Kate Mulhall A romance of the Oregon Trail
Father and I were married once upon a time, and it didn't hurt us
even if people did talk."
Kate couldn't fathom what was running in her mother's mind, for she
had said time and again that she was not going to marry and leave
home. But when alone, she was troubled by the thought that she did
feel just a little jealous when she heard that Isaac Pelton had gone
home with Linda Shaeffer two {18} Sundays ago, and that James Price
had also paid attentions to her.
"Fudge," she said to herself, "what's the matter with me?" and
pinched her arm until it hurt for having such a thought. She should
really be glad of it, for Linda was her friend. But, in spite of her
effort to banish it, the idea would come back when thinking of Pelton
as Linda's beau.
James Price was of a good family, but several years older than either
of the girls; in fact, as thought in those days, bordering on
bachelordom. He was of good address, but not ambitious to make his
mark in the world, aside from mingling with the petty politicians of
the county; and might have passed for one of them. Price called
twice at the Mulhall cabin and stayed unusually late; there was
nothing to indicate that he had come to "see" Kate, but the sharp
eyes of the mother easily detected the object of his visit, and later
she told Kate so.
The Hardys lived on a rented farm not far from the Mulhalls and they
had been neighbors for several years. Kate and Ben attended school
together, had pulled on the long grapevine in the tug-of-war on the
same team or on opposite sides; had been to candy pullings in the
sugar making season, and twice were the last "spelled down" as
captains of the two opposing camps of spellers. But that they were
old enough to marry seemingly never occurred to either of them.
Ben was the opposite of Kate in complexion, figure {19} and general
appearance. While Kate was very dark, Ben was fair--almost
pale--with deep blue eyes; Kate's eyes were almost coal black and her
face was full, while Ben's was spare. Ben stuttered just a little,
but enough to be noticed and occasionally to amuse those with whom he
was not well acquainted. Ira Hardy, Ben's father, was not thrifty in
worldly matters. Some would say he was shiftless or indolent;
whatever the cause, the elder Hardy suffered by the imputation, and
his son Ben with him.
One day Kate came home from a visit to her Uncle Tim's with the news
that he was going to Oregon. Her cousin Jacob had written of
mountains miles high where you could see snow all summer, and yet it
would be warm in the valley; and the grass remained green all winter.
Potatoes were selling there for three dollars a bushel, eggs sixty
cents a dozen and butter for seventy-five cents a pound; daisies
bloomed in December and apple trees would bear in three years from
the graft. Jacob also wrote that there were no wild turkeys or bees
in all that region; if his father could bring a swarm of honey bees
he would be able to sell them for a thousand dollars spot cash. He
added a statement about there being no slavery in Oregon.
What most impressed father Mulhall was the report of no slavery
there, and that the grass remained green all winter. They all knew
that what Jake wrote would be found true; but he had neglected to
describe the difficulties of a trip to Oregon--the {20} danger,
fatigue, intolerable dust, alkali water and a thousand other things
which would not fit into such a fine picture.
"I tell you, Catherine, if you will agree to it and Kate will go
along, I've a notion to go to Oregon this very next year." "But what
will you do with the farm?" the good wife inquired by way of
response. "What's the use of a farm if we can't make any money on
it? Sam Kemper sold nearly a full steam-boat load of hogs for a
hundred dollars, and just went off leaving his farm to be sold for
taxes." "I'm in favor of going, and that's all I have to say," was
Kate's comment as she climbed the ladder to the loft.
That night again Kate was wakeful; try as best she could to sleep,
her eyes would remain open. Gradually the vision of Oregon faded
from her mind, but that jealous thought of Linda would not down.
Nevertheless, what was Isaac Pelton to her? Didn't she scorn the
very thought; and hadn't she erected a lasting barrier between them?
It soon became known that Squire Mulhall was going to Oregon the next
spring, and an unexpected buyer came for the farm; it went at a low
price, but that was better than leaving it to be eaten up with taxes.
Preparations now began in earnest for the great journey.
Kate wanted the mare Nell to ride, and when she thought about the
side-saddle, remarked to her mother, "I'm going to have a saddle I
can ride with {21} comfort and safety, and they may say what they
please. You and the children must have Dick and Ned and a carriage
like Sam McCoy's," Kate continued; "they'll take you through all
right."
Squire Mulhall was a quiet man, of few words and meant whatever he
said. He did not hesitate to condemn slavery, though not from the
housetop; but would not conceal his real sentiments, thereby
incurring the displeasure of his neighboring slaveholders without
forfeiting their respect. Some other subjects, one of which was the
use of whisky--upon which he held positive opinions--developed real
enemies; he said as little as possible about them, and went the even
tenor of his way.
That was before the time of temperance societies or of saloons as
known in later days, when the school-master, or even the parson,
would take a "wee drop"--sometimes more. Whisky, obtainable in
almost all retail stores at twenty-five cents or less a gallon, was
usually in evidence at social gatherings and often in the harvest
fields.
"Catherine"---the Squire speaking to his wife--"I've a notion to
invite in the neighbors before we go, and include all. Maybe some
won't come, but I want them to know I bear no ill will to any of
them; what do you say?"
"Such a crowd--you wouldn't know what to do with them," was
Catherine's cautious response.
Kate suggested, "Send them to the barn and let them dance on the
thrashing floor."
{22}
"That's the thing," continued Mulhall, "the women folks put off their
extra duds in the cabin, and the men go to the barn--plenty of room
there."
"Anything to please you and Kate; I'll do the best I can, but you're
undertaking a big job," Catherine said.
And so plans were laid for a farewell party during the months before
the start was to be made for Oregon.
"Let me see," asked the Squire, "how will we go about inviting 'em;
post up notices, would you say?"
"You wouldn't want that man Tracer, who treated you so last year and
said so many mean things, would you?" inquired Kate.
"Why not? It didn't hurt me a bit; it did him. Let 'em all come and
wipe the slate clean," Mulhall responded.
"It would be better to write the invitations and send them around,"
Kate said.
"Well, well, have your way," answered the Squire, "but I'd like to
invite everybody."
"How'd you expect to light the barn? Candles would blow out or run
down so fast they wouldn't last long," Catherine asked without
receiving an answer.
Next morning Kate went over to see Ben Hardy--called "Bennie" by
everybody--to ask his help in making ready for the party. Although
just past nineteen, Ben hardly looked like a grown-up. As a boy he
had been a regular "towhead," and his hair hadn't darkened much yet
which, with a light {23} complexion, made him look very young for his
age. Kate and Ben had always been good schoolmate friends, and she
thought no more of asking a favor of him than she would of a younger
brother old enough to help her.
"I golly, you bet I'll help you," Ben said; and at once the two began
the planning.
Squire Mulhall's barn was large, with a capacious thrashing floor
between the two mows, one for grain and the other for hay. A wide
door on either side opened the way for a team to drive in one way and
out the other.
"I've got it," Ben exclaimed after talking about how to light the
barn; "we'll take two or three barrels, knock out the ends, fill them
with dirt and stick torches in the dirt. You just leave it to me,
Kate, and I'll make that barn floor so light you can see to read.
Besides," he added, "it's full moon that night."
Any reader who may have had the experience of cutting down a "coon
tree" by the light of a hickory bark torch will readily understand
the origin of Ben's idea. Coons were plentiful in the Missouri
bottom lands; a story is told that during the Civil War some people
were compelled to adopt a diet of elm bark fried in coon grease as a
substitute for bread and butter.
Meanwhile Squire Mulhall was busy cleaning up things about the barn,
fixing a long table where the women folks could put their
knickknacks, and bought {24} a half dozen tin cups, which he said
would be enough to go around with the "gourds" they had. These were
to be placed by the cider barrel that would stand just outside the
barn where all could help themselves.
Mulhall rode over to see if Pelton would let Andrew come and play for
the dancers, and Jennie help Catherine in the house; and added, "Of
course they can bring Margie along." Pelton had already received an
invitation from Kate, and wondered if it was written in her own hand;
it was real neat and Ben Hardy had delivered it. Pelton didn't dream
of being jealous of Ben, thinking of him as a mere boy, not realizing
there was but a year's difference in age between Ben and Kate.
"Why, yes," Pelton said, "you can call on me to help in any way I
can; and I will bring over a barrel of cider."
Mulhall said he had already provided for a barrel, but Pelton thought
one wouldn't be enough and said he would bring another. One of the
neighbors provided a bushel of hickory nuts; another some walnuts,
and the like. Still another, not to be outdone, brought a good
supply of leaf tobacco he had raised, and a great number of cob
pipes; many women smoked in that day.[1]
Mother Hardy said it would never do to leave {25} Catherine all the
work of providing for so large a crowd, and the other women thought
the same; so word came to her not to bother about the table at the
barn, for they would bring their own dishes and enough of everything
all the people could eat. The fact was, when the word passed around
that Squire Mulhall was going to give a farewell party, with
everybody invited, class prejudice broke down. Or at least it was
suspended; apparently everyone was pleased, and ready to join to make
it a great success.
A few days before the party, a man rode up to the door of the Mulhall
cabin.
"Won't you come in?" was the Squire's greeting. Without seeming to
notice the invitation, the stranger asked, "Is this Squire Mulhall?"
"Yes, won't you come in?" was the renewed invitation.
"I jest come to tell ye," the stranger continued, "I live down in
Jackson Township where that feller last year came and talked so mean
about ye. We believed him and talked about as mean as he did; but it
was all a lie. So we got together yesterday and signed this paper to
let you know afore you go to Oregon that we now know it was all a
lie, and don't want you to hold anything against us. If ye will let
us, we want to bring up a nice fat critter and barbecue it for your
friends; ye needn't turn yer hand over to pay a cent, and we will
bring a lot of things to go with it."
The man's manner was proof of his sincerity. {26} After the Squire
had assured him that he and his friends would be welcome without
bringing anything, but that they might bring whatever they wanted to,
the stranger rode off without going into the cabin.
Hearing what had been said, Kate came near, threw her arms around her