“Good morning, Mr. Jones. I suppose we may call this Indian summer–may we not?” and the missionary–for it was he–shook hands with the hunter.

“Scarcely time for it yet,” replied the latter. “But this is fine weather, though.”

“Shall you be busy to-day? I wish to find a good quarter section of land on which to put up a house. I have been thinking that as I have never pre-empted, and have therefore a right to do so, I may as well do it.”

The hunter laughed scornfully, and said,–

“Good many folks about here pre-empt more than once.”

“But that is illegal,” replied the minister.

“They don’t stand about that.”

“But they are obliged to take oath at the Land Office that they have never availed themselves of the privilege.”

“And they take it.”

“But they perjure themselves in doing so.” 66

“Yes.”

“Well,” said the clergyman, with a sigh, “I can’t understand how a person can break the laws and take a false oath for the sake of a little land.”

“Nor can I,” replied the hunter, almost fiercely; “and I makes no pretensions to piety, either. I pre-empted once, and afterwards sold out; and I hev moved about considerable sence; but I have never cheated government out of a cent yet–nor anybody, as to that. I don’t own nothing here; this is government land that my cabin sets on, and if it was put up for sale to-day, by the proper authorities, I couldn’t say a word if it was sold, improvements and all. I have to take my risk, and I’m contented to, rather than own the biggest farm out doors, and get it by lying under oath. No; they calls Joseph Jones a worthless dog, and I don’t say he isn’t; but let me tell you, neighbor, that I haven’t it on my conscience that I went into the Land Office and lifted up my right hand, solumly promising to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then, when I knows that I have pre-empted once, or maybe a number of times, swear that I never hev–as some of your praying, psalm-singing folks has!”

“Do I understand you to say, Mr. Jones, that professing Christians living about here have done this?” 67

“That’s just what I say,” replied the hunter; “and I have as much respect for sich whining hypercrites as I have for a hissing adder: that’s why I never took much to meetin’s, I suppose. What I gits, I gits honest–don’t I, pet?” and he caressed his rifle as if it were a living thing, and understood what he said. “I brings home what the good Lord sends inter the woods an’ over the prairies fur me. ‘The cattle upon a thousand hills are his’–that’s Scripter, I believe; and it means, I take it, that the deer, and the elk, and the bear, and the geese and the hens, belong to him: nobody ken say, ‘I owns them all,’ and keep them for his own use; and when Billy, here,”–patting his gun,–“brings down a fat buck, we feel honest about it–don’t we, Bill? ’Tisn’t like standing behind the counter with a smerk on yer face, as yer cheat in weight an’ measure, or sell sanded sugar for the genuine. Many an’ many’s the time I’ve known this done, by them that lives in fine houses, and wears fine clothes, an’ goes reg’lar to church; an’ if they passed Joseph Jones, wouldn’t deign to speak to the old hunter. Not that I care about that; I don’t deign to speak to them; and if heaven is for them, I had just as lieves stay a while outside, for they an’ I could never git along together here, and we couldn’t be expected to there. But did you want anything perticular of me?” 68

“I was told,” said the missionary, “that none of the settlers understood so well about the land, and where to find the section and quarter section stakes as you; and I thought, if it wouldn’t be taking too much of your time, that perhaps you would show me around a little.”

“Nothin’ would suit my feelings better,” said the hunter. “Was there any perticular direction you wish to go to?”

“Brother Smith tells me that here is a fine quarter section still unclaimed;” and the clergyman took from his note-book a roughly-sketched map of the vicinity, purporting to show what was taken up and what was not.

“Did he give you that?” asked the hunter, as he ran his eye over the paper.

“Yes; as looking up land is new to me, I was thankful to get some sort of a guide,” replied the missionary.

“I don’t see much to be thankful for on that drawin’.”

“Why, isn’t that quarter section free?” inquired the minister, perplexed.

“Yes; an’ we’ll go an’ see it. But are yer goin’ afoot?”

The missionary replied affirmatively.

“You’ll never stand it in the world, to hunt up land in that way–too much ground to go over. Wife,” he added, putting his head in at the door, 69 “you jist entertain the minister, while I see if I ken scare up a team fur him.”

Mr. Jones strode off as if he had a congenial errand to do, and striking a “bee line” across the prairie, over a river, through a grove, halted before a cosy cottage that would remind one of New England. The acres and acres of tilled land stretched away from the dwelling, enclosed in the most substantial manner, and sleek cattle, that fed in the rich pasture, bespoke competency and enterprise. He stopped not to knock at the door, but entering, asked of a lady who sat sewing’–

“Is yer husband about, Mrs. Lincoln?”

“Yes; he’s in the other room. I’ll speak to him.”

And in a moment the robust form of the owner of the farm appeared.

“How are you, Jones?” he said, in an offhand way.

“O, I’m nicely. I called on an errand fur yer minister, that you’ve invited to settle among us. He wants a spot for a cabin,–like the rest of us, I suppose,–and Smith has told him to look at the quarter section way over there, a mile and a half beyond Clark’s; you know the place. I jist want to git your team and take him over in a good, Christian way, and not let him travel his 70 legs off, so that he can’t preach to us sinners next Sunday.”

Mr. Lincoln had been foremost in urging the missionary to cast in his lot with them, and no one had made more promises of material aid than he. He was sincere in this, and was really a generous man, but exceedingly careless. He had been told that the minister was going to look up a claim; but it had never occurred to him, until now, that the preacher had no other conveyance than his feet, and that to walk over the prairies would be a toilsome and time-consuming task. Slapping his caller on the shoulder, he said,–

“Glad to see you interested, Jones; and to encourage you, I’ll harness right up, and you may take the span.”

The nimble-footed steeds were soon in the buggy; and the hunter, having taken the preacher aboard, was, in good time, pointing out to him the boundaries of the claim. It was a lovely spot,–like many such in Prairiedom,–and the hunter took care that it should be seen to advantage. On a gentle swell of ground was a small gem of a grove, commanding a view of the rest of the section. The fall flowers, many-hued and bright-eyed, nodded gayly in the tall grass; a natural spring, bursting from the hillock, wound its way along till lost in the distance; the sun was pouring down its rays from a sky fleecy-clouded 71 and soft. How could the preacher, with his pure tastes and cultivated love of the beautiful, help being delighted with the scene?

“This is delightful!” he exclaimed. “I’ll build my cottage right here by the side of this spring, and my tilled land will always be in view.”

The hunter had anticipated his decision, and dryly observed,–

“It wouldn’t be no sich place as yer ought to hev.”

“Why not?” asked the minister, smiling.

“Do you reckon on keeping a horse?” asked the other.

“No; I couldn’t afford that.”

“How, then, are you goin’ to git to yer appintments, an’ to visit the sick an’ the dyin’, from this pint? And you’ll never farm it much; the land looks nice and slick as a gentleman’s lawn: this is one of the Lord’s lawns, neighbor; but ’twasn’t made for you to live on. Don’t you expect to hev no evenin’ meetin’s? You can’t hev them out here where there’s no live critter but the prairie hins, and maybe in the winter a stray wolf or two. You’re a perfessional man, and it’s necessary for you to be right among folks, and not livin’ off one side, like as if you wanted to keep out the way of company.”

This rugged, common-sense way of putting 72 things was quite effective, and the missionary said,–

“You are right. But what can I do? By this chart I find that there is little vacant land about here, and I am unable to purchase an improved farm at the prices at which they are held.”

“You don’t mean to settle down on this–do ye?”

“That is out of the question.”

“Well, Joseph Jones isn’t of much account, but if he don’t show you a bit of land that’s been left for jist sich as you, then I lie like that lying chart,” he said, angrily. And motioning the preacher to resume his seat in the buggy, the hunter drove back for some distance in the direction from which they had come, then, striking a well-worn cart-path to the right, suddenly emerged from a piece of woods near a river, on the farther bank of which was a saw-mill, and in the stream were men at work strengthening a dam.

“There,” said the hunter, “is the centre of things, so fur as this vicinity is concerned. That’s the store,”–as he pointed across the river to a small building,–“and a hotel is going up just opposite; and the land sharks and speculators that’s going to settle here will want jist sich as you right among ’em, to stir up their consciences, and jog their pure minds by way of remembrance,–as the Book says,–an’ not way off 73 there!” pointing contemptuously over his shoulder.

“But brother Smith informs me that all the land near to the town is taken up,” said the missionary.

“Brother Smith–who’s he? I know Charles Smith; and if you kin fellowship him, I can’t. An’ when you come to sift folks down,–as I foresee sich as you will,–you won’t brother him much, unless he repints–an’ I don’t say he won’t. Now let me introduce you to your future home, ef you settles in these parts. There, this is the town, where we now are;” and he placed the tip of his little finger on the place as represented on the map. “Now coming down square on to the town-site is this eighty-acre lot; lays beautiful to the town, the main street running right up to it. And through that street,” continued he, impressively, “must go all the travel to the important places beyond. And by and by, when the immigration gets strong enough, the owner of that piece of land will hev corner lots and sich to sell. Let me show jist how it lays;” and crossing the bridge, and passing up the projected street, he stopped the horses on a gentle rise of ground, forming the nearest point in the eighty acres. “There,” he continued, referring to the map again, “you see the eighty-acre lot runs lengthwise from the town. Across it runs a tributary of the river–just down there where 74 you see the plum and bass-wood trees; and beyond that are ten acres of the richest and easiest-worked river bottom that the sun ever shone on–all fenced; then follers thirty acres of young and valuable timber land. Here’s your building spot right here where we stand, in sight of everybody, and all the travel, handy to the store, and saw-mill, and post-office, and sich, and handy to meetin’; and the ten acres of alluvial, rich as the richest, and finely pulverized as powder,–you ken plough it or hoe it jist as easy as you ken turn your hand over,–will give you all the sarce you want, and something to sell. And there’s wood enough down over the place to keep yer fires a going; and when you want to pre-empt, jist sell some of yer standing timber there, to help pay for the whole, at government price.”

“But,” replied the missionary, as the squatter finished his graphic description, “I see by this chart that this is taken up;” for he had meanwhile been examining it.

“Well,” said the hunter, “whose name’s writ down as the owner of this land?”

“Henry Simonds,” said the minister, reading from the paper.

“And do you know who ‘Henry Simonds’ may be?” asked the hunter. “It’s a young chap jist turned nineteen, and of course not old ’nough to pre-empt, according to law, and who hasn’t lived 75 on this claim a day in his life. There isn’t a sign of a shanty on the place, and the law requires that every man must show something of a house to prove that he is an actual settler. That name’s a blind. This land jines Smith’s, and he’s been carrying on the ten-acre lot over the river, rent free; and it comes very handy for him to come in on this piece and get his saw-logs. It’s government property; and all you have to do is, to put you up a cabin, and go ahead, and if Smith kicks up a fuss, jist send him to me.”

This revelation of duplicity on the part of Mr. Smith took the minister by surprise. It was evident that the location would be as advantageous for him as his plain-spoken guide had represented. It was defrauding the government for Smith to hold it as he did; and should he, in a legal way, take possession, no one could accuse him of wrong. But he had not come out on the frontier to promote his worldly interests; and he said to the hunter,–

“What you say is all right, I have no doubt, Mr. Jones; but it is not land that I want so much as to do good among this people; and I should not wish to do anything that would cause ill feeling.”

“Just as I expected,” said the squatter, with a disappointed air; “and I rather think you belong to the kingdom that is not of this world. 76 But you are stopping at Edmunds’s–aren’t you? Well, it’s only a short piece to his cabin, and I must take the team back; but”–after thinking a moment–“if you’ll take the dam on your way, you’ll find Palmer there. He’s a Christian, if there is one in these parts; and you can depend on him; and if you choose to talk with him a bit about this eighty-acre lot, there won’t be any harm done.”

The minister thanked the squatter for his services, the latter saying, as he drove off,–

“Call on me agin, if you want anything in my line.”

As the missionary passed towards the dam, he saw the surveyors at work, dividing the town site into lots; and he paused to notice again the location. The underbrush had been carefully removed, and the cleared space–bounded on one hand by the river, and on the other by the forest, while farther away from each side stretched the smooth prairie–looked as if nature had intended it as a business centre.

“How do you like our town plot?” said a voice at his side.

“It is charming!” exclaimed the preacher; and, turning, he saw Mr. Palmer.

He was a medium-sized man, in shirt sleeves and blue overalls, with an old black silk hat on, which, from its bent appearance, gave one 77 the idea that it had on occasions been used for a seat as well as a covering. The keen blue eyes under it, and the general contour of the face, ending in a smoothly-shaven chin, revealed a hard-working, frugal, money-saving character, yet honest, sincere, and unselfish. He was, indeed,–what he struck the observer as being,–a prudent counsellor, a true friend, a wisely-generous helper in every good word and work. No man in the settlement was more respected than he–a respect not based on his personal appearance, it was clear; for he had a perfect contempt for the ostentations of dress and equipage, but due to his straightforward and consistent deportment. He was about forty, and unmarried, and, on account of his amiable, thrifty, and Christianly qualities, was said to be the victim of incessant “cap-setting” by managing mammas and marriageable daughters, and of no little raillery on the part of the men, which he bore with great good nature, safely escaping from each matrimonial snare, and returning joke for joke.

“Been looking up land?” asked the bachelor.

The missionary related the day’s doings, and what the squatter had said about Mr. Smith and the eighty acres.

“Jones has stated the facts in the case,” said Mr. Palmer, “and advised well; but it won’t do for you to have any falling out with Smith. If 78 you will leave the matter with me, I guess I can manage it so that you shall have the eighty acres, and there be no bad feelings. We had better pay Smith something than to have a quarrel.”

“But is Smith a member of a church?” asked the missionary.

“We don’t know who is who, yet,” answered the other; “but should we ever form a church here, of course he’ll have to show a certificate of membership in order to join; and I rather think he’ll never be able to do that. Do him all the good you can, but don’t trust him overmuch.”