Buell Hampton

Again, this embryonic lake was a mirror for sky and cloud – for each nodding flower and grass blade that craned its little neck, in vanity, over the margin, that it, too, might see itself reflected in this looking-glass of nature. Higher than Jacob’s Ladder appeared the bending sky and floating clouds, and yet, inverted, they seemed deeper than lie buried the broken images of a life.

Suddenly Hugh’s reverie was broken in upon by the calling of a brusque “Hello, there, pard-ner! Are you looking for mavericks?”

Hugh found himself face to face with a rather heavy-set man, with a full gray beard and soft dark eyes. The stranger had dismounted from his mustang, and stood eyeing Hugh critically from the opposite bank.

“I have lost no mavericks, that I know of,” replied Hugh, stiffly. “May I ask what you are doing and what you are looking for?”

“I am attending to my own affairs,” replied the man. “I am on my own land, which, perhaps, is more than you can say for yourself.”

“I may not be on my own land,” answered Hugh, half angrily, “but I am attending to my own business. Am I breaking any law by taking a gallop across the valley, or resting by this stream of water?”

The stranger laughed good-naturedly at Hugh’s irritation. “Hot blood of youth,” said he; “come, don’t be so touchy. There’s only a small thing between us – a narrow stream of spring water. You look like a manly fellow, and I suppose you are all right, although you are a stranger to me.”

“I am a resident of Meade,” said Hugh, “and the cashier of one of its banks.”

“Is that so?” asked the man, in surprise. “You are Mr. Stanton, I reckon, Captain Osborn’s friend from Chicago.”

“Exactly,” replied Hugh. “May I inquire your name?”

The stranger threw himself again into his saddle, touched spurs to his horse, and, at a single leap, cleared the brook. Dismounting at Hugh’s side, he said, “My name is Horton. My home is about a mile from here, in Horton’s Grove.”

Hugh’s breath was almost taken away. Here before him stood the great cattle king, John B. Horton, whose estimated wealth was ten million dollars; and yet a man as free from affectation as a cowboy.

“Give us your hand, young man,” said he. “It is well that we should be acquainted. I have been intending to come in and see you, but am kept so exceedingly busy, looking after my cattle, that I have but little time for social matters. Through the machinations of a band of cattle thieves, during the last year I have lost over a thousand head of beeves that were ready for the market.”

“Why, that is a terrible loss, Mr. Horton,” observed Hugh. “Is it not possible to catch the thieves?”

“Easier said than done, young man,” replied the cattle baron. “I would n’t care much for the thirty or forty thousand dollars’ worth of cattle they have already taken, if I could only break up the gang. However, I do not wish to bore you with a ranchman’s troubles. How do you like our country?”

“Oh, very much,” replied Hugh. “I am well pleased with it so far. It seems to be settled with a thrifty class of farmers, and their crops are certainly looking well.”

John Horton laughed derisively. “Farmers!” he ejaculated. “Why, young man, in five years there will not be a so-called farmer within one hundred miles of where you are now standing. The influx of self-styled settlers and farmers is a spasmodic farce, transitory in the extreme. You doubtless regard Meade as a growing, healthy town; yet, within five years from to-day, I shall pasture my cattle on the grass that will be growing in her streets.”

“You astonish me,” said Hugh. “With such a calamity confronting us there can be left but little hope.”

“I am aware,” said John Horton, “that Captain Osborn has a different belief. My old friend, Major Buell Hampton, also takes occasion to brand me as a ‘cattle baron’ in the columns of his paper. Nevertheless, Mr. Stanton, they are both my friends, and I esteem them both as royal good fellows. I assure you, however, that they are sadly mistaken in regard to this being a farmer’s paradise. Wait until the hot winds come. Now hot winds don’t hurt the buffalo grass a particle, for it is indigenous to this soil and climate; but there’s nothing grown by the farmer that can stand before the hot winds.”

“Major Hampton was telling me the other day,” said Hugh, “that the cattle thieves had just stolen two hundred head of your fattest cattle.”

“Yes, that is the latest outrage; but they have been stealing my cattle for the last year. Before the settlers came here we had no cattle thieves to speak of in this country. Major Hampton is a true Southerner, and is doing nis utmost to run down the thieves. I contend that the thieves are none other than the so-called farmers. The major, however, insists that the gang is made up of lawless cowboys.”

“The major seemed very much provoked when he heard of the theft,” said Hugh, “and from the article that appeared in the Patriot the following morning, I imagine that he would be a very severe judge.”

“The major’s personal assistance and the influence of his paper are both on the side of law and order,” replied Mr. Horton. “I have no doubt that sooner or later we shall be successful in running down the thieves.”

The cattle king removed his sombrero, and, leaning against his horse, fanned himself with its broad brim, as he continued:

“The major is a little weak up here,” tapping his forehead, “or else I am when it comes to the matter of politics. I served in a Georgia regiment through the last years of the war, and fought for the cause that was lost. When the war was over, I accepted the conditions of our surrender by respecting the stars and stripes, and have voted a straight Democratic ticket without a scratch ever since. I cannot understand how the major could give up his democracy for populistic doctrines. However, he is withal a noble fellow.”

As the cattle king bared his head, Hugh noticed that it was quite bald, and that it had a great red scar near the crown.

“It is very gratifying,” said Hugh, with his eyes on the scar, “to see those who fought for the lost cause and those who fought to subdue the rebellion living here, side by side, in peace.”

“Yes,” replied Horton, “the wounds are all healed, but the scars are left. Hello! there comes Bill Kinneman, one of my most trustworthy cowboys. Hello, Bill, what’s the news?” Bill Kinneman was short and stoop-shouldered. He had a low forehead, thick black hair, cut square around, a small nose, a protruding chin, and a scraggy beard. A pair of squinting, bloodshot eyes combined with his other facial make-up to give him the appearance of a brute.

“Oh, nothin’ much to tell,” replied Bill. “I foller’d ‘em five days, an’ they clean got away from me.”

“Could n’t you pick up their trail?”

“Yass, we found whure they crossed the Cimarron down in the Strip.”

“Well, why did n’t you follow them?” asked Horton, impatiently.

“We foller’d ‘em as fur as we could, but somehow we wuz jist strugglin’ round in the coils uv error, fur we dun lost the trail – we did fur sure.”

“Well, Bill, I am disgusted with you,” said Mr. Horton. “I used to think you were a nervy fellow and sleuth-hound to track down a thief, but of late you always disappoint me.”

“I know I’m a pore cuss, but don’t unbosom yourself too malignant agin me. Don’t be too hard on me, Mr. Horton. I would n’t wonder a mite if he’d overtake ‘em,” said Kinneman.

“Who the devil do you mean?” asked Horton, angrily.

“Major Hampton; he’s quite a stayer. He’s at least a mighty sight thet ere way. He’ll whup the hull danged outfit if he comes up with ‘em, thet’s what he’ll do. A shootin’ is likely to ensoo if he finds the thieves. Anyway, suthin’ mighty thrillin’ will occur on the landscape thereabouts, for the major will sure ‘nuff use his artillery.”

“Where did you see the major?”

“Way down on the Cimarron, below the red bluffs, jist whure I turned back. I was assoomin’ you’d want me to come an’ make a report. The major sent word to ye thet he was purposin’ to foller ‘em, an’ he’d go clar to the Missoury if he had to.”

“All right, Bill. You may go on to the ranch, put up your pony, and get something to eat.”

The cowboy touched his spurs to the jaded bronco and galloped away up the valley.

“Major Hampton,” said Horton, turning to Hugh, “has good blood in him. I have an impression that he will overtake the thieves.”

Soon after this Hugh took leave of Mr. Horton, who gave him a pressing invitation to call at his ranch. Hugh accepted this invitation by promising to visit Mr. Horton at no distant day.

CHAPTER VIII. – A COMMITTEE OF FIVE

THE Barley Hullers’ Association was a secret society made up principally of tried and true members of the Farmers’ Alliance. It had been founded by Maj. Buell Hampton, who was district organizer of the Farmers’ Alliance in southwestern Kansas. It was said that the primary incentive of the farmers thus associating themselves together was to prevent the excessive prices which they were compelled to pay for articles purchased, and to raise the ruling prices which they had been forced to accept for the products of their farms.

About a mile northeast of Meade, in an old deserted building that had formerly been used as a sugar mill, were the secret lodge-rooms of the organization. This dilapidated building was provided with a spacious reception-room, an anteroom, and a hall of deliberation, and was indifferently illuminated throughout with green and red lights.

The written work of the order was said to be very literary in tone and was based upon the great principle that in union there is strength. Its professed object was to exact justice from the contending forces of the commercial world. Indeed, it was an organization founded on the principles of the brotherhood of man and of fair dealing toward all classes.

Maj. Buell Hampton enjoyed, perhaps, a pardonable pride in this organization, which was strictly a child of his own making. The members had passwords, grips, and everything of that sort, whereby one brother Barley Huller might know another, whether in the dark or in the light. It was a custom, among the members of the organization, to turn out in force on the Fourth of July and other holidays. On such occasions they paraded the streets to the tat-tat-too music of a snare drum and the shrill whistle of a fife. Their badge was a cluster of barley heads, worn as a boutonnihre.

When crops were good the Farmers’ Alliance organization usually languished, but when they were poor a marked revival invariably sprang up. It was the highest ambition of the young farmer who was a member of the local Farmers’ Alliance to show, by his zealous work and adherence to the principles of that organization, that he was worthy and eligible to membership in the Barley Hullers.

There was a system of procedure in these secret meetings which gave a better idea of the aims and accomplishments of the order than anything disclosed in its written by-laws or professions of faith. At these secret meetings one might find two or three dozen stalwart farmers seated on broken chairs and benches, while their chief presided. The exercises consisted of a general exchange of confidences, which were usually made in speeches intended for the general good of the order.

A few evenings after Hugh had made the acquaintance of John Horton, the Barley Hullers had a meeting, at which Bill Kinneman, a prominent yet rather inflammable member, was present. Several members made spirited speeches and finally Kinneman got the floor.

“Mr. President,” said he, “I’m no corn-field sailor ner exhortin’ evangelist, but I’m ‘lowin’ if anybody crosses my trail, why, we’ll jist try a tussle an’ see who’s locoed fust. Fur the las’ ten years I’ve bin ridin’ the range, workin’ like a nigger fur other people, an’ durin’ all this time I hev never hed a single ray uv hope ‘til I jined the Barley Hullers.”

The twenty-five or thirty members sitting around cheered him lustily at this convincing confession.

Bill continued: “There’s a lot uv us laborin’ fellers thet hasn’t hed no privileges up to the present time, an’ now we air proposin’ to hev a little fairer divide. Fur my part, I’m tired uv bankers, cattle kings, middlemen, an’ all the other blood-suckers who air feastin’ in luxury on our hard labor.”

“Hear! hear!” shouted the crowd. Thus encouraged, Kinneman continued:

“Speakin’ wide open and onrestrained like, I want to say it’s mighty nigh time we wuz provin’ a man’s better ‘n money. It’s time our brotherhood wuz banded together tighter ‘n ever an’ thet we stop bein’ slaves fur these ‘ere money kings who hev got their iron heels on our necks an’ air grindin’ us down in the dust like as we wuz a pack of Russian serfs. We ask fur bread an’ they giv’ us a stun; we ask fur meat an’ they give us a serpent, an’ by an’ by we’ll hev to ask permission to breathe the pure air uv heaven, as we take a gallop acrosst the range.”

Wild huzzas and more hand-clapping greeted this, and the speaker continued:

“I’m liable to git hostile in the extreem an’ somebody’s goin’ to git hurt on this ‘ere range afore long onless a change sets in. The question is, hev n’t us workin’ fellers got to thet pint uv life whure money is more respected than the genuine pure artickle uv manhood? Thet’s the question, feller citizens, fur us to settle. Pussonally I’m feelin’ a heap careless.”

Cries of “Good!”

“That’s right!”

“Come again!” were heard on every side.

“Lets us,” continued Kinneman, “take our cue from these ‘ere money fellers. Ev’ry cussed one uv ‘em is in a pool or a trust uv some kind an’ hang together jist like so many cockle-burrs, an’ we, my br’thers, mus’ do the same. We’re the fellers thet’s workin’ like dogs an’ they’re the fellers thet’s hevin’ all the big dinners. Now, I say, is the time to stop. It’s no longer a question uv capital an’ labor, it’s a question uv life, an’ jestice on one side an’ death an’ injestice on t’other. There’s liable to be a select assortment uv guns doin’ onusual permiscus work in these ‘ere diggins if some people don’t quit assoomin’ sooperior airs over us laborin’ men. My doctrine is to hustle an’ git what b’longs to us, peace’ble if we can; if not, git it anyway.’.rsquo;

“That’s right!”

“Now you’re talking!” was heard from the open-mouthed auditors.

“Now, gen’lemen,” concluded Kinneman, “I don’t b’lieve in a feller screechin’ round too much. Talk’s mighty cheap. I b’lieve in bein’ plenty p’lite; same time I want to be doin’ suthin’. An election is clus to hand, an’ the fellers thet git the support uv the Barley Hullers in this ‘ere county air dead sure to be elected, and I onbosom myself enuff to say that they’ve got to pay fur it an’ pay fur it han’some, an’ no misunderstandin’, an’ don’t yer furgit it, an’ – ”

“Hold on!”

“Hold on!” cried several voices. “We must not go into politics.”

“Major Buell Hampton,” said one member, “has expressly provided that politics shall not be mixed up in this organization. Now, while I am with Brother Kinneman in much that he has said, yet I draw the line on violating any of the rules of the order.”

Bill Kinneman was about to reply, when a greasy-looking member stealthily took him by the coat sleeve and whispered a few words to him.

“All right, Mr. President,” said Bill, “p’rhaps I wuz actooally a leetle too fast, an’ I ‘poligize fur whoopin’ it up in so ondefensible an’ hostile fashion.” Other members spoke, but in a less fiery manner. Most of them were moderate in their expressions, and urged that in union there was sufficient strength to accomplish all the aims in a peaceful and friendly manner.

Soon after the meeting broke up, the lodge-room became a lobby, thick with smoke from numerous pipes. Kinneman was praised on every hand for his fiery speech. A little later the farmers wended their way in different directions toward their respective homes, while Kinneman and his four associates skulked back into the old mill building, and sought the privacy of the room of deliberations, taking special care that the window curtains were well drawn.

“You mighty nigh upset our game, Brother Bill,” said Dan Spencer.

“Well, I ‘poligize. I clar furgot myself, sure,” replied Kinneman, good-naturedly. “Now, if it’s agreed, I’ll act as chairman, an’ we’ll state briefly the objec’ of this ‘ere conference. You fellers nachally know thet most uv the Barley Hullers in the county air opposed to mixin’ up in pol’tics’cause Major Hampton has said they mus’ n’t. Now, boys, I reckon us five fellers know er thing or two thet beats a bob-tail flush all holler. There’s five offices to be filled in this ‘ere county this fall. The Democrats hev nominated a man fur each office, an’ the Republicans hev dun the same, an’ so hev the Populists. Now, I ain’t pluckin’ brands from the burnin’ fur nuthin’, an’ I move thet we be a committee – a committee uv five – to see each uv these candidates an’ collect as much as we kin fur influencin’ the Barley Hullers in this ‘ere county. We’re a secret society an’ they don’t know we ain’t ‘lowed to mix up in pol’tics. I hev a theery we can harvest each uv ‘em fur a couple uv hundred, an’ thet would make a mighty neat ‘jack-pot’ to divide ‘tween us five, an’ make things kind er gay an’ genial like.”

“That’s right,” cried his associates. “I second the motion,” said another, and soon it was agreed and carried that these five stalwart “lights” of the Barley Hullers, who for self-aggrandizement were thus willing to bring reproach upon their society, should sally forth and secretly pounce upon the various political candidates, and, under the promise of giving to each the support of the Barley Hullers – of the county, – intimidate them into paying certain sums of money.

It should not be imagined that these five members constituting the committee were fair representatives of the organization. Indeed, most of the Barley Hullers were honorable, well-meaning, hard-working men, who had joined the society in the hope that it might better their condition both socially and financially. There was an air of mysticism surrounding the order, as there is surrounding all secret societies; and while nothing was positively known of its inside workings, except by its own members, yet the Barley Hullers was at this time held in high regard by the Farmers’ Alliance societies throughout the country. As usual, however, the rank and file became only tools in the hands of a few demagogues who managed to gain and hold control for the sole purpose of pelf and plunder.

CHAPTER IX. – AN AFTERNOON DRIVE

HUGH STANTON was not only a successful, hard-working young man of affairs, but he possessed innate refinement and gentleness. Scrupulously honorable himself, he frequently gave others credit for higher and more manly attributes than they really possessed. His unusually dark hair and fair skin would cause the most casual observer to turn and look at him a second time. His small feet and hands and tapering fingers suggested effeminacy; but Hugh Stanton was not effeminate, for his heart was strong and manly. In appearance he was an ideal society man – a veritable Beau Brummel. As a matter of fact, however, he had scarcely any knowledge of society or of its ways.

His father had fought in the battle of Bull Run, and later at Bethel Church. Hugh was then an infant in his mother’s arms. The young mother was heartbroken when she learned that her husband was numbered among the missing. She died a year later. The son was christened with his father’s name and was given a home with his uncle and guardian. He possessed a studious turn of mind, and, even as a boy, had been noted for his success at school. Later, he led his classes with distinction at Princeton. Dr. Jack Redfield was Hugh’s ideal of true manliness, and, to the credit of Jack, his measure of sterling manhood was Hugh Stanton.

After their college days they had kept up, in an intermittent way, their social relations, but, as year after year went by, each became more and more absorbed in his own special pursuits, and gradually they drifted away from their old chum-day relations. Although Hugh had lived at Meade for a month, he had never thought of writing to Jack Redfield, and if Jack had been asked Hugh’s address, he could not have given it, for the very good reason that Hugh had neglected naming his objective point in the West.

One morning when Captain Osborn came to the bank he handed Hugh a daintily perfumed, monogrammed note. Opening it, Hugh found an invitation from Mrs. Osborn to drive with her that afternoon to the Hortons, where they were expected to dine.

Hugh offered the note to the captain, who asked, “Well, what is it?” looking at Hugh over his glasses.

“A letter from Mrs. Osborn,” replied Hugh.

“Well, is it not for you?” inquired the old captain.

“Certainly,” said Hugh, “but then – ”

“If it is for you, it is not for me,” said the captain, “and, Hugh, my boy, understand for now and for all time that I have no curiosity as to any arrangements my wife may make or any letters she may choose to write. I trust her without question.”

“I hardly know why,” said Hugh, “but some way your words chill me.” He waited a moment in silence, and then went on, “I wish I were nearer to you, Captain, for ever since I saw that tear fall on little Harry’s sleeping face I have longed to be as close to you as a son.” The captain noticeably softened, and said, huskily, “There, there, Hugh, my boy, sit down and let me tell you something. You know I am much older than Mrs. Osborn. We have been married twelve years. She was about to enter a convent when I met her pretty girlish face and fell desperately in love with it; and, notwithstanding my almost fifty years of life, it was my first and only love-affair. She finds pleasure in society, and I despise it most cordially – regard it as a hollow mockery. It is not right to object to that in which she finds innocent pleasure. I am a sort of turned-down back number, while she is in the zenith of life. I have thought it all over, and here are my deductions: Mrs. Osborn must have an opportunity of pursuing those innocent paths of amusement in which she finds her greatest pleasure. She has given to me our little Harry, God bless the boy! She is Harry’s mother, and therefore she can do no wrong. When you are older you will learn that love is a looking-glass sort of an affair, framed about with a gossamer network of illusions, easily broken and impossible to mend.”

There was a pathetic tenderness in the old captain’s words as he uttered the last sentences, and it struck Hugh, at the time, as being odd.

“Now, my boy,” continued the captain, as he looked kindly at Hugh, “I have spoken to you as to no other person on earth. If you were my own son I could not have spoken more freely.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, as he took the captain’s outstretched hand, “I shall strive earnestly to prove myself worthy of your confidence.”

“Not only on account of your father, whose memory I certainly revere, but also on account of yourself, I shall try to be all that a father should be to such a son; and, Hugh, if anything should ever happen to me, do as much for little Harry, and the account will be more than balanced.”

Hugh gave his promise, and soon after he turned to his desk, but the captain’s words kept ringing in his ears. The promise that he had made impressed him strangely, and he was conscious of a disturbed, rather than an uncomfortable, feeling. He sent a reply to Mrs. Osborn, accepting her invitation, but was not at all sure that he had acted wisely. During the afternoon, Mrs. Osborn called at the bank, and Hugh was driven away in her elegant carriage. It was a lovely Indian summer afternoon, with scarcely a breath of air stirring. As they turned from the street into the country road, Mrs. Osborn, who had kept up an animated yet light conversation, said:

“For one afternoon, Mr. Stanton, you are my captive.”

“A most willing one, I assure you,” replied Hugh, laughingly. She threw herself gracefully back among the soft upholsterings of the carriage seat, and jestingly replied:

“Indeed, is that so? Had I known your willingness, I certainly would have called you away from the bank counter long before this.”

“We have been very busy of late,” replied Hugh. “It is not often we can get away.”

“You must not serve the god of business too faithfully,” said Mrs. Osborn, “but rather make him serve you.”