Bridgeton Pioneer

A RACE FOR A CLAIM

How a Bright Wheelman Beat Old Man Turpit

A trunk full of books and a bicycle made rather a queer outfit to start a farm with, but they were all I had when I settled in the Jim River valley. Of course I did not buy them for that purpose, but I happened to have them, and not much else, when I left school and went west for my health.

That country was just beginning to attract settlers then, and liking the looks of the level prairies clad in a mat of "blue-joint" as tall as a man's head, I lost no time in filing a pre-emption on the best quarter section I could find. I had my pick for miles up and down the river when I filed in August, but before winter settlers came in with a rush and sod shanties and dugouts dotted the prairie in all directions.

Still there was plenty of land, and nearly every settler filed his preemption on one quarter while he reserved another one hundred and sixty acres adjoining to be taken as a homestead after he had lived on his preemption the six months required by law before he could "prove up," which was necessary before filing a homestead.

It was too late in the season for "breaking" when I reached Dakota, and as I should have little use for a team before the next spring, I thought it wise not to have any live stock to feed during the long winter. The idea of a man running a farm with a bicycle was very amusing to some of my neighbors. My bookish notions, too, were not considered good form among a pioneer people, and I soon became known far and wide as "that college dude with a wheel." This amused rather than annoyed me, for I got along very nicely and derived no end of practical use and enjoyment from both books and wheel. I built a sod shanty like the rest, hired a neighbor to haul a stove and a quantity of provisions from the nearest town, and began keeping house. Once or twice a week I wheeled twenty miles to this same town for my mail. An old stage road running up and down the river passed within one hundred yards of my door, and nowhere in the world, I think, was there ever a finer road for wheeling. There were no ruts, no mud or stones, or sand-nothing but two broad paths, as smooth almost as an asphalt pavement, and as springy and noiseless as only a track made of tall grass pounded down into a tough, firm sod can be. Wagon wheels did not cut through and make a narrow rut, but played here and there over a breadth of two feet or more on each side of a slim strip of standing "blue-joint."

Coming back from town one day a gruff old fellow who held a claim a mile north of mine-"old man Turpit" everyone called him-came up behind me with a lively team of four-year-olds. I never liked the old chap any too well, and it was plain that he had nothing but contempt for me and my mount.

"Why don't ye give that thing away and git ye a hoss o' some account?" he called out as he rattled up.

"Oh, this suits me very well," I replied, banteringly. "I like a horse that doesn't eat hay and oats, you know."

The old man gave a sniff of contempt, and popping the whip over his colts, cut out into the tall grass to pass me. But somehow he didn't get past, though he whipped and shouted till the air was fairly blue; and when I whirled in at my place and raised my cap to him as he raced past, he was so mad that he wouldn't even look that way.

There were two fine quarter-sections lying along the bank of the river between my claim and that of my neighbor, Hans Larson, a big-hearted, big-fisted Norwegian with whom I often changed work. Turpit never tired of chaffing him for changing work with "that soft-handed dude;" but Hans only laughed good naturedly at the suggestion that I was getting the long end of the bargain. He could easily do as much work as two like me.

"Dot's all right!" he would say. "He'll make dat opp some odder vay sometimes."

Hans and I meant to take these two quarters as homesteads, but we could not prove up on our preemption before the breaking season the following spring, and as settlers came flocking in we began to fear that some one might get ahead of us. There was no law, save an unwritten one that has been quite generally respected, entitling a settler to hold a claim like this, to which he had no shadow of title. While claims were plenty, no land-seeker cared to incur the enmity of his new neighbors by jumping one of this sort; but when the good land was mostly taken, settlers became less scrupulous. Turpit's eldest son, a beardless youth whom no one believed to be more than eighteen, filed on the prospective claim of one of my neighbors, making oath before the register that he was over twenty-one years of age in order to do so. A few weeks later Hans and I saw old man Turpit tramping over our homesteads. We went out to see what he was doing, but he hurried off when he saw us coming in a way that aroused our suspicions.

I went hunting prairie chickens next day, and came across the Turpit boys hauling hay. In the course of our conversation one of them said they were going out for a big hunt in a week or so, when two of their cousins came out from Missouri. That made it pretty plain to Hans and I what the old man had been viewing our intended claims for, and we watched the stage as it passed our places each afternoon with much anxiety. A week later the stage stopped near Turpit's place to leave two passengers. That very evening, just at dusk, we saw Turpit with two young fellows walking along the river, evidently taking a look at our homesteads.

That settled it with us. We could file tree claims at any time and hold the land in spite of them, and we meant to start for the land office, sixty miles away, the next day for that purpose. I was to stay at Hans' cabin that night, for his team was heavy and slow and we would need to start very early if we reached the land office in time to file our claims. The rumble of a passing vehicle startled us as we were eating supper, and, hurrying to the door, to our consternation, we saw Turpit's spring wagon with three men in it going at a lively pace toward the land office.

"Shiminy cracky!" gasped Hans; "dey is after dat land, sure as you're born't! Dey'll beat us dere, too!"

"Beat us! I guess they will!" I echoed in dismay. "Your old nags could not begin to keep up with Turpit's, let alone overtaking them," and we went back to finish our supper in anything but a contented frame of mind. There was no use in hitching up and starting then, as Hans suggested. Turpit's team was as fast again as ours, and we berated the old rascal soundly while we finished our meal in gloomy discussion of the subject. Then an idea popped so suddenly into my head that I sent half the dishes rolling on the floor as I sprang up, slapped the astonished Hans on his broad back and danced about his bachelor cabin.

"I'ye got it, Hans!" I shouted

"Got it? I guess you haf, and got it bad, too. Vy, you yump rount like crazy. What ails you?" said Hans.

Without waiting to explain I clapped on my hat and rushed over to my cabin. Quickly donning my wheeling costume I stuffed a lunch of bread and beef in my jacket pocket and, mounting my wheel, whirled off down the stage road. Hans was out to meet me in front of his place, as I knew he would be. He fairly screamed with delight when he saw me coming.

"Dat bicycle! Shiminy cracky! I nefer tought off dat! You haf beat Turpit vonce, you can do it again and safe your claim yoost like a mice!" exclaimed the generous-hearted fellow.

"Yes, and yours, too!" I called out as I slowed up. "Hitch up quick and come on, Hans. I'll have it all fixed when you get there." Hans stared at me as though sure I was crazy now, but I saw him hurrying toward his stable as I rolled away.

Though no racing man, I had taken more than one hundred-mile spin, and with that sixty miles of level, springy track ahead of me I made up my mind that Turpit's four-year-olds would have to let out an extra link or two of speed if I did not reach the land office as soon as the old man. The night was moonless but as light as stars could make it. The path showed up plain and smooth, and with no danger of headers I bent low over the handles of my tall Columbia, for that was before the days of safeties

"Now's the time to show your metal, old boy!" I said aloud, as I patted the neck of my silent steed. "You've never failed me yet, but we've never tackled this kind of a job before." My own spirits seemed to animate the lifeless steel and rubber that sent me bounding forward with fresh speed in response to each pressure of the pedals. There were no hills to speak of, but just enough swell here and there to relieve the strain of steady pedaling. Turpit had a good hour's start. I struck into a steady, even pace but spurted for all that was in me whenever I came to the least down-grade. Silently and swiftly I sped on and into the night. Unless the old man was driving like the furies I knew I must be gaining on him -but that was the way he usually drove. Five, ten, twenty miles of that prairie road I left behind before my ears caught the rumble of his wagon. I did not run up too close lest they should see me, but came near enough to catch much of their conversation, which was well interspersed with references to "that dude," followed invariably by peals of laughter.

"Then their claim'll be worth all of a thousand apiece in less'n a year," I heard the old man say.

"I hope they will," I chuckled to myself, as I rolled along in their wake. Turpit, thinking himself past all danger of pursuit, allowed the four-year-olds to settle down to a slow trot, which slackened to a walk at every little grade. I found it easy enough to keep pace with them; so easy in fact that I had to use my brake more than once to avoid coming too plainly into view as the old man wheeled suddenly around some sharp turn. I began to grow hungry as well as sleepy, and dropped behind to strike a match and consult my watch. It was past midnight, and I spurted ahead to catch up again. If I had been a teamster myself I should have been more cautious, for I knew that a little creek crossed the road at the bottom of a "draw" not far ahead. But my horse never had to stop to drink, and wondering why it took me so long to come within hearing of them again, I rolled up to the very brink of this draw to see Turpit watering his team at the bottom-not a hundred yards away.

Like a flash I flopped down into the tall grass, wheel and all.

"Vhat's that?" I heard one of the young fellows say.

"Oh, nothin' but an owl or a coyote," answered Turpit, who did not dream that a silent shadow was trailing him so closely.

"Don't give 'em too much now, Tom," I heard him tell the young man who handled the bucket. "There's another creek about ten miles ahead; we'll stop there to water again and feed a bit."

I was glad enough to hear that. It might give me the chance to pass them that I had been looking for for the last three hours. I might as well have tried to run through a hedge fence as to cut out on the open prairie through that tall grass and flank them, as I should have done had the ground been clear. If I remembered rightly, the next creek was dry where the road crossed it, with a water hole a dozen rods up stream. I allowed them to get a good start before picking myself and wheel up out of the grass, and was careful to keep well in the rear for several miles. As we neared the creek, however, I closed up and crept along as close to the old man's heels as I dared. Yes, my memory had not failed me, and I felt the blood leap through my veins as the team went down into the draw and I saw Turpit pull out of the road toward the water hole.

I knew it would be by the merest scratch if I got past without being seen, but it was a chance that I dared not miss, and, putting on my best speed, I shot down through the little hollow and up the other side before the wagon came to a standstill. They would have been sure to hear me had I waited until they stopped, and as it was I saw both the young fellows turn their heads when I rattled through the gravelly bed of the creek. I expected nothing less than shouts and a lively pursuit, but none came, and, knowing that I had the game in my own hands then, I nibbled my lunch as I wheeled leisurely on.

Sleepy, tired and sore enough, but with the papers made out all ready to file my tree claim on the four forties bordering the river-I knew Turpit's friends would not want the remaining forties without the water-I was the first man to enter the door when the land office opened the next morning. I was none too soon either, for I had barely pocketed the receipt for my entry fee, when Turpit and his friends came in. Wishing to see the fun, I stood behind a door in the receiver's window. The young fellows quickly handed in two pre-emption filings. The register looked at the number and shook his head.

"You're just about five minutes too late," said he. "Four of these forties have just been taken."

"Which forties and who filed on 'em?" bellowed Turpit, his big face purple with rage and astonishment.

The register gave him the numbers and my name. The old man nearly fell over when he heard it, and the three went outside to heap maledictions on the head of "that darned dude."

"That was him we heard on the road, I'll bet a hoss, uncle," said one of the young fellows; "and he passed us at that there dry creek!"

Hans arrived about noon, and at my suggestion immediately filed upon the back forties.

"Now, Hans," said I, "when we prove up we will divide the land between us as we intended at first."

"Shiminy cracky! Dat bicycle!" exclaimed the big fellow, his fat sides shaking with uncontrollable laughter. "She's de boy vot done de business. I guess Turpit don't laugh some more about my shanging vorks vid you, hey?" -Myron B. Gibson, in L. A. W. Bulletin.