“’Twon’t do no good,” sighed Limping Jim. “He’s lost his head, an’ reason just goes into one ear and out at t’other. When he was scrapin’ aroun’ the front door t’other day, an’ I asked him what he wuz a-layin’ the ground all bare an’ desolate for, he said he was done keepin’ pig-pen. Now everybody but him knows he never had a pig. His head’s gone, just mark my words.”
On the morning of the fourth day Sam’s friends had just secured a full attendance on the log, and were at work upon their first pipes, when they were startled by seeing Sam harness his horse in the wagon and put all his children into it.
“Whar yer bound fur, Sam?” asked the patriarch.
Sam blushed as near as a Pike could, but answered with only a little hesitation:
“Goin’ to take ’em to school to Maxfield—goin’ to do it ev’ry day.”
The incumbent of the log were too nearly paralyzed to remonstrate, but after a few moments of silence the patriarch remarked, in tones of feeling, yet decision:
“He’s hed a tough time of it, but he’s no bizness to ruin the settlement. I’m an old man myself, an’ I need peace of mind, so I’m goin’ to pack up my traps and mosey. When the folks at Maxfield knows what he’s doin’, they’ll make him a constable or a justice, an’ I’m too much of a man to live nigh any sich.”
And next day the patriarch wheeled his family and property to parts unknown.
A few days later Jim Merrick, a brisk farmer a few miles from the Bend, stood in front of his own house, and shaded his eyes in solemn wonder. It couldn’t be—he’d never heard of such a thing before—yet it was—there was no doubt of it—there was a Pike riding right toward him, in open daylight. He could swear that Pike had often visited him—that is, his wheatfield and corral—after dark, but a daylight visit from a Pike was as unusual as a social call of a Samaritan upon a Jew. And when Sam—for it was he—approached Merrick and made his business known, the farmer was more astonished and confused than he had ever been in his life before. Sam wanted to know for how much money Merrick would plow and plant a hundred and sixty acres of wheat for him, and whether he would take Sam’s horse—a fine animal, brought from the States, and for which Sam could show a bill of sale—as security for the amount until he could harvest and sell his crop. Merrick so well understood the Pike nature, that he made a very liberal offer, and afterward said he would have paid handsomely for the chance.
A few days later, and the remaining Pikes at the Bend experienced the greatest scare that had ever visited their souls. A brisk man came into the Bend with a tripod on his shoulder, and a wire chain, and some wire pins, and a queer machine under his arm, and before dark the Pikes understood that Sam had deliberately constituted himself a renegade by entering a quarter section of land. Next morning two more residences were empty, and the remaining fathers of the hamlet adorned not Sam’s log, but wandered about with faces vacant of all expression save the agony of the patriot who sees his home invaded by corrupting influences too powerful for him to resist.