The Crossing [117]
ploughs and hardware, and scissors and buttons, and broadcloth and corduroy, across the Alleghanies, and down the Ohio in flatboats. These he sold at great profit. We had no money, not even the worthless scrip that Congress issued; but a beaver skin was worth eighteen shillings, a bearskin ten, and a fox or a deer or a wildcat less. Half the village watched the barter. The rest lounged sullenly about the land court.
The land court--curse of Kentucky! It was just a windowless log house built outside the walls, our temple of avarice. The case was this: Henderson (for whose company Daniel Boone cut the wilderness road) believed that he had bought the country, and issued grants therefor. Tom held one of these grants, alas, and many others whom I knew. Virginia repudiated Henderson. Keen- faced speculators bought acre upon acre and tract upon tract from the State, and crossed the mountains to extort. Claims conflicted, titles lapped. There was the court set in the sunlight in the midst of a fair land, held by the shameless, thronged day after day by the homeless and the needy, jostling, quarrelling, beseeching. Even as I looked upon this strife a man stood beside me.
``Drat 'em,'' said the stranger, as he watched a hawk- eyed extortioner in drab, for these did not condescend to hunting shirts, ``drat 'em, ef I had my way I'd wring the neck of every mother's son of 'em.''
I turned with a start, and there was Mr. Daniel Boone.
``Howdy, Davy,'' he said; ``ye've growed some sence ye've ben with Clark.'' He paused, and then continued in the same strain: `` 'Tis the same at Boonesboro and up thar at the Falls settlement. The critters is everywhar, robbin' men of their claims. Davy,'' said Mr. Boone, earnestly, ``you know that I come into Kaintuckee when it waren't nothin' but wilderness, and resked my life time and again. Them varmints is wuss'n redskins,--they've robbed me already of half my claims.''
``Robbed you!'' I exclaimed, indignant that he, of all men, should suffer.
``Ay,'' he said, ``robbed me. They've took one claim after another, tracts that I staked out long afore they heerd of Kaintuckee.'' He rubbed his rifle barrel with his buckskin sleeve. ``I get a little for my skins, and a little by surveyin'. But when the game goes I reckon I'll go after it.''
``Where, Mr. Boone?'' I asked.
``Whar? whar the varmints cyant foller. Acrost the Mississippi into the Spanish wilderness.''
``And leave Kentucky?'' I cried.
``Davy,'' he answered sadly, ``you kin cope with 'em. They tell me you're buildin' a mill up at McChesney's, and I reckon you're as cute as any of 'em. They beat me. I'm good for nothin' but shootin' and explorin'.''
We stood silent for a while, our attention caught by a quarrel which had suddenly come out of the doorway. One of the men was Jim Willis,--my friend of Clark's campaign,--who had a Henderson claim near Shawanee Springs. The other was the hawk-eyed man of whom Mr. Boone had spoken, and fragments of their curses reached us where we stood. The hunting shirts surged around them, alert now at the prospect of a fight; men came running in from all directions, and shouts of ``Hang him! Tomahawk him!'' were heard on every side. Mr. Boone did not move. It was a common enough spectacle for him, and he was not excitable. Moreover, he knew that the death of one extortioner more or less would have no effect on the system. They had become as the fowls of the air.
``I was acrost the mountain last month,'' said Mr. Boone, presently, ``and one of them skunks had stole Campbell's silver spoons at Abingdon. Campbell was out arter him for a week with a coil of rope on his saddle. But the varmint got to cover.''
Mr. Boone wished me luck in my new enterprise, bade me good-by, and set out for Redstone, where he was to measure a tract for a Revolutioner. The speculator having been rescued from Jim Willis's clutches by the sheriff, the crowd good-naturedly helped us load our stones between pack-horses, and some of them followed us all the way home that they
The land court--curse of Kentucky! It was just a windowless log house built outside the walls, our temple of avarice. The case was this: Henderson (for whose company Daniel Boone cut the wilderness road) believed that he had bought the country, and issued grants therefor. Tom held one of these grants, alas, and many others whom I knew. Virginia repudiated Henderson. Keen- faced speculators bought acre upon acre and tract upon tract from the State, and crossed the mountains to extort. Claims conflicted, titles lapped. There was the court set in the sunlight in the midst of a fair land, held by the shameless, thronged day after day by the homeless and the needy, jostling, quarrelling, beseeching. Even as I looked upon this strife a man stood beside me.
``Drat 'em,'' said the stranger, as he watched a hawk- eyed extortioner in drab, for these did not condescend to hunting shirts, ``drat 'em, ef I had my way I'd wring the neck of every mother's son of 'em.''
I turned with a start, and there was Mr. Daniel Boone.
``Howdy, Davy,'' he said; ``ye've growed some sence ye've ben with Clark.'' He paused, and then continued in the same strain: `` 'Tis the same at Boonesboro and up thar at the Falls settlement. The critters is everywhar, robbin' men of their claims. Davy,'' said Mr. Boone, earnestly, ``you know that I come into Kaintuckee when it waren't nothin' but wilderness, and resked my life time and again. Them varmints is wuss'n redskins,--they've robbed me already of half my claims.''
``Robbed you!'' I exclaimed, indignant that he, of all men, should suffer.
``Ay,'' he said, ``robbed me. They've took one claim after another, tracts that I staked out long afore they heerd of Kaintuckee.'' He rubbed his rifle barrel with his buckskin sleeve. ``I get a little for my skins, and a little by surveyin'. But when the game goes I reckon I'll go after it.''
``Where, Mr. Boone?'' I asked.
``Whar? whar the varmints cyant foller. Acrost the Mississippi into the Spanish wilderness.''
``And leave Kentucky?'' I cried.
``Davy,'' he answered sadly, ``you kin cope with 'em. They tell me you're buildin' a mill up at McChesney's, and I reckon you're as cute as any of 'em. They beat me. I'm good for nothin' but shootin' and explorin'.''
We stood silent for a while, our attention caught by a quarrel which had suddenly come out of the doorway. One of the men was Jim Willis,--my friend of Clark's campaign,--who had a Henderson claim near Shawanee Springs. The other was the hawk-eyed man of whom Mr. Boone had spoken, and fragments of their curses reached us where we stood. The hunting shirts surged around them, alert now at the prospect of a fight; men came running in from all directions, and shouts of ``Hang him! Tomahawk him!'' were heard on every side. Mr. Boone did not move. It was a common enough spectacle for him, and he was not excitable. Moreover, he knew that the death of one extortioner more or less would have no effect on the system. They had become as the fowls of the air.
``I was acrost the mountain last month,'' said Mr. Boone, presently, ``and one of them skunks had stole Campbell's silver spoons at Abingdon. Campbell was out arter him for a week with a coil of rope on his saddle. But the varmint got to cover.''
Mr. Boone wished me luck in my new enterprise, bade me good-by, and set out for Redstone, where he was to measure a tract for a Revolutioner. The speculator having been rescued from Jim Willis's clutches by the sheriff, the crowd good-naturedly helped us load our stones between pack-horses, and some of them followed us all the way home that they