The Land of Lure: A Story of the Columbia River Basin

by Elliott Smith

The news of the activities of the Government surveyors in the region the summer before had been spread broadcast throughout the East, and unscrupulous land boomers had announced that the reclamation by the Government of the vast area was an assured fact, some even going so far as to announce the exact amount of the appropriation made by Congress for this purpose and so, as a result of this, and also to the fact that the railroads had again put on a homeseekers excursion rate, the early spring brought an unusually large number of prospective settlers into the community.

They came in parties, toiling their way across the level stretch of country, now still moist from the melted snow, showed no evidence of the clouds of sand and dust that would follow after a few short weeks of sunshine. The surface of the unplowed ground was thickly carpeted with a specie of fine grass, known as sheep grass, that always came first in the spring, to be followed by the more succulent bunch grass.

Myriads of tiny plants were pushing their way through the surface and many were bursting into full blossom before they had lifted their dainty heads more than a few inches above the grass roots. Many and varied were their shapes and colors, each vieing with the other in hastening to bloom, that it might flaunt its beauty for the longest possible time before being forced to close its petals by the ever increasing heat of the sun.

To those of the tourists who came at this season of the year the prospects were most inviting. Never had they, in their homes in the East, had such a range of vision, such an unlimited expanse to sweep with their bewildered eyes, and the kaleidoscopic changes came so rapidly, as they turned to admire it.

It was like a dream. Starting with the snow capped peaks of the mountains, they could follow the scene downward past the snowline, over the barren space that intervenes between it and the timber, which starts in with its varied shades of green, the peculiar, yellowish green of the tamarack, that seldom grows at an altitude of less than three thousand feet. Intermingled with this would appear the spots of dull brown, showing the clumps of sarvic berries and choke cherries, the favorite haunts of the bear and deer. Towering above these thickets the slender white trunks and branches of the quaking asp could be plainly seen. Farther down the shades of green become darker as the forests of fir, pine and cedar come within the range of vision. Flaming patches of sumach adorn the edges of the rocky spots that occasionally occurred in the picture. On downward the dull gray of the sagebrush marks the upper rim of the breaks of the Columbia river, then a blank of smooth rock wall that drops for hundreds of feet to the water's edge. The river itself is hidden from view by the undulating hills that lay immediately adjacent to the plains. Here the scene changes from its wild rugged beauty to one indicating the presence of mankind. The vast expanse of sagebrush is dotted here and there with square patches of a new and different shade of green, the green of the freshly growing grain, each of these being marked by the presence of a newly constructed home. The green of the grain fields and the bare, unpainted walls of the homes refuse to harmonize with the color scheme of the desert and are easily distinguished as not being a part thereof, and do not figure in the picture. Passing them by with a hasty glance, barely sufficient to note their remoteness, one from the other, the beholder allows his gaze to gradually take notice of objects nearer at hand, and finally to lower his eyes, with a sigh of satisfaction, and looks with wonder into the faces of the little desert flowers blooming happily at his very feet, and asks himself what connection there is between these two, the glacial peaks and the tiny desert flower, so different in every way, and yet both so necessary for the completion of the picture.

Travis Gully and his wife anxiously awaited the arrival of the copy of the paper in which their letter was to be published and given to the world, and when it came they reread every word, and felt reassured that it contained no misleading statements, no invitation to others to come unprepared to take up the hardships of the life of a homesteader, but the entire article teemed with the elements of hope and optimism that showed their faith in a successful end.

During April and May the influx of homeseekers was at its height, and almost daily parties of prospective settlers stopped at the Gully home for information as to directions and locations of pieces of land they wished to secure. Gully's first year's experience had given him knowledge of conditions that had enabled him to overcome to a certain degree some of the difficulties with which he had to contend. During his enforced idleness of the winter just passed he had planned the course he proposed to pursue during the ensuing year. He had decided to introduce some of the dry land farming methods that had been successfully tried out in other sections of the Northwest, an idea of which he had gleaned from some Government Bulletins that had been given him by the postmaster of the village.

As a result of his experiments along these lines, and due to a most favorable season in the way of absence of hard winds and seasonable showers, Gully's homestead presented a most creditable appearance. His field of wheat was by far the best in the neighborhood, and as he had planted nothing but the most hardy varieties of corn and vegetables his garden promised to be a success, and as a result of the showing he was making, his place became one of the points of interest to which most of the visitors were directed by the people of the village, or to which the real estate agents always brought their clients, and would exclaim: "What this man has done in this country others can do."

Spurred on by his success and the ever increasing feeling of independence, Travis Gully toiled on thruout the spring. The constant recurrence of visitors to view their home was a source of diversion to the Gullys, and a means whereby many dollars came into their possession.

They made no charge for the hospitality extended to the strangers who came their way, but the offering of a glass of water or, as was often the case, a lunch and an hour's rest to the tired, dusty travelers who could not but see and appreciate their condition, was always rewarded by liberal offerings of change, made in most instances to the children. Thus the immediate requirements of the family were met and a small amount saved.