The Homesteader. Micheaux Oscar

A squaw man had raised a large crop to the southwest of him the year before, and this, he understood, was for sale. He decided to call on the squaw man, ascertain the fact, and if so, purchase a share of it for his purpose.

      Accordingly, Sunday morning after he had breakfasted, and piled the dishes bachelor fashion (unwashed) he started out.

      The route he took carried him directly by Peter Kaden's claim, and when he had gone that far, and found himself looking at the low, sod house that stood a few paces back from the road, he was curious. He paused unconsciously before the house and observed it idly a few moments.

      He was struck with the quietness about, and at once became curiously apprehensive. No smoke emerged from the chimney. There was no evidence that any one was about. Impelled by his growing curiosity, he approached the house and knocked at the door. There was no response from within. He tried it again. Still no response. He tried the knob. It gave. He pushed the door open cautiously, and peered in. The house was empty but for the crude furniture. He entered curiously and looked about. The bed was spread over, there was no fire in the stove, the coldness of the atmosphere within impressed him with a theory that no fire had been in the stove that day or the night before. The dishes were clean and piled on the table with a cloth spread over them. He went outside, closing the door behind him and swept the surrounding country with his gaze which revealed no Peter Kaden. He lowered his eyes in thought as his lips muttered:

      "Wonder where he is?"

      A path began at his feet. It led down to a draw some two hundred yards away. He fell into it aimlessly and followed its course for a short way. Presently, upon looking up, he saw a well at the side of the draw which obviously was the terminus of the path.

      Forthwith he made the well his objective. In that country wells were not plentiful. The soil was of the richest and blackest loam with a clay subsoil; but water except where there was sand, was not easily found only in or near a draw, or a flat. He reached the well, and, drawing aside the bucket that reposed on the lid, he opened the well and lowered the bucket to the water some thirty feet below.

      The bright sun rays somewhat blinded him and for a moment he could not see the water clearly. The bucket struck, in due time, however, and he wondered why there was no splash. He jerked it over, and when it struck again there was the sound of water, but it appeared difficult to sink it. He peered down into it again to ascertain what the matter was. A wave of ripples caught his gaze, while the bucket seemed to be resting on something. He gave the rope another jerk and twist, and it came down bottom-side up on the dark object.

      "Hell," he muttered, "this well is dry!" He took another look. "No, it isn't dry. There is something in the well." Bending until his face was shaded by the shadow of the well, he searched below very closely with his eyes. He could distinguish that there was something; and that the something seemed to bobble. He withdrew the bucket, unfilled, and, allowing a few moments for the ripples to subside, he searched the darkness below again closely. He became conscious of a cold feeling stealing up his spine, then he caught and held his breath as slowly what was below took outline. It was not a dog, a coyote, a pig, or an animal of any kind. It was something else ... and the something else had features that were familiar. At last realization was upon him, his fingers gripped the boards they held as he gradually straightened up.

      "My God!" he cried at last, terror stricken.

      For below him, with white face turned upward as if laughing, was the dead body of Peter Kaden.

CHAPTER XII

       Table of Contents

      MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER

      COINCIDENT with the finding of Peter Kaden's body in the well, certain things became public with regard to others. But to complete this part of it. After finding the body Jean Baptiste hurried into Dallas and gave the alarm. Excitement ran high for a time, and as it was Sunday, in a few hours the spot around the well was crowded. From over all the reservation the people came, and the consensus of opinion was that it was suicide.... Perhaps Jean Baptiste was the only one who had his doubts. If it was suicide, then he was positive it was a precipitated suicide.

      Until the coroner arrived there was no disposition made of the remains, and when he did, the decision of suicide was sustained.

      Since the man Baptiste had started to see was brought to the spot by the excitement, the business in hand was settled thereupon, and that evening, he went to call on the Stewarts with a view to hiring Bill.

      He found Agnes alone, but was invited to enter. From her expression, he could see that he was expected, and while he waited for her father who had gone across the road, they fell into amiable conversation.

      "Springtime is knocking at our door," he ventured.

      "And I am glad to see it, and suppose you are also," she answered.

      "Who isn't! It has been a very severe winter."

      "I think so, too. Are the winters here as a rule as cold as this one has been?" How modest he thought she was. She was dressed neatly in a satin shirtwaist and tailored skirt; while from beneath the skirts her small feet incased in heavy shoes peeped like mice. Her neck rose out of her bodice and he thought her throat was so very round and white; while he noticed her prominent chin more today than he had before. He liked it. Nature had been his study, and he didn't like a retreating chin. It, to his mind, was an indication of weak will, with exceptions perhaps here and there. He reposed more confidence in the person, however, when the chin was like hers, so naturally he was interested. As she sat before him with folded hands, he also observed her heavy hair, done into braids and gathered about her head. It gave her an unostentatious expression; while her eyes were as he had found them before, baffling.

      "Why, no, they are not," he said. "Of course I have not seen many—in fact this is the second; but I am advised that, as a rule, the winters are very mild for this latitude."

      "I see. I hope they will always be so if we continue to live here," and she laughed pleasantly.

      "How do you like it in our country?" he inquired now, pleased to be in conversation with her.

      "Why, I like it very well," she replied amiably. "What I have seen of it, I think I would as soon live here as back in Indiana."

      "I have been in Indiana myself."

      "You have?" She was cheered with the fact. He nodded.

      "Yes, all over. What part of Indiana do you come from?"

      "Rensselaer," she replied, shifting with comfort, and delighted that by his having been in Indiana, he was making their conversation easier.

      "Oh, I see," she heard him. "That is toward the northern part of the state."

      "Yes," she replied in obvious delight.

      "I have never been to that town, but I have been all around it."

      "Well, well!" She was at a loss in the moment how to proceed and then presently she said:

      "You have traveled considerably, Mr. Baptiste, I understand."

      He felt somewhat flattered to know that she had discussed him with others apparently.

      "Well, yes, I have," he replied slowly.

      "That must be fine. I long so much to travel."

      "You have not traveled far?"

      "No. From Indiana to Western Kansas where we were most starved out, and then back to Indiana and out here." He laughed, she also joined in and they felt nearer each other by it.

      "And how do you like it, Mr. Baptiste?"

      "Out here, you mean?"

      "Yes, why, yes, of course," she added hastily.

      "Why, I like it fine. I'm thoroughly in love with the country."

      "That's