Chapter 8: The Homesteader
“As it happens, it’s a simple job,” Peterson said, waving a hand. “I need a man to carry a proposal.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. “Proposal fer what?”
“Compensation.” Peterson folded his hands over the head of his cane. “My railroad is acquiring property near Lawrence, Kansas. Most of the homesteaders have accepted our terms. One has not.”
“How much?”
“Thirteen dollars an acre.”
Michael looked up.
Peterson nodded. “The others accepted ten. I increased the amount in hopes we might spare everyone unnecessary unpleasantness. My railroad prides itself on diplomacy. I have no interest in legal battles.”
The waiter arrived with Michael’s ribeye, an inch and a half thick and still sizzling from the grill. The smell of good hot beef filled the space between them. Michael waited until the waiter departed before picking up his knife and fork.
“That’s it?” he asked. “Ya just want me to deliver the proposal?”
Peterson smiled over the rim of his coffee cup.
“What did you think? That I intended to hire you to shoot someone?”
Michael shifted in his chair.
Peterson set the cup down. “No, Mr. Vincent. Railroads connect towns, bring commerce, and feed families. They also require land. I won’t pretend we’re not asking these people to move on, because we are. But thirteen dollars an acre will buy a man another homestead nearly anywhere in this country, with a house, livestock, and money left in his pocket besides. I consider that fair compensation.”
Michael studied his steak for a moment before cutting into it.
“Seems mighty generous.”
“I believe it is.”
Michael dug into his steak. The tang of the juice spread across his tongue as he chewed.
“Ya said four weeks.”
Peterson nodded. “Indeed, I did. Perhaps only three.”
Michael waited.
“Lawrence is five days from Denver in good weather. We’re coming into fall, so I’d rather promise four and deliver sooner. If the line were already finished, I’d simply put you on a railcar.” He smiled faintly. “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”
“Cuz of the homesteader?”
Peterson’s smile became almost apologetic.
“Indeed. Which is why I’m hoping to have this matter settled. With a little providence, you’ll still be home with your wife before Christmas.”
Michael considered that as he cut another piece of steak and chased it with a bite of baked potato. The meal really was excellent. Peterson had been nothing but generous.
“When do I leave?”
Peterson took another sip of his coffee and smiled.
“That’s the spirit, my boy. You can leave whenever you’d like. Though I imagine you’ll need an advance.”
Michael frowned.
Peterson spread a hand. “You’ll need a place to stay tonight. It won’t do to start for Kansas in the dark. And unless I’ve forgotten, you also wanted to send word to your wife.”
Michael nodded.
Peterson reached into his money purse, withdrew two twenty-dollar gold pieces, and laid them on the table.
Michael stared at them.
Peterson chuckled.
“Forty dollars now. The remaining sixty when the work is done.”
Michael did the figures in his head and blinked.
“A hundred dollars... to deliver a proposal?”
Peterson shrugged. “Unless you find the compensation lacking.”
Michael laughed once and shook his head.
“No, sir. As I said about yer offer fer the land, a hundred dollars seems more than generous fer ridin’ to Kansas and speakin’ ta one homesteader.”
“Excellent.” Peterson extended his hand. “Then we have an agreement.”
Michael reached across the table and took it.
“We have an agreement.”
They finished the meal talking of little consequence. Michael thanked the man for the meal, and left the restaurant whistling. .
~
Michael walked along the boardwalk on Colfax the next morning toward the Western Union office. The wind had turned sharp overnight and he pulled his Stetson tighter over his ears. Michael entered the telegraph office. A potbellied stove in the corner chased the chill from the room.
The young man behind the desk looked up.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Michael smiled.
“Need ta send a telegram ta Lander, Wyomin’.”
The clerk’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s a fair piece.”
Michael lifted his money purse.
“I’ve got the coin.”
The young man slid a pad of paper across the counter.
“Dollar for the first ten words. After that, you pay for each one.”
Michael frowned and put pencil to paper.
Sadie. Found work in Denver. I’ll be home by Thanksgiving. I’m sorry it’ll be later than I promised. The job pays well...
He stopped. Too many words. The pencil scratched back across the page.
Found work Denver...
He stared at the city name. Denver stayed. She needed to know where he was. He tried again.
Got robbed...
Michael frowned and struck it out. That would only worry her. He let out a slow breath. Writing a telegram shouldn’t be this hard.
The telegram took him nearly half an hour to write. It finally ended up at fifteen words.
FOUND WORK DENVER STOP
PETERSON RAIL SERVICE STOP
WIRING ADVANCE STOP
PAY OFF NEVELS STOP
HOME BY CHRISTMAS STOP
MICHAEL
He stared at the bottom of the page.
It felt cold. Impersonal. He sighed, lowered the pencil once more, and added two words.
With love.
It cost him a little more, but at least she would know he had wanted to say more than he could afford.
Michael handed the young man his message.
The clerk nodded as he counted the words.
“That’ll be two dollars and forty cents.”
Michael counted out the coins and slid them across the counter.
The clerk nodded once, then went to work, the telegraph key clacking out in Morse code everything Michael needed to say...
...and nothing he had wanted to.
~
Michael spent the rest of the morning resupplying. By the time he rode back to Peterson’s office, the clock over the entry read a quarter till eleven.
Peterson looked up from his desk and smiled.
“Ah, Mr. Vincent. Ready to depart, then?”
Michael nodded.
Peterson motioned toward a man dressed entirely in black.
“I’d like you to meet Britt Christensen. I don’t much care for sending a man out alone. Mr. Christensen will be traveling with you to Lawrence.”
Michael offered his hand.
“Good ta meet ya.”
Britt took it with a single shake.
“Likewise.”
It was all he said. Michael heard the cadence of a foreign accent in the man’s speech.
Peterson smiled.
“Well then, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it. Do be careful. The weather looks as though it may turn.”
Michael glanced through the office window toward the low gray clouds gathering over the plains.
“Looks like snow.”
“Indeed.” Peterson nodded. “And if it does, don’t press on. Blizzards on the high plains are nothing to trifle with.”
Michael nodded once.
He already knew.
For just a moment his thoughts drifted to his father.
Then he pushed the memory away.
Outside, Britt untied the reins of his black gelding. Michael did the same with the bay.
“Think we can make Byers?” Michael asked, having studied the route while buying supplies.
Britt shrugged.
“Maybe. If the weather holds.”
Michael gave a low whistle out of habit, yet Tick did not come running. He smiled sadly to himself, hoping the old hound was already somewhere on the trail to Wyoming.
They turned east, riding down Seventeenth Street toward the edge of Denver.
“Christmas,” Michael murmured under his breath. “I’ll be home by Christmas.”
~
Michael and Britt reached Byers before the storm broke. They both took rooms in the tavern at the edge of town and ate dinner together at first in companionable silence.
Michael glanced over once at the bigger man.
“Yer not from the States,” he observed conversationally.
Britt shrugged.
“No. I was born in Europe.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully.
“My ma used ta show me places like that on a map, she was born there too.”
Britt shrugged. “Perhaps you have heard of my country. Croatia.”
Michael chewed his venison.
“That’s in the Austrian Empire, right?”
Britt’s eyebrows rose.
“Austria-Hungary now.” He tipped his head toward Michael, “you know it?”
Michael shrugged.
“Ma made me learn all the countries.”
Britt chuckled.
“Then you are better traveled than most of your countrymen.”
Michael laughed.
The two men finished the rest of their meal, with Britt telling Michael more of his homeland.
~
Two days later the weather cleared enough for the men to leave Byers. The roads were muddy and the trip was slow. By the time the pair had reached Salina, they had found the familiar camaraderie that came with a shared trail, and sleeping on the ground.
That night Michael ventured a conversation.
Michael poked at the fire with a stick.
“So why’d ya never start a family?”
Britt was quiet for a moment before answering.
“I would have liked one.”
Michael glanced up.
Britt shrugged.
“But it would not be fair.”
Michael frowned.
“Fair?”
“Today I’m riding to Kansas. Next month, New Mexico. Maybe Peterson sends me east. Maybe I do not come back at all.” He gave a small shrug. “Did not seem right to promise a home when I could not promise myself.”
Michael nodded slowly.
“Peterson keeps ya that busy?”
Britt smiled faintly.
“Sometimes.”
Michael studied him across the fire.
“Deliverin’ offers?”
Britt shook his head.
“No. Not those kinds of offers.”
Michael watched him another moment before understanding settled over him.
“Yer one of his protectors.”
Britt shrugged.
“Among other things.”
Michael studied the European in the fire light.
“Ya enjoy it.”
Britt shrugged pouring out the rest of his coffee. “It is a living.”
And with that he rolled into his bedroll, leaving Michael to stare into the fire.
~
Michael and Britt made Lawrence during the third week of November. A mix of industry and farmland, the town bustled even as snow flurries drifted lazily from a gray sky.
Britt nodded toward a boarding house farther up the street.
“We’ll stay the night. Talk to the homesteader tomorrow.”
Michael nodded. The hour was late. The farmer would be sitting down to supper by now. Michael felt his own fatigue in his bones.
~
Morning dawned bright and cold. The storm had passed without doing much damage.
Michael and Britt rode out to the property Peterson hoped to purchase a few miles outside Lawrence. Smoke drifted from the chimney. Two children chased each other through the thin blanket of snow while a woman hung laundry beside the cabin. Out front, a man split firewood.
The whole family looked up as the riders approached.
“Howdy,” Michael called.
The man rested both hands on the maul.
“State your business.”
Michael shifted easily in the saddle.
“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Peterson.”
“The railroad man?”
“Yes, sir.”
The homesteader glanced toward Britt.
“Him I know. You’re new.”
“Met Mr. Peterson in Denver. He asked me ta bring ya an offer.”
The man’s expression hardened. He jerked his chin toward his wife.
“Inside.”
She gathered the children without a word. The cabin door shut behind them.
Only then did the homesteader tell Michael exactly what Peterson could do with his offer.
Michael blinked.
“Ya haven’t even heard it.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Mr. Peterson’s offering thirteen dollars an acre.”
The man shook his head.
“My pa settled this land. Built that cabin with his own hands. My father and granddad are buried on that hill.”
He pointed behind the house.
“Three of my children too.”
Michael swallowed.
“I know what land means. I’ve got a homestead of my own. A wife waitin’ fer me in Wyomin’.”
“Then you ought to understand.”
“I do. That’s why I came myself.”
The man folded his arms.
“The land isn’t for sale.”
Michael drew a slow breath.
“Mr. Peterson asked me ta settle this fair.”
The homesteader’s eyes narrowed.
“It already is fair.”
“It is more than a good price.”
The man gave a humorless laugh.
“Still don’t move my family graveyard. It don’t move this house. I’m not selling.”
Michael stood quietly for a moment, searching for something else to say. There wasn’t anything.
The homesteader picked up his maul and drove it into another block of wood.
“Get off my land.”
Michael turned the bay without another word. As he and Britt rode back toward Lawrence, Peterson’s estimate of four weeks suddenly made a great deal more sense.
~
Michael and Britt returned to town and took lunch at a small café. Michael ordered the soup, but when it arrived, he only stared into it.
“You are troubled, my young friend.”
Britt’s voice finally broke through.
Michael looked up.
“I don’t get it. I mean... I do. The man’s got family buried there. I understand that. But it’s jest bones.”
He shook his head.
“Did ya see their clothes? His wife was hangin’ laundry in a shawl. The little boy’s ankles were showin’. The house needs a new roof. Givin’ up that kind of money...”
He let out a slow breath.
“For bones.”
Britt remained quiet for a long moment, taking another spoonful of soup before he answered.
“Where I come from, all the land belongs to the king.”
Michael looked up.
“I came to America because a man could own his own land. Sounds to me like that fellow’s father came for the same reason.”
Michael nodded slowly.
“I know.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Thirteen dollars an acre would put me and Sadie closer to Fort Bridger. I’d have enough left over ta build a proper herd. Maybe even hire a hand.”
Britt nodded.
“You see the value in the offer.”
He paused.
“He sees the value in never having to leave.”
Michael finally lifted his spoon and took a sip.
“Maybe.” Another spoonful. “Still think he’s a fool.”
~
The weather had not improved the next morning. The sky was once again the color of steel, a bitter wind blowing out of the north.
He hadn’t told Britt where he was going.
Perhaps without the larger man beside him, the homesteader would listen.
Homesteader to homesteader.
He rode into the yard.
The cabin door opened. The man stepped onto the porch.
“I thought I told you to get off my land.”
Michael settled the bay.
“I came ta talk.”
“You came to trespass.”
“Mr. Peterson’s offering thirteen dollars an acre. That’s a fair price.”
“I don’t care if he’s offering a hundred.”
The man’s voice stayed flat.
“My family is buried on that hill.”
Michael glanced toward the rise behind the cabin.
“I know.”
“Then ride away.”
Michael hesitated.
“Ya won’t see money like this again.”
The homesteader took one step off the porch.
“Are you deaf?”
Michael felt his jaw tighten.
“I’m trying ta help ya.”
“Help yourself.”
Silence settled between them.
Michael looked at the weathered roof, the patched barn, the woodpile already running low.
Thirteen dollars an acre. What he wouldn’t have given for an offer like that.
He nodded once.
“I came ta do a job.”
As he turned the bay toward the road, the man’s voice followed him.
“Does your wife know what kind of work you took?”
~
Michael rode the mare back to Lawrence.
Does your wife know what kind of work you took?
The question rolled around in his head. He hated it. Despised it. He had taken the work to keep a roof over his wife’s head, yet he could not shake it. He wasn’t entirely sure Sadie would be proud of what he was doing.
But he didn’t want to dwell on that.
Michael returned to Lawrence in time for lunch. He ate a bowl of stew, then instead of finding Britt, went upstairs. Using paper and an inkwell, he began drafting a letter to Sadie.
She deserved to know why he had found work in Denver instead of coming home.
He spent the better part of the afternoon composing the draft.
Dear Sadie,
I wish the circumstances were not what they were. After five weeks on the trail, the money from the cattle was stolen from me in Denver.
He frowned.
To remedy the situation
Michael stared at the line. He felt dumb just writing it. He scratched it out.
With the tax bill due, I accepted work with the railroad.
There.
That sounded better.
I am in Lawrence, Kansas. If you need to get a hold of me, please feel free to use some of the money to wire Denver. I am hoping to be back there by Christmas. In the meantime, know that I am thinking of you, eager to taste your beef stew and once again be in your company. I will return as soon as I am able.
With all my love,
Michael
He sanded the ink, blotted the page, folded it into an envelope, and walked downstairs. The post office stood only a short walk away. He mailed the letter before crossing the street to the saloon.
Britt looked up from his supper as Michael slid into the chair across from him.
“We’re going out there again,” Michael said.
Britt raised an eyebrow.
“This offer is his family’s ticket out livin’ hand ta fist.”
Britt shrugged.
“Not sure it’ll make much difference.”
“Maybe not.”
“We’ll go.”
That night Michael dreamed of Sadie.
She stood across from him, her eyes filled with disappointment.
“Are you really all right with running a man off his land?”
Michael woke in a cold sweat. He scrubbed a hand down his face before rolling over and pulling the blanket higher.
“I’m keepin’ a roof over her head,” he whispered into the darkness.
“That’s all this is.”
~
The sky was the color of slate and the clouds appeared just as cold the next morning. Michael and Britt rode once more toward the homesteader’s place. They had scarcely crested the hill leading down into the little bowl where the cabin sat before the homesteader motioned his wife and children inside.
Michael didn’t miss the shotgun leaning against the chopping stump.
The man folded his arms.
“Trespassing again, I see.”
Michael leaned forward in the saddle.
“I’ve come to make sure you understand. How good an offer this really is.”
The man shrugged.
“Could be thirteen hundred. Wouldn’t change my mind.”
Michael sighed, his eyes drifting to the cabin where two children pressed their faces against the window.
“Yer holdin’ on ta bones.”
The homesteader’s jaw tightened. Along with his fists. Michael continued anyway. The man needed to hear this.
“It would do more good servin’ the livin’ than the dead.”
That did it.
The man’s face flushed crimson.
“Don’t do it,” Britt warned.
But it was already too late.
The homesteader lunged for the shotgun.
Before Michael could think, his Colt was already in his hand.
It barked three times.
Silence crashed over the little homestead.
Then the cabin door burst open. The woman sprinted toward her husband.
“No!”
Her cry echoed across the hills.
“Ian! No!”
Michael blinked.
The man had been reaching for the shotgun.
But this...
He looked down into the pale face of a man now dead.
Six weeks ago...
That was me.
He holstered the Colt and hurried forward.
The widow gathered her husband’s body into her arms.
“Don’t touch him!” she snapped.
Michael stopped.
He scrubbed a hand down his face.
“He was going for his gun.”
“You murdered him.”
Michael’s shoulders slumped. His hands hung limp at his sides. He turned and walked back to his horse.
“Make sure she gets the money,” he told Britt.
Without another word, he mounted the mare and rode away, the cries of the newly made widow following him long after the homestead disappeared behind the hills.
~
Michael rode back into Lawrence seeing nothing but the blood on the widow’s hands.
He climbed the stairs to the boarding house two at a time. The door shut with a loud click behind him. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and turned toward the window, listening to the noises of the street below.
He took a shaky breath, leaned forward onto his elbows, and buried his face in his hands.
“I killed him.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want ta... but I killed him.”
Gorge rose in his throat. He lurched for the chamber pot in the corner, his breakfast coming back up.
When he was finished, he wiped his mouth and crossed to the washbasin. The man staring back from the mirror looked older than he had that morning.
A knock sounded at the door.
Michael stiffened.
Had the law already come?
He stepped quietly to the door.
“Michael. It’s me. Britt.”
His shoulders eased. He opened it.
Britt stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“Came to make sure you were not about to do something stupid.”
Michael eyed him. “I’m leavin’.”
“Like that.” Britt’s voice was flat.
Michael frowned.
Britt considered him, then clicked his tongue.
“He reached first, but the law is gonna have questions.”
Michael blinked, and his stomach lurched.
Britt reached for the doorknob.
“You need to ride down to the county seat and make sure they hear it from you first.”
Michael’s hands balled into fists.
“If they’ll believe me.”
Britt raised an eyebrow.
“The homesteader is dead. His widow will testify against you. I have already telegraphed Peterson.”
Michael looked at him in disbelief.
“Ya think he’ll help?”
Britt nodded.
“He will want this settled quiet and fast.”
Michael closed his eyes.
“Sounds like ya’ve done this before.”
“Yeah.” It was all the man in black said.
Michael looked up.
“Fine, but I am not lyin’ fer anybody.”
Britt met his eyes.
“No one is asking you to. Tell it like it happened and Peterson will see to the rest.”
Michael reached for the door, feeling like a prisoner already.
Thank you so very much for taking the time to read my work. If you like fiction that shows real life, redemption and the Narrow Road, I would love to hear from you in the comments. Better yet, share my work with others, and help me grow.
I didn’t see that coming. You have a way of surprising me. A good chapter showing how our choices in life are not always easy, and the outcomes are just as often unpredictable.
What a great chapter. The moral ambiguity is phenomenal. What we'll do for the things we hold dear . . .