where the two outfits were disputing.

“What’s the trouble here, gents?” inquired Hames as he rode up.

“Who are you and what might be your business, may I ask?” inquired the
leader of the rustlers.

“Personally I’m nobody, but officially I’m Corporal in Company B,
Texas Rangers—well, if there isn’t smiling Ed Winters, the biggest
cattle thief ever born in Medina County. Why, I’ve got papers for you;
for altering the brands on over fifty head of ‘C’ cattle into a ‘G’
brand. Come here, dear, and give me that gun of yours. Come on, and no
false moves or funny work or I’ll shoot the white out of your eye.
Surround this layout, lads, and let’s examine them more closely.”

At this command, every man in our outfit whipped out his six-shooter,
the Rangers leveled their carbines on the rustlers, and in less than a
minute’s time they were disarmed and as crestfallen a group of men as
ever walked into a trap of their own setting. Hames got out a “black
book,” and after looking the crowd over concluded to hold the entire
covey, as the descriptions of the “wanted” seemed to include most of
them. Some of the rustlers attempted to explain their presence, but
Hames decided to hold the entire party, “just to learn them to be more
careful of their company the next time,” as he put it.

The Farming Frontier

Homesteading in the Dakotas

The last frontier to fall before the westward march of civilization was that of the farmer. Farmers were beginning to plow the virgin prairie soil even before the Civil War, but after the conflict the line of farming communities in Nebraska, Kansas, and the Dakotas began to move relentlessly westward. The railroads were given large tracts of public land which they sold to settlers. Many Civil War veterans took up free land after their discharge, as provided for in the Homestead Act of 1862. The following selections illustrate the farming frontier on the plains.

O. E. Rölvaag Pictures the Norwegian Settlers

O. E. Rölvaag, the author of the following selection, grew up in a Norwegian fishing village, but at the age of twenty he emigrated to America and worked for his uncle on a Dakota farm. Later he worked his way through St. Olaf College and eventually became a professor of Norwegian literature at his alma mater. His excellent novel, _Giants in the Earth_, from which the following pages are taken, describes the life of Norwegian farmers in the Dakota Territory. As the novel opens, several Norwegian families are taking up homesteads. Before they make their first crops and can afford real houses, they have to live in sod houses, which are really cellars dug in the prairie and roofed over with sod.

On the side of a hill, which sloped gently away toward the southeast
and followed with many windings a creek that wormed its way across the
prairie, stood Hans Olsa, laying turf. He was building a sod house.
The walls had now risen breast-high; in its half-finished condition,
the structure resembled more a bulwark against some enemy than
anything intended to be a human habitation. And the great heaps of cut
sod, piled up in each corner, might well have been the stores of
ammunition for defense of the stronghold.

For a man of his strength and massive build, his motions were
unusually quick and agile; but he worked by fits and starts today. At
times he stopped altogether; in these pauses he would straighten
himself up and draw his sleeve with a quick stroke across his troubled
face; with each stroke the sleeve would come away damper; and standing
so, he would fix his gaze intently on the prairie to the eastward. His
eyes had wandered so often now over the stretch of land lying before
them, that they were familiar with every tussock and hollow.... [_The
spaced periods in this selection do not indicate omitted material but
are the author’s own punctuation._] No—nothing in sight yet!... He
would resume his task, as if to make up for lost time, and work hard
for a spell; only to forget himself once more, pause involuntarily,
and stand inert and abstracted, gazing off into the distance.

Beyond the house a tent had been pitched; a wagon was drawn up close
beside it. On the ground outside of the tent stood a stove, a couple
of chairs, and a few other rough articles of furniture. A stout,
healthy-looking woman, whose face radiated an air of simple wisdom and
kindliness, was busy preparing the midday meal. She sang to herself as
she worked. A ten-year-old girl, addressed by the woman as Sofie, was
helping her. Now and then the girl would take up the tune and join in
the singing.

Less than a quarter of a mile away, in a southeasterly direction, a
finished sod house rose on the slope of the hill. Smoke was winding up
from it at this moment. This house, which had been built the previous
fall, belonged to Syvert Tönseten.

Some distance north from the place where Hans Olsa had located, two
other sod houses were under construction; but a hillock lay between,
so that he could not see them from where he stood. There the two Solum
boys had driven down their stakes and had begun building. Tönseten’s
completed house, and the other three half-finished ones, marked the
beginning of the settlement on Spring Creek.

The woman who had been bustling about preparing the meal, now called
to her husband that dinner was ready—he must come at once! He answered
her, straightened up for the hundredth time, wiped his hands on his
trousers, and stood for a moment gazing off eastward.... No use to
look—not a soul in sight yet!... He sighed heavily, and walked with
slow steps toward the tent, his eyes on the ground.

It was light and airy inside the tent, but stifling hot, because of
the unobstructed sunlight beating down upon it. Two beds were ranged
along the wall, both of them homemade; a big emigrant chest stood at
the head of each. Nails had been driven into the centre pole of the
tent, on which hung clothing; higher up a crosspiece, securely
fastened, was likewise hung with clothes. Two of the walls were lined
with furniture; on these pieces the dishes were displayed, all neatly
arranged.

A large basin of water stood on a chair just inside the tent door.
Hans Olsa washed his face and hands; then he came out and sat down on
the ground, where his wife had spread the table. It was so much cooler
outside. The meal was all ready; both mother and daughter had been
waiting for him.

“I suppose you haven’t seen any signs of them yet?” his wife asked at
last.

“No—nothing at all!”

“Can you imagine what has become of them?”

“The Lord forgive us—if I only knew!”

They are waiting for Per Hansa and his family, whose wagon broke down, to reach the homestead site. The Hansas arrive soon, and the next selection describes them the day after, as the father goes to town to register his claim and the mother wonders fearfully what the future holds for them on the empty, lonely prairie.

Early the next morning Per Hansa and one of the Solum boys set out on
the fifty-two mile journey to Sioux Falls, where Per Hansa filed an
application for the quarter-section of land which lay to the north of
Hans Olsa’s. To confirm the application, he received a temporary deed
to the land. The deed was made out in the name of _Peder Benjamin
Hansen_; it contained a description of the land, the conditions which
he agreed to fulfil in order to become the owner, and the date, _June
6, 1873_.

Sörine [_Hans Olsa’s wife_] wanted Beret and the children to stay with
her during the two days that her husband would be away; but she
refused the offer with thanks. If they were to get ready a home for
the summer, she said, she would have to take hold of matters right
away.

... “For the summer?” exclaimed the other woman, showing her
astonishment. “What about the winter, then?”

Beret saw that she had uttered a thought which she ought to have kept
to herself; she evaded the question as best she could.

During the first day, both she and the boys found so much to do that
they hardly took time to eat. They unloaded both wagons, set up the
stove, and carried out the table. Then Beret arranged their bedroom in
the larger wagon. With all the things taken out it was quite roomy in
there; it made a tidy bedroom when everything had been put in order.
The boys thought this work great fun, and she herself found some
relief in it for her troubled mind. But something vague and intangible
hovering in the air would not allow her to be wholly at ease; she had
to stop often and look about, or stand erect and listen.... Was that a
sound she heard? ... All the while, the thought that had struck her
yesterday when she had first got down from the wagon, stood vividly
before her mind: here there was nothing even to hide behind!... When
the room was finished, and a blanket had been hung up to serve as a
door, she seemed a little less conscious of this feeling. But back in
the recesses of her mind it still was there....

After they had milked the cow, eaten their evening porridge, and
talked awhile to the oxen, she took the boys and And-Ongen and
strolled away from camp. With a common impulse, they went toward the
hill; when they had reached the summit, Beret sat down and let her
gaze wander aimlessly around.... In a certain sense, she had to admit
to herself, it was lovely up here. The broad expanse stretching away
endlessly in every direction, seemed almost like the ocean—especially
now, when darkness was falling. It reminded her strongly of the sea,
and yet it was very different.

... This formless prairie had no heart that beat, no waves that sang,
no soul that could be touched ... or cared....

The infinitude surrounding her on every hand might not have been so
oppressive, might even have brought her a measure of peace, if it had
not been for the deep silence, which lay heavier here than in a
church. Indeed, what was there to break it? She had passed beyond the
outposts of civilization; the nearest dwelling places of men were far
away. Here no warbling of birds rose on the air, no buzzing of insects
sounded; even the wind had died away; the waving blades of grass that
trembled to the faintest breath now stood erect and quiet, as if
listening, in the great hush of the evening.... All along the way,
coming out, she had noticed this strange thing: the stillness had
grown deeper, the silence more depressing, the farther west they
journeyed; it must have been over two weeks now since she had heard a
bird sing! Had they travelled into some nameless, abandoned region?
Could no living thing exist out here, in the empty, desolate, endless
wastes of green and blue?... How _could_ existence go on, she thought,
desperately? If life is to thrive and endure, it must at least have
something to hide behind!...

The children were playing boisterously a little way off. What a
terrible noise they made! But she had better let them keep on with
their play, as long as they were happy.... She sat perfectly quiet,
thinking of the long, oh, so interminably long march that they would
have to make, back to the place where human beings dwelt. It would be
small hardship for her, of course, sitting in the wagon; but she
pitied Per Hansa and the boys—and then the poor oxen!... He certainly
would soon find out for himself that a home for men and women and
children could never be established in this wilderness.... And how
could she bring new life into the world out here!...

Slowly her thoughts began to centre on her husband; they grew warm and
tender as they dwelt on him. She trembled as they came....

But only for a brief while. As her eyes darted nervously here and
there, flitting from object to object and trying to pierce the purple
dimness that was steadily closing in, a sense of desolation so
profound settled upon her that she seemed unable to think at all. It
would not do to gaze any longer at the terror out there, where
everything was turning to grim and awful darkness.... She threw
herself back in the grass and looked up into the heavens. But darkness
and infinitude lay there, also—the sense of utter desolation still
remained.... Suddenly, for the first time, she realized the full
extent of her loneliness, the dreadful nature of the fate that had
overtaken her. Lying there on her back, and staring up into the quiet
sky across which the shadows of night were imperceptibly creeping, she
went over in her mind every step of their wanderings, every mile of
the distance they had travelled since they had left home.

The Land Rush in Oklahoma

The history of Oklahoma contains two of the most fascinating episodes in the Westward Movement. These were the land rushes of 1889 and 1893, when the government threw open several million acres of land to settlers on a first-come, first-served basis. The opening of these tracts came at a time when choice land throughout the plains states already had been taken up, and because the openings were well publicized throughout the country, the competition for farms and town lots was tremendous. In the following report Hamilton Wicks describes the boom psychology and his own part in the race for free land in 1889. Guthrie, Oklahoma, where Wicks claimed a town lot, was on the route of the Henry Ellsworth and Washington Irving expedition in 1832.

Hamilton Wicks Races to Guthrie

And now the hour of twelve was at hand, and every one on the _qui
vive_ for the bugle blast that would dissolve the chain of enchantment
hitherto girding about this coveted land. Many of the “boomers” were
mounted on high-spirited and fleet-footed horses, and had ranged
themselves along the territorial line, scarcely restrained even by the
presence of the troops of cavalry from taking summary possession. The
better class of wagons and carriages ranged themselves in line with
the horsemen, and even here and there mule teams attached to
canvas-covered vehicles stood in the front ranks, with the reins and
whip grasped by the “boomers’” wives. All was excitement and
expectation. Every nerve was on tension and every muscle strained.

Suddenly the air was pierced with the blast of a bugle. Hundreds of
throats echoed the sound with shouts of exultation. The quivering
limbs of saddled steeds, no longer restrained by the hands that held
their bridles, bounded forward, simultaneously into the “beautiful
land” of Oklahoma; and wagons and carriages and buggies and prairie
schooners and a whole congregation of curious equipages joined in this
unparalleled race, where every starter was bound to win a prize—the
“Realization Stakes” of home and prosperity.

We, the spectators, witnessed the spectacle with most intense
interest. Away dashed the thoroughbreds, the bronchos, the pintos, and
the mustangs at a breakneck pace, across the uneven surface of the
prairie. It was amazing to witness the recklessness of those cowboy
riders. They jumped obstacles. They leaped ditches. They cantered with
no diminution of speed through waterpools; and when they came to a
ravine too wide to leap, down they would go with a rush, and up the
other side with a spurt of energy, to scurry once more like mad over
the level plain.

The occupants of our train now became absorbed in their own fate....
It was rather hard pulling for our engine until we reached the apex of
the Cimarron Valley, spread out in picturesque beauty at our very
feet. Our train now rushed along the downgrade with the speed of a
limited express crossing the fine bridge that spans the Cimarron with
a roar, and swinging around the hills that intervened between the
river and the Guthrie town site with the rapidity of a swallow’s
flight. All that there was of Guthrie, the now famous “magic city,” on
April 22, at 1:30 P.M., when the first train from the north drew up at
the station and unloaded its first instalment of settlers, was a
water-tank, a small station-house, a shanty for the Wells Fargo
Express, and a Government Land Office.

I remember throwing my blankets out of the car window the instant the
train stopped at the station. I remember tumbling after them through
the self-same window. Then I joined the wild scramble for a town lot
up the sloping hillside at a pace discounting any “go-as-you-please”
race. There were several thousand people converging on the same plot
of ground, each eager for a town lot which was to be acquired without
cost and without price, each solely dependent on his own efforts, and
animated by a spirit of fair play and good humor. The race was not
over when you reached the particular lot you were content to select
for your possession. The contest still was who should drive their
stakes first, who would erect their tents soonest, and then, who would
quickest build a little wooden shanty. It reminded me of playing
blind-man’s bluff. One did not know how far to go before stopping. It
was hard to tell when it was best to stop; and it was a puzzle whether
to turn to the right hand or the left.

I found myself, without exactly knowing why, about midway between the
government building and depot. It occurred to me that a street would
probably run past the depot. I accosted a man who looked like a
deputy, with a piece of white card in his hands, and asked if this was
to be a street along here.

“Yes,” he replied. “We are laying off four corner lots right here for
a lumber yard.”

“Is this the corner where I stand?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he responded, approaching me.

“Then I claim this corner lot!” I said with decision, as I jammed my
location stick in the ground and hammered it securely home with my
heel....

An angry altercation [_argument_] ensued, but I stoutly maintained my
position and my rights. I proceeded at once to unstrap a small
folding-cot I brought with me, and by standing it on its end made a
tolerable center-pole for a tent. I then threw a couple of my blankets
over the pole, and staked them securely into the ground on either
side. Thus I had a claim that was unjumpable because of substantial
improvements.

As night approached I strolled up on the eminence near the land
office, and surveyed the wonderful cyclorama spread out before me on
all sides. Ten thousand people had “squatted” upon a square mile of
virgin prairie that first afternoon, and as the myriad of white tents
suddenly appeared upon the face of the country, it was as though a
vast flock of huge white-winged birds had just settled down upon the
hillsides and in valleys. Here indeed was _a city laid out and
populated in half a day_. Thousands of campfires sparkled upon the
dark bosom of the prairie as far as the eye could reach.

I will never forget the first night of occupancy of this army. Unlike
the hosts of the Assyrians that descended on the Israelites, their
tents were not silent. On the contrary, there was a fusilade of shots
on all sides from Winchesters, and Colts, and Remingtons, disturbing
the stillness of the night, mingled with halloos, and shoutings, and
the rebel yell, and the imitated warwhoop of the savage. I expected on
the morrow to see the prairie strewn with gory corpses, but not a
single corpse appeared, and I was not slow in making up my mind that
nine-tenths of all the shots were fired in a mere wanton spirit of
bravado to intimidate a few such nervous tenderfeet as myself.

I was witness of all this magical municipal development, and could
scarcely realize the miracle that was unfolding before me. The
wealth-creating force that was displayed in the building up of Guthrie
can not be better illustrated than in the fact that lots which had no
value prior to April 22 sold in the center of the business district as
high as five hundred dollars within a week thereafter, and a number
changed hands before the expiration of the first month for one
thousand, five hundred dollars each.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.

--Silently corrected a few palpable typos, leaving period spellings
unchanged.

--In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
_underscores_.

--Added subheadings in the text to match entries in the Table of
Contents.

--Added captions to illustrations based on the attributions in front
matter.