The Man From Missouri; An Attempt at Dry Farming, etc.

While out hunting one day, about 18 miles south of Dodge City, I chanced to meet a stranger who inquired the way to the nearest horse corral. In the twinkling of an eye I took an inventory of his outfit, and I must say that it was good. He had a fine team of young mules, a three seated spring wagon covered over, harness all covered over with brass mountings. His wife and children who were with him were well-dressed and he himself showed traces of being well bred and was rather a good talker. His conversation showed refinement, though at times he sandwiched in a mild cuss-word to emphasize his statements. From his bearing I could see that he was rather high-strung. Before giving the required information I ventured to ask if he was going to take up land for the purpose of farming. He said that that was his intention. I looked the family over and felt sorry for them, knowing what they would have to endure on a claim. I had not the same regrets for proprietor of the outfit as I felt that a little experience and exposure was what was needed to round out his character. The more I explained the general conditions of the neighborhood of his destination, the more he seemed determined to go. I explained to him that others from the different states of the East had tried to raise crops and made a failure of the venture, and returned to their several homes disgusted with the West. “Oh, pshaw!” said he, “I have heard that same tale of woe more than a dozen times during the last three days, and the land-agents in Dodge City told me that yarn was fabricated expressly by the cow-men to discourage the farmers from settling on the range and cutting off their supply of pasture.” “Moreover,” said he, “I have a little provision made for the future and can stand it as long as any of them.”

During my interview with that gentleman, I learned that his name was Waugh, that he was a native of Pennsylvania, and had been living in Missouri on a rented farm during the preceding two years. He had become dissatisfied with the state and had come farther West to improve his fortunes. I ask him if he did not think it better to return to Missouri where his children would have the advantage of schools, and he and his wife would be able to enjoy some society rather than establish a home on a raw prairie. He replied, “I see, stranger, that you have never lived in Missouri. I tell you those folk back there don’t know the war is over yet, and besides one’s standing in society depends upon how many hounds one keeps and, also, on the length of one’s whiskers. Why, don’t you know that there was only one razor in the neighborhood where I lived and that was owned by the school teacher. He was some up on social niceties. Once in awhile he used to go to St. Joe to have his hair cut and the back of his neck shaved and this caused some of the patrons of the school to threaten to take their children away from him if he did not stop such unwarranted proceedings. I am sure they would have done so if they had known that he used to go down to the creek every Saturday night to take a bath. No Siree, I do not want any more of Missouri in mine. The first year I worked there I did fairly well. I made about half a crop. The next year was a complete failure. I raised nothing, absolutely nothing, and when I saw the hens bringing leaves from the timber to build nests, I told Hannah to put out the fire and call the dog and we would start for Kansas.”

The next time I met Mr. Waugh was one afternoon about three months later. I noted that his mules had fallen away in flesh, and on inquiring about his general condition, he stated that things were in poor condition. He said the grass had been poor and that it was impossible to procure corn for the cattle. In fact he had not plowed nor put in any crops. He informed me that it had not rained since he had taken up his claim and to plow was out of the question. The only line of work open for him was to gather buffalo bones. He said that things had come to such a pass that he had to exchange some of his belongings for others not as good. His spring wagon had to go for an old lumber-wagon as he could not use the spring affair in the work of gathering the bones. In this trade he received a cow to boot.

When next I met him he had traded off his mules and brass-mounted harness for a one-eyed mule and a pony, receiving boot on that occasion also in the shape of a sewing machine and a shot gun, with a set of chain harness thrown in for good measure. He said he preferred the chain harness as the dry weather did not affect the corn-husk collars and if it rained he could throw it on the ground and it would suffer no injury from the moisture. Shortly after this he came to my blacksmith shop to have the wheels of his wagon set. Before that he used to soak them in the bed of the creek, but as the water in the creek bottom failed, he had to bring them to me to set them.

The last time I had the opportunity of meeting Mr. Waugh, he was camped at the creek with his family. He was busy at the camp-fire cooking his meal at the time. After the usual greetings, I ventured to ask him how he liked farming. He seemed very despondent. “Don’t talk to me about farming in this desolate country,” said he. “It has not rained enough between here and the head of the creek since I have been here to wet a postage stamp. Moreover, there are skunks enough up there to drive the Standard Oil Co. out of business, and coyotes without number. They gave us no rest. They would steal a chicken out of the pot while it was boiling on the fire.” “Why,” he continued, “You know old man Spriggins up there? Well, only last week his chickens got so all-fired hungry that they went out on the trail and tried to hold up a bull-train to get some corn. I would not have believed myself if I had not seen it. I tell you those chickens were getting desperate and you would have believed it if you had seen that Shanghai rooster strutting back and forth in front of those oxen and crowing. When the old man saw it himself he went down to John Conrads and traded his old fiddle and a cultivator for some Kaffir corn.”

“Well,” said I, “you filed on a claim, didn’t you?”

“Not that any one knows of,” said he. “I caught on to that game in time to save my fourteen dollars. It is nothing but a gambling game anyway, and I believe that the same law applies to poker and other games of chance, ought to reach Uncle Sam for trying to unload a lot of worthless land on a lot of poor suckers that can’t help themselves. Why, he don’t take any chance at all. He simply puts up one hundred and sixty acres of parched vacancy against your fourteen dollars that you can’t remain on it for five years without starving, to comply with the contract he makes with you. I tell you he has a dead sure thing here in Kansas. He has made some good winnings. Some of those claims he has won back five or six times each and he still holds the land waiting for another sucker to come along.”

Well, then, I said, you are not inclined to engage in agriculture, nor to remain in this part of the country, are you?

“Not if I know myself,” he replied, “and I think it about time I was becoming wise. You told me the whole unvarnished truth about this country the first time I met you and if I had taken your advice I would not be in this disagreeable fix.”

Here he took a side glance at his one-eyed mule, which seemed to raise his temperature to about 160 in the shade. He then raised his voice to correspond with the temperature, and striking his hands together said; “any gosh-durned country that gets so dad-burned dry that it will take an antelope—and he is the fastest animal there is—twenty four hours solid traveling to find a drink of water, is a little too dry for me. I am going back to Pennsylvania. That state will be good enough for me for all the time to come.”

He hitched up his one-eyed mule and made ready to go. I bade him good-bye. He nodded, clucked to his mule and rode away.