The Spellbinder
by
Not long since the writer had occasion to pass through the scene of this story. It would be hard to find anywhere a more pleasant and prosperous land. Fertile fields and shady country roads and pastures where sleek cattle are contentedly grazing; great stacks of green alfalfa; farmhouses with flowers and vines, as well as thriving kitchen gardens; windmills that pipe houses with water as well as fill the barn troughs; automobiles and good roads–there could hardly be a greater contrast. And it is pleasant to hear that the pioneers who suffered incredible hardships during the lean years are now reaping the reward of their toil, courage and versatile, indomitable ingenuity.
* * * * *
The frozen soil rattled under the horses’ hoofs; the wagon wheels rattled on their own account. A December wind was keen enough to make the driver wrap his patched quilt closer and pull his battered straw hat lower over his ears. He was a man of thirty, with high, tanned features and eyes that would have been handsome but for their sullen frown.
“I should call it getting good and ready for a blizzard,” observed the other man on the board (seat the wagon had none); “maybe he won’t come.”
“He’ll come fast enough,” returned the driver; “you don’t catch buzzards staying in for weather!”
“I don’t know. He’s a pretty luxurious young scoundrel. Bixby says he had a letter from him–very particular about a fire in his room, and plenty of hot water and towels. Bixby is worried lest the boys make a fuss with him in his hotel.”
“Bixby is a coward from Wayback,” was the driver’s single comment or reply. The other man eyed the dark profile at his shoulder, out of the tail of his eye rubbing his hands up and down his wrists under his frayed sleeves. He was a young man, shorter of stature than the driver. He had a round, genial, tanned face, and a bad cold on him. His hands were bare because he had lent his mittens to the driver; but he wore a warm, if shabby greatcoat and a worn fur cap.
“I don’t suppose,” he said in a careless tone, “you fellows mean to do more than scare the lad well.”
“We scared the last man. Doc Russell got him fairly paralyzed; told him ’bout the Shylock that turned out the Kinneys, and Miss Kinney’s dying in the wagon, she was so weak; and Kin–somebody (‘course he didn’t mention names) shooting that man; and their arresting Kinney, and the jury acquitting him without leaving the box. Oh, he told a lot of stories. Some of ’em, I guess, he made up out of his own head; but that Iowa lawyer swallered the whole batch, hide and hoofs and all. And he couldn’t git out of town quick enough! But what’s the good? Here’s this young dude come again. Say, did you know it’s his pa that owns most of the stock in the trust?”
“No?”
“Yes, sir. He’s got the upper hand of ’em all. They’ve bought up every last bit of foreclosed land ’round here. Yes, we was so mighty smart, we fixed it that nobody’d dare to buy; and nobody ’round here would dare, even s’posing they got the money, which they ain’t–“
“There certainly ain’t much loose money ’round here, Wesley. At least, when I ran the paper I didn’t find it; I was glad to rent an abandoned farm and trade my subscription list for enough corn to pay the first instalment on some stock and a cultivator.”
“Did you pay any more?”
“No; times got worse instead of better. I’d have lost the stock and the cultivator and every blamed thing in the way of implement I’ve got if it hadn’t been for you fellows running the implement man out of the country; he’d a chattel mortgage that was a terror. But what were you saying about the land? Nobody would buy?”