Vanguards of the Plains | Page 8

stands
double more 'n men. You'll see when you get older. I know about you
freightin' off to Santy Fee. You don't know what desset is. You never
see sand. You never feel what it is to want watah. Only folks 'cross the

ocean in the real desset knows that. Whoo-ee!"
I remembered the weird tales she had told us of her girlhood--tales that
had thrilled me with wonder--told sometimes in the twilight, sometimes
by the kitchen fire on winter nights, sometimes on long, still,
midsummer afternoons when the air quivered with heat and the
Missouri hung about hot sand-bars, half asleep.
"What do you know about this trip, Aunty Boone?" I asked, eagerly;
for although she could neither read nor write, she had a sponge-like
absorbing power for keeping posted on all that happened at the fort.
"Cla'n'den"--the woman never called my uncle by any other
name--"he's goin' to Santy Fee, an' you boys with him, 'cause--"
She paused and her shining eyes grew dull as they had a way of doing
in her thoughtful or prophetic moments.
"He knows what for--him an' Jondo. One of 'em's storekeeper an' t'other
a plainsman, but they tote together always--an' they totin' now. You
can't see what, but they totin', they totin', just the same. Now run out to
the store. Things is stirrin'. Things is stirrin'."
I bolted my cakes, sodden with maple syrup, drank my mug of milk,
and hurried out toward the storehouse.
Fort Leavenworth in the middle '40's was sometimes an indolent place,
and sometimes a very busy one, depending upon the activity of the
Western frontier. On this raw April morning everything was fairly ajerk
with life and motion. And I knew from child-experience that a body of
soldiers must be coming up the river soon. Horses were rushed to-day
where yesterday they had been leisurely led. Orders were shouted now
that had been half sung a week ago. Military discipline took the place
of fatigue attitudes. There was a banging of doors, a swinging of
brooms, a clatter of tin, and a clanging of iron things. And everywhere
went that slapping wind. And every shallow place in the ground held a
chilly puddle. The government buildings always seemed big and bare
and cold to me. And this morning they seemed drearier than ever,
beaten upon by the fitful swish of the rain.
In contrast with these were my uncle's snug quarters, for warmth was a
part of Esmond Clarenden's creed. I used to think that the little
storeroom, filled with such things as a frontier fort could find use for,
was the biggest emporium in America, and the owner thereof suffered
nothing, in my eyes, in comparison with A.T. Stewart, the opulent New

York merchant of his day.
As I ran, bareheaded and coatless, across the wide wet space between
our home and the storehouse a soldier came dashing by on horseback. I
dodged behind him only to fall sprawling in a slippery pool under the
very feet of another horseman, riding swiftly toward the boat-landing.
Neither man paid any attention to me as I slowly picked myself up and
started toward the store. The soldier had not seen me at all. The other
man's face was dark, and he wore the dress of the Mexican. It was only
by his alertness and skill that his horse missed me, but as he hurried
away he gave no more heed to me than if I had been a stone in his path.
I had turned my ankle in the fall and I could only limp to the storehouse
and drop down inside. I would not cry out, but I could not hold back
the sobs as I tried to stand, and fell again in a heap at Jondo's feet.
"Things were stirrin'" there, as Aunty Boone had said, but withal there
was no disorder. Esmond Clarenden never did business in that way. No
loose ends flapped about his rigging, and when a piece of work was
finished with him, there was nothing left to clear away. Bill Banney,
the big grown-up boy from Kentucky, who, out of love of adventure,
had recently come to the fort, was helping Jondo with the packing of
certain goods. Mat and Beverly were perched on the counter, watching
all that was being done and hearing all that was said.
"What's the matter, little plainsman?" Jondo cried, catching me up and
setting me on the counter. "Got a thorn in your shoe, or a stone-bruise,
or a chilblain?"
"I slipped out there behind a soldier on horseback, right in front of a
little old Mexican who was just whirling off to the river," I said, the
tears blinding my eyes.
"Why, he's turned his ankle! Looks like it was swelling already," Mat
Nivers declared,