One Way or Another
“Howdy, where ya’ from?”
“Ohio, how ‘bout you?”
“My kinfolk all from eastern Missouri, ‘round ‘bouts Henry County. But lands gettin’ too expensive there, and my family’s growin’ and we need some more elbow room. When we heard about these government sponsored land grants to open up the Indian land for settlement, we sold what little we had and headed out for the Oklahoma Territory. Gonna’ make a fresh start. Heard its real purdy out there – plenty of grasslands available. Should make for good farmin’. I gots nuthin agin them injuns over there in the Oklahoma Territory. It’s just that that rich grassland over there is meant for farmin’. An injun just ain’t cut out for farmin’. They ain’t no sodbusters. Why, they kain’t set still long enough to raise a crop. They’s nomads, wanderin’ here and there, following the buffalo herds. Hells fire, them redskins wouldn’t know one end of a plow from t’other. Only thing they know how to do is steal chickens from us white folks. Damn horse thieves and cattle rustlers is what they is. Seems to me them injuns have two choices. They can pack up and move or they can face the pony soldiers of the U.S. Cavalry. But they’s got to make room for the white man. One way or another”. The Missouran is eager to begin tomorrow’s race.
On the day of the race to the Oklahoma Territory, the settlers rise early. Thousands of camp fires can be seen all along the vicinity of the starting line in order to prepare enough sustenance to nourish the rider’s needs for the long scramble to begin at noon. Extra provisions of grain are provided for the horses. To give individual riders an edge over their competitors, some owners spike their horses feed with special formulations such as sugar cubes or molasses.
Starting at 8 A.M., and approximately every hour thereafter, a trooper of the 51st U.S. Cavalry passes along the starting line. He summons groups of settlers and instructs them to synchronize their pocket watches with the exact time of his watch. By doing so, he hopes to deny any ‘Sooner’ the excuse to jump the gun early across the starting line. The trooper also explains that settlers are to listen for the discharge of cannons positioned every three miles along the starting line.
By 9 A.M., pioneers begin to gather at the boundary line and jockey for advantageous starting positions. The most favored spots are those with a downward slope facing west. Most settler’s desired objective is to stake claims at the site of Oklahoma City or the vicinity of the railroad water tower at Guthrie. Guthrie is believed to be a prime location for town building sites, as it affords level ground above the Cimarron River, which will provide for the watering needs of the pioneers.
Precisely at noon the cannons discharge, initiating the largest stampede of humanity and horseflesh in United States history. Tragically, it also perpetrated one of the largest thefts in American history, the confiscation of 2 million acres of Indian tribal lands.
The scene at the starting line is one of chaos. The thunder-like distant booms of the starting guns are immediately followed by a chorus of whip lashes and screaming commands as riders jam their sharpened spurs into the rib cages of their horses. There appears to be no pattern to the trajectories of the contestants, though most head in a due westerly direction. But all riders are hell bent for leather to claim land they perceive to be rightfully theirs, as ordained by the doctrine of manifest destiny. It is theirs for the taking. One way or another.
After three hours and approximately 45 exhausting miles, the Missouran’s horse collapses underneath him. Still 15 miles shy of his Guthrie destination, he drapes his two saddle bags and canteens over his shoulders and runs ahead two miles to another of several stream crossings. There he is fortunate enough to happen upon a healthy-looking gray gelding drinking at the stream. More than likely, the owner of the horse has drown at the crossing whose depth and current are swollen by recent rains. One hour later, the Missouran arrives at the banks of the Cimarron River, upstream from the Guthrie railroad station. A one hundred foot wide band of Cottonwood trees runs parallel to the river. This will provide a nice wind break for a building site and afford enough lumber to construct a small home. It is a handsome spot and the Missouran is pleased with his claim.
As prescribed by the homesteading act, he drives wooden stakes at hundred foot increments along the boundaries of his allocated quarter-section parcel. By counting his paces, he can estimate the length of each side of his rectangle, approximating 3 feet per stride. Also as stipulated by the land grant regulations, he unrolls his canvas tarp and erects a primitive lean-to between two Cottonwoods. This satisfies the homesteading provision by constituting temporary residency, before a sod or wooden home can be constructed. With dusk approaching, the Missouran departs for nearby Guthrie, in order to wire the good news to his family when the railroad telegraph station opens the next morning.
By late morning the next day, he arrives back at his homestead. As he approaches the Cottonwood grove, he spots an unfamiliar horse and tent that has been erected on his lot. As he walks cautiously towards the tent, a stranger appears from behind a tree and aims his rifle at the Missouran.
“What the Hell’s goin’ on, this here’s my land” protests the Missouran.
The stranger barks back “It’s my land now, twern’t nobody here when I arrived last sunset”.
“But I was here first. Who do you s’pose pounded them stakes around my property bounds?”
The stranger responds “Yeah, I seen them stakes. You did a right nice job layin’ ‘em out all straight-like. But anybody coulda’ pounded them stakes in the ground. Coulda’ been you, coulda’ been me. Coulda’ been anybody. Nobody can prove t’was your hands pounded them stakes. Your stakes looks just like ever’body else’s stakes.”
“Where’s my canvas lean-to?” questions the exasperated Missouran.
“Don’t rightly know. That tarp musta’ blowed away durin’ the night. We had some real strong prairie winds move thru here last night. Oh, but you wouldn’t know, would ya’. Cause’ you tweren’t here, now was ya?”
Frustrated and angered, the Missouran continues his protest. “I arrived here yesterday afternoon, and as the law states, marked off my quarter-section with stakes ‘cordin to the regulations. Either you leave my land, or I will have no other choice than to report your land-grabbin’ to the authorities”.
“Authorities? What authorities? The U.S. Cavalry is 60 miles from here – way back at the starting line. And the local Federal Marshall and his Deputies? Hell, their the biggest poachers in this here territory. They’s all in cahoots, claimin’ the best building sites long a’fore any legal settlers arrive. So if you want to report this to your so-called ‘authorities’, well, be my guest.”
“But this is my land, and your’e stealin’ it from me. What gives you the right to take my land?”
Emboldened by the obvious disadvantage of the Missouran, the stranger answers “This here Winchester I’m pointin’ at your hide gives me all the right I need. Now, it seems to me you got two choices. You can get back up on your horse and ride outa’ here all peaceful-like, or you can depart this earth with a 44 slug in your chest. Well, what’s it gonna’ be? One way or another.”
As the Missouran rides away, Lucas A. McNabb joins the ranks of the thousands of Oklahoma ‘Boomers’ who use the force of firearms to seize land first rightfully claimed by other homesteaders.
The County Sheriff bangs his fist on the screen door of the weather-worn house. “You Luke McNabb III?”
The occupant answers “Maybe I is, maybe I ain’t. What’s it to ya?”
“I got a tax lien on this property for $287.30 owed to the County for delinquent taxes. I’m here to serve eviction. Less’n of course if you can pay me the $287 to settle your back taxes”.
Indignant, Luke responds “If’n I had the $287, I would’a paid it at the courthouse, now wouldn’t I?”
The Sheriff warns “Then your gonna’ hafta’ vacate the premises by tomarra’ mornin’”.
“In all my live-long days, I never would’a figured that my own government would steal my land from underneath me. This here property’s been in our family for three generations. My Grandfather, Lucas A. McNabb, first homesteaded it in 1889. And now you damned revenuers is gonna’ take my home”.
The Sheriff has heard similar complaints from hundreds of county residents over the past several years, ever since the stock market crash and succession of bank failures starting in 1929. His sympathy and patience for lame excuses were exhausted long ago. “Mister, ain’t my fault you ain’t paid you taxes. I’m just here doin’ my job. Now, you can vacate your property by tomarra’ mornin’, or face the bulldozer man when he arrives”.
Luke’s initial arrogance now becomes mixed with an appeal for sympathy. “If’n I loose this farm, how’s I gonna’ raise a crop? And if’n I can’t raise no crop, how’s I gonna’ feed my kids. My kids gotta’ eat, just like ever’body’s kids. If’n you evict me, how’m I gonna’ provide fur’ my youngun’s? Answer me that, Mister high-and-mighty, law-and-order”.
“The dozer will be here tomarra’. You’s got two choices. You can leave here voluntary. Or you can wait here for the dozer man and watch your property be flattened. Either way, you’s got to vacate. One way or another”.
With that final warning, Luke slams the front door in the Sheriff’s face.
When the dozer man arrives the next morning with his bladed Caterpillar tractor, he is relieved to find that the house has been abandoned. He inspects the court papers while sitting on top of his tractor. He thinks to himself “Says here in these court papers that the First National Bank of Cimarron is the new owner of this homestead. Bought it up by payin’ the back taxes”. His instructions are accompanied by a survey map, outlining the rectangular boundaries of the quarter-section parcel. The bank has already taken possession of three adjacent farms, for a total of 640 acres. “My orders are to level the frame house and all outbuilding including the chick coop, barn, stable, two storage sheds and privy. I am also to level any wooden and barb-wire fences. By order of the County Undertaker, I am to leave undisturbed any cemetery plots or grave markers”.
As he fires up the diesel engine, he dreads what he has to do next. “God, I hate this job. But times is tough. I got’s to have a job. Gurdy is expectin’ agin’ soon and young Tommy’s got to have a new pair of shoes to start school come September. But this is damn nasty work. I got’s feelin’s too, just like ever’body else. When I arrive at their front door like I’m told, they think I’m the bad guy. Hell, I ain’t no bad guy. It ain’t ‘a my fault they don’t pay their taxes of don’t make them mortgage payments. I ain’t the government. I ain’t the banks. They just hire a dozer man to do their dirty work, whil’st they sit back in their cushy offices and send out orders. Most of them bankers never see the farms they are destroyin’. Never have ta’ look in the eyes of the families they’s kickin off’a their land. Never see the poor, dirty kids, who no longer have a home. Hell, I’m just like these poor folks. I don’t even own this here dozer. I’m in hock to the banks too for my dozer. If’n I stop makin’ my bank payments, I’ll loose my job just like these folks. I’m just another Joe tryin’ to scratch out a livin’”.
“Oh, what the hell. No sense complainin’. May as well git started with my dirty work. I always like to plow the house first. Git the nastiest part over with as soon as possible. Then the outbuildin’s. Then finish up by tearin’ down all the fences. Better git a goin’. Told ‘em I’d be done ‘round lunchtime”.
Come noon, all of the structures are demolished and most of the fences have been removed. The only remaining section of the fence to be flattened is on the lower south corner of the property. The dozer man shuts off his machine and pulls out his lunch bucket and thermos bottle. After a few bites of his sandwich, he glances up ahead to the right and notices a weathered gray tombstone under a cottonwood tree. “It’s so blamed hot sittin’ on top’a this tractor, might as well go over there and finish my lunch in the shade”. As he sits under the cottonwood, he reads the inscription on the grave marker.
HERE LIES LUCAS A. McNABB
ORIGINAL OKLAHOMA TERRITORY HOMESTEADER
HIS YOUNG LIFE STOLEN BY TYPHOID FEVER
DECEMBER 1889
“I hate this damn job. But a man’s got to feed his family. One way or another”.