Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 June 1896 — BYER’S FOLLY. [ARTICLE]

BYER’S FOLLY.

“What did ye say yer name wa’?” We stood outside the wire fence, Georgie and I, and looked at the old man who leaned on his plow surveying us, while the two shaggy horses attached to it languidly hung their heads as if intending a furtive nap. “I'm Charline Boyd: this is Georgie, iny little brother. We’ve come all the way from Kansas City. We’re your own grandchildren. Mother's dead. Father sent us here; he’s gone to Arizona to work in a mine.’’ ’ He looked dazed. “Clarrissy dead, ’n’ you her children? Wai, it do beat all! An’ you sich a big gal, an’ him her livin’ pictur, an’ f not knowin’ she wa’ gone. Come in, dears; ! the gate’s beyant. but ye kin crawl tin- j der the wires. There! Nom lemme ' look at yer. Laws, child! don’t try to kiss me; my face ain’t none too clean.” He was a pleasant-faced, blue-eyed old 'Kian, with long, curling white hair. His teeth were gone, but otherwise he seemed unlike old men, for he was straight and tall, his arms brawny and strong. His clothing was neat, but; neglected-looking, the buttons hanging, with little tears widening into large | rents. I was only fourteen, but mother had taught me to do a grown woman's work; beside. Georgie was five, and such a baby made me feel older. “Where’s grandma?” I asked. For answer he pointed hs thumb at a mound away at the end of the level field, where a rude wooden cross was planted. “She's thar. She went a year ago. I’ve lived alone sence, an’ it’s the blessin’ of Providence you children is come. Oftentimes I’ve feared I might grow desprat outer sheer lonesomeness ’n’ sorter. Maybe you didn’t know’t, but Clarrissy ’n’ mother quarrelled in years gone, ’n’ never got fren’ly, wich was because yer ma married yer pa, wich seemed to me a good man ’nuff; but wimmen is queer, ’n’ mother looked high for Clarrissy.” “I so hungry!” cried poor little Georgie, his lips quivering and his round eyes filling with tears. “Bless his little heart!” said grandfather, recovering himself and patting my cheek softly. “Here you be, jest off a long journey, ’n’ me a-keepin’ yer in the cold, an’ meanderin’ on as if thar wa’n’t no to-day, but all yesterdays. How did yer come?” he asked, unharnessing the horses. “By rail to D ; then a gentleman gave us a ride here in his fine carriage. We came in the train with his daughter, Miss Bessie Little. He owns a big ranch near here.” “A fine young lady,” broke in grandfather. “She was like a darter to yer granma, an’ though she lived miles away, she was over night an’ day agallopin’ ’cross the plains on a black horse as is a thoroughbred, an’ a fine specimen of horseflesh as is seen in these parts. She kin ride, too, ’n’ ain’t a feared o’ nothin’. Mother set a sight by her.” We were now at the house, a neat lib tie one-story cottage, containing four rooms. A comfortable barn and yard for the cattle were near, and a well close by the door. There was a cosy kitchen, a sitting-room, and two bedrooms; one the “spare room,” grandfather said, proud. It looked neat and precise, but was as cold and damp as the tomb. The lonely old man had faithfully swept and dusted, and kept everything as his wife had placed It, even her work basket, with a needle sticking in the half finished gingham sleeve. Georgie and I took the spare room, and I built a fire and aired the bedding In a few days I grew competent to take charge of the Jpuse, put things where she had placed them, and cooked the simple meals—and these were very simple, for grandfather was poor. Two old horses, two cows and a calf comprised the stock. “I don’t hev no luck wi’ poultry, Charley,” he said. He called me Charley, for Charline was too “new fangled,” and Charley was the name of his dead son. “Mother used to raise a sight, but arter she went they begun dyin’, an’ what didn’t die was eat by coyotes.” The last day of my first week on the ranch Miss Bessie Little rede up to the cabin on her coal black horse. She was a sweet-faced girl, blue-eyed and yel-low-haired and rode beautifully. She made herself at-home, petted Georgie, and I, shy as I was, found myself con-

tiding to her all my troubles and hopes. She sympathized with me and helped me, cutting a frock for Georgie and a basque for me, and when she rode off, she promised to come often. The next day a wagon came from her home, and in it was a fine rooster and six hens, and a big bundle of clothing that she had outgrown and that fitted me. How dreary the howls of the cayotes were at night, especially when one of their number was killed! They would seem to unite in a chorus of maledictions. Miss Bessie rode up one day, and at her heels was an overgrown shepherd puppy, with big paws and jolly little black eyes. "Here’s a cayote exterminator, Grandfather Byers.” she said, as she jumped from the saddle, and the black horse fell eagerly to eating the short, crisp buffalo grass, just as though he was not stuffed at home. She imitated the cayote’s cry; the dog bristled, his eyes shot fire, he looked in all points of the compass, and then, with a fierce howl, tore madly around the house.

Through Miss Bessie's kindness I found a ready market for my eggs and chickens, and for the butter I learned to make; and she showed me how to “lay butter down” for winter use. Though she never had to work she knew every task in a farmer’s wife’s existence; and perhaps it was best, for there was a young man living near her father’s ranch, who himself owned a big ranch, and who took tea every Sunday afternoon with her father and went to church down in the village every Sunday evening with her. About two miles from our ranch were three low hills, or mounds. Behind one, in a sort of valley, hedged in by the hills and facing the plains, was a well, ninety feet deep, called. 1 regret to say, “Byer’s folly.” Poor grandfather had had the well dug, hoping to obtain the water to irrigate his laud. He could not see ahead to the time when a company of capitalists would intersect the region with irrigating ditches, and each man’s land could be benefited by paying a small annual water tax. Grandfather’s money gave out before the well was finished, and the wide, deep black hole, carelessly crossed by rotten boards, and a big pile of earth, was all that was left of his labor and his fortune.

Not only was his money sunk in the hole, but also large sums borrowed from Mr. Little, who, I knew, had forgiven it, and five hundred dollars borrowed from a Mr. Davieson, of D , and to this man our ranch was mortgaged. Grandfather grew gloomy and sad as spring came on. He brightened up a littkA when I showed him my account book—Miss Bessie showed me how to keep it—and I proved to him how much money I had made with the hens and butter; but he sighed a moment as“Es I hadn’t ’a’ done that, how cotuferable we’d ’a’ been. You're such a smart girl, a son more’n a gal, Charley, But Davieson’s a hard man; duuno as ter morrer-11 find us with tTroof to cover us, an’ ’tls a fine property too, now the irrergatin’ ditch crosses it.” He seemed to take little interest in the farm work. He would harness the horse, plow a few furrows and then stand in a helpless attitude, looking toward D . He would wander down to the road to ask passers if they had a letter for him, and then would sit outside the kitchen door, his face hidden in his hands. Georgie, playing near hy, would try to comfort him in his loving baby way. One day, however, a man came up on I horseback. He tossed me a letter—l’ve j hated yellow envelopes ever since—for grandpa, who was down the field with his team; it was such a sunny March day, it gave him new life for his work. I could not bear to take It, so I put Georgie’s sunbonnet on him, and pinned the letter to bls frock, and with a big cookie in his hand, sent him down to “danpa.”

They came back later, hand in hand, the same old horses following. Grandfather hurried past me into his chamber avd shut the door. His face was ash-colored, his eyes bloodshot. I waited a long time; I feared he might be dead, so I rapped on the door. He opened it; he was dressed in his black broadcloth suit, with his old-fashioned high collar. I remembered then it was the first time I had ever seen him wear a white shirt. He held an old beaver hat in his hand, and was absently brushing the nap with his sleeve. “It’s come, dear. That! I’m goin’ ter D——. I’ll try if he W'on’t wait till fall. I’ll work hard. Maybe the crops’ll do summat. i’ll sell the stock” —those old horses were so dear to him! “No, don’t kiss me, dear! it ’ud break me. down. I’ve just found out I’m a weak old man. I never felt it afore.” He staggered out to the barn. I followed him. “I mayn’t be back for two days or so. Will you be afeered?” “No,” I said, but I was. I helped him into the wagon. He seemed dazed and half-blinded by his misfontune. Oh, if I could help him! I did the work faithfully when he was gone, driving the cow’s and milking them, and taking care of the house and Georgie and the poultry. The next day a band of Indians-ten or twelve—rode up to the cabin. I was frightened, but met them as coolly as if I had plenty to protect me. Georgie, in wild alarm, hid under the bed. The Indians seemed kind, and only wanted a drink of milk. There were four squaws among them, with kind, bright eyes; one gave me a necklace of beads as they rode off. Shortly afterwards Mr. Little and Tom Gray rode up in haste, their horses white with foam. “Bessie!” shouted Mr. Little, as he came up over the hill. “Is she here? Have you seen her?” “Not for a week,” I said. “Has anything happened?” “She went to ride yesterday afternoon, and hasn’t returned yet, nor has she been seen. .We hoped she was here.” “She hasn’t been.” They looked white and scared. Mr. Little seemed to have aged in a night. “There was a band of Indians here,” said Gray; “they may have taken her.” I told them of the Indians’ visit, and thought it improbable, as they seemed so kindly disposed; but they rode off following the trail. That night was more dreadful than the first, and the dog seemed frenzied over the cayotes, who yelled till morning, and I cried myself Into hysterics

and frightened poor fittie Georgie, who sat up in bed and screamed the “klyoe were eating his dirl.” He always called Mias Bessie his “dirt.” The next morning a number of people came up; they were hunting for Bessie. The whole neighborhood was searched. I could not leave home, but Georgie and I walked over the ranch, looking in every hole, and wistfully across the plains. Our dog, Smarty, ran after us, and a silly old turkey-gobbler, my pet and the pride of my poultry yard, joined In the procession. Smarty chased him, and Gobble flew over the wire fence and rushed down the hill, through a valley, across the road, and I saw the two, mere specks, tearing up the hill near the well. “He'll kill Gobble,” I shouted, seizing Georgie’s hand, and we rushed after them, Georgie crying at the top of his lungs, and being winded at every step. At last I took him on my back, and finished the race with a heavy burden. At the foot of the. hill was the well, and there Gobble stood, scolding and shaking his red neck, while Smarty seemed to have forgotten his very existence, but was running around the well, uttering short, quick barks. The planks around and over the well were gone, and the earth about it was plowed as If there had been a struggle. I dropped Georgie’s hand and rushed down. I pushed Smarty away, and looked down. It was dark, but I fancied I saw something white away down. Just then a faint voice from the depths of the earth shouted: “Help! Help!”

“I’m Charley Boyd. Who’s here? .Shout again!” “Bessie Little. My horse fell; he’s dead, away down. I'm clinging to a plank in the side. I can’t hoiu on much longer. My arms are breaking!” What could I do? “Bessie.” I shouted, “hold on a little while; “I’m going for help!” • “I’ve been unconscious. I’m faint. I shall die. Don’t leave me. The dirt falling brought me to life.” “I’ll leave Georgie here. Here, Georgie, your dirl is in that hole; sit there and talk to her. Don’t you cry.” Georgie’s lip trembled, but he minded bravely, pleading the dog should stay but I was afraid to trust him. “Gabble tay wlf Dorgie,” he said piteously; but that sagacious bird was already winging and hopping his way liomeward. 1 left Bessie answering Georgie’s scared “Halloo!” If she could keep conscious till I got back! How I thanked granupa for his careful habits. I knew just where the new clothes line was, the crowbar and the hatchet We were eight miles from any ranch, and I must act as if there was no one in the world to help her. How I got back I never knew. I saw Georgie from the top of tne hill. He had crawled to the edge of the well, and was singing a little baby song I had taught him. His cheeks were red and feverish, and his vpjge hoarse. “Bessie!” I shouted. “All right. Georgie kept me from fainting. I made him sing.” “Dit dirl out! dit dirl out!” Georgie screamed, clinging to my skirts. I pushed him away; there was no time to pet or comfort him. “Run to the road, Georgie, that way; now halloo for help. Yes, take the dog. Tell everybody your dirl is in Byers’ well.” I knew his white, tear-wet face would bring the most unbelieving stranger, and I watched his chubby form, in the bright plaid dress, and the panting dog disappear over the hill. All the while I was digging a deep hole with the | hatchet, and scooping the earth out i with my hands, and shouting every few moments to Bessie. I burled the crowbar half-way, then I tried my weight; it did not move. I had seen men wind Ines around a post to raise heavy objects.

"Put this noose around your waist!” I shouted. “I dare not,” she answered, faintly. “You couldn’t help me. Oh, go for help!” “You must. The end’s fast to a crowbar. I can’t find anybody. They’re all hunting for you.” “I can’t?” she cried piteously. “Then I’ll leave you!” I shouted. “It’s getting late; it’s your last chance!” There was a ghastly stillness for a few moments. I w’ound the line around the bar and around my waist. “Look out!” she screamed. I heard the beam go rattling down, and a fearful strain tightened the cord. I thought it would cut me in two. For a moment I thought I was going over. Happily the ridge of earth was a protection. The rope loosened. “Haul easy!” she cried. “I can catch my feet in the sides; the earth is soft.” I wound the rope around the bar and myself. I was in a perfect snarl. Suddenly the rope grew loose; there was no weight. Was she lost? Everything grew black, and I knew nothing. When I came to, there were two men bending over me, trying to force brandy in my mouth. “Where’s Bessie?” God be thanked she answered me herself! She had climbed up the last few yards by tne broken timbers. The earth was torn up around me, my hands were raw and bleeding, and bear the marks of the rope on my body to this day. Just then we heard a shouting, and Mr. Little and Mr. Gray rode up, and the latter wasn’t ashamed to kiss Bessie just as her father did, and before all the people. Georgie was up in the lap of Mr. Little, and Smarty lay down at my feet, worn out. A party of the searchers met the poor baby and dog, and caught at the fearful meaning in the baby’s incoherent words, dashed up to the well, and found us both on the brink. They could not believe it was I who had rescued her tiM they saw my hands and the rope and the crowbar still firm in the earth. Grandpa was there, and kissed me, and cried over me, as if I too had been down the well. Miss Bessie had lost her way in the dark after a long ride across the plains, and her horse had stumbled over the planks and fallen through and broken his spine. Miss Bessie’s habit had caught on a projecting beam, and she clung there two nights and nearly two days. Yet with all the horrors of her situation, she was only fifteen feet down. When Mr. Little learned that our ranch was mortgaged, he went to Mr. Davieson, paid the money, and gave the farm back to grandfather. He made me a present of a sum of money, and Mr. Gray gave Georgie a like present

It 1* expected that the experiment of towing naphtha and petroleum across the Atlantic in barges will be tried this .summer. This scheme was talked of laet season, but was abandoned. It is now said that a steamer will sail from j this port some time in June with one of | the large barge tanks of the Standard i Oil Company in tow. The barge to be used is the celebrated No. 58, which > made Bermuda last winter under her own sail, after having parted from the i steamer Maverick, which was towing I her between Philadelphia and Boston, j The barge, which is of steel and carries | four masts, will not be loaded to her I full capacity, and the success of the experiment will probably lead to a regular service of ocean towing of oil to Europe.—New York Tribune.