The Dune Country

by Earl H. Reed

The answering gurgle indicated that the “bracer” was “going home,” and that, to say the least, it was not homeopathic. After the restoration of “Black Betty” to her hiding-place, the “Jedge” resumed the conversation, without referring to the cold water which we had suggested. Possibly the mention of it had affected him unpleasantly.

He explained the map in detail, and told of several changes that would have to be made in a new one. This led to long accounts, punctuated with more winks by Sipes, of petty litigation, in which he had taken a prominent part, as a result of which a lot of land had been condemned and some new roads established. Had it not been for him, the highways would have been “entirely inadequate, and in very poor condition.”

In summing up his public services he said that he had lived in that part of the state for about thirty years. His advice was now being generally followed, and the country was beginning to pick up. He had several small farms for sale which he would like to show me, if I thought of locating around there; in fact, there was nothing anywhere in that part of the country that was not for sale.

I told him that my interest in the subject was entirely of an artistic character.

“Well, if that’s the case, I can show you a lot of fine scenes, and if you’ll come over some day and get into a buggy with me, I’ll drive you over to the county seat when I go to court.”

He seemed much flattered when I asked him to allow me to make a sketch of him. After it was finished, he examined it critically, to the intense amusement of Sipes. He thought the nose was a little too big, and the hair was “too much mussed up.” He also thought that the drawing made him look a little older than he was, and that the eye was not quite natural, “but of course I can’t see the side of my face, and it may be all right.

“As you are interested in art, you’ll enjoy looking at my pictures.”

He then showed me the array on the walls, of which he was very proud. The crayon portrait of his first wife, with the cheeks tinted pink and the ear-rings gilded, he thought “was a fine piece of work.” A man had come along, about ten years ago, and had made three “genuine crayon portraits” for ten dollars. The “Jedge” supposed that “now days they would be worth a great deal more than that.” The other two “genuine crayon portraits” represented his father and mother, an antiquated couple in the Sunday dress of pioneer days, who looked severely out of their heavy frames. The man had taken the old daguerreotypes away to be copied, and when the completed goods were delivered, he claimed that “the frames alone were worth as much as the pictures.” In this he was quite right.

The “Jedge” wanted to show me an album containing pictures of the rest of his relatives, but fortunately he was unable to find it. In searching for it, however, he ran across a box containing a collection of Indian arrow heads, flint implements, and spears, which were of absorbing interest. He had found some of them himself, and numerous friends, knowing of his hobby, had furnished him with many of these valuable relics of the red man, whose white brothers came with guns and strong waters and appropriated his heritage.

He soon began to show signs of more pains in his back. With an apologetic reference to them, and with more sly winks from Sipes, “Black Betty” was again produced, and her fiery fluid again solaced the arid esophagus of the “Jedge.”