Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file. I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal, were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice. They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it, had, I presume, saved me.
After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and said, “I’ll be your uncle.”
The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me “Son” and offer to dance at my wedding.
There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The Kid.
In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that. He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me.
Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of it, as viewed by the RM’s son.
Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too, were all for me, in this instance — but not even the King’s Horses could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this to me.
The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another, naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my own helpful making.”
She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had never “spunked” much with the OG.
“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance to get back with the old crowd.”