The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [15]
He smoothed out the paper with his long fingers.
“Right here,” Isaac said, pointing to the words, “it talks about the Homestead Act that was passed by the United States Government. Back in 1862.”
Henry Ossian said, “Maybe I have heard something about that. Always figured there had to be some kind of catch.”
I poured Mrs. DuPree’s coffee.
“No, sir. Any man, even an unmarried woman, says so right here, can claim a hundred and sixty acres of public land.”
“That don’t mean it’s open to Negroes,” Henry Ossian said.
“That’s where you’ve been misled. There’s Negroes homesteading all over out west. The Homestead Act doesn’t care about the color of a man’s skin. A man’s a man in the West.”
“Come on, you’re pulling my leg.”
“Get me a stack of Baptist Bibles, Mother. This man doesn’t believe me.” Then Isaac’s face sobered. The boarders leaned forward. I stopped pouring the men’s coffee.
“It’s right here in black and white, men. Can’t get much truer than that. Here’s how it works. You stake out the one sixty, give them eighteen dollars at the nearest land office—they call that a filing fee—and then you put up a house and farm five acres. Live on it for three years and it’s all yours.”
Thomas Lee Patterson whistled low and soft. “I knew there was a reason why I was hanging on to my money.”
“None better,” Isaac said. He took a folded map from the same pocket as before and spread it out, smoothing the creases. A few of the men got up and stood around Isaac for a better look.
“This is South Dakota, just north of Nebraska. Some of the fellows and I have been cowboying at the fort—we’re taking care of the army’s livestock. Practicing, you might say. That Nebraska land’s good. Wish I could get my hands on a few acres of it, but it’s all claimed.” He gave his mother a quick look; she narrowed her eyes. Isaac ran his finger near the lowest crease in the map, stopped, and tapped his finger two times. “But this wasn’t, not this section right here.”
Mrs. DuPree sucked in air between her teeth.
“I’m ranching just as soon as I’m discharged come June.”
“No,” she said. “Not that.”
Nobody seemed to hear her but me. The boarders stared at Isaac, open mouthed. A Negro with a hundred and sixty acres of land, that’s what they were thinking. They had never heard of such. Then, all at once, the men recovered their senses and began talking, their words rushing and overlapping about what they would do if they had a homestead. Their wheat fields would stretch from here to the horizon. They’d have too many cattle to count. No hogs though, they hated hogs. With a hundred and sixty acres they could have big spread-out houses, room after room, and each would have a fireplace. And horses, why, they would drive pairs of high-stepping honey-colored mares and their buggies would be fit for President Theodore Roosevelt himself.
Isaac, his mouth tight, looked down the table at his mother.
“No,” she said above the talk. “Not farming, not that.”
“Ranching,” he said.
“I won’t have it.”
Isaac’s eyes cut away from hers. He looked at each of the men standing and sitting at the table, all of them talking over each other, their faces lit up with the excitement of going to South Dakota. “Corn,” I heard one of the men say. “Sweet corn, that’s what I’ll plant.” Someone else said, “What about tobacco?” and somebody laughed and said, “That’s Kentucky. We’re talking about South Dakota here.”
Isaac looked at Mrs. DuPree and held her hard stare. He didn’t care the least little bit, I saw, what his mother thought. He was a man made of determination; he was going to have his ranch, and that made me admire him all the more.
“Gentlemen,” Isaac said. “It’s been a pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mother and I have some catching up to do.” Only a few men looked his way—they were too busy with their hundred and sixty acres. He got up and pulled out Mrs. DuPree’s chair. As he did, he looked my way. I shook my head to warn him about his mother.