Homestead

By Kittredge McKee

A New Land and a New Journey…

After the deaths of her family during their journey West in
the summer of 1863, ten-year-old Frankie Harding continued on the trail,
determined to find her family’s homestead waiting for her somewhere deep within
the Sand Hills of the Nebraska Territory. When she finally pulls her team and
wagon to a stop on her family’s homestead, she believed her journey was over.

Frankie learns, however, that settling into life on a
homestead is its own unique journey — a new and different journey. She learns
that living within the land of the Sand Hills is vastly different than the life
she knew on the open prairie; this new land, along with its unique and profound
beauty, has its own rules and ways, as well as its own mysteries and unknowns.
To survive and thrive on her homestead, she must unravel the mysteries and find
the answers to the unknowns. With winter approaching—and the harsh weather and
storms that come with it—she has a limited amount of time to learn the truths
about her new homeland.

And, there are other challenges to this new journey that
Frankie must face. Other homesteaders who have settled in the Sand Hills have
their own rules and their own ways of doing things—and they have certain ideas
about a ten-year-old girl living alone on a homestead. There are tribes of
Indians roaming the Sand Hills with their own customs and their own ways of
living—they, too, have their own ways of dealing with a young white girl living
alone. And, Cavalry troops from distant forts have their orders to follow—they
have their own regulations and dictates regarding ten-year-old girls living
alone on the land.

Frankie Harding has been tested by life before and she
fought whatever battles were necessary to hold her life and her future
together. Now, once again, she has to face all the twists and turns, dangers
and complications that arise in her life. But this time, she’s forced to find
different ways to deal with adversity—because now, disappearing into the
prairie is no longer an option. Because she’s already home. And now, there’s
nowhere else to go.

True to herself and to her future, Frankie’s not willing to
give up what she sees as rightfully hers. Once again, she’s chosen her
direction—and once again, she’s determined to complete a new journey. A very
different journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890613943

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Something Permanent

Harvest Moon

Indian Summer

Winter Sojourn

Travels and Travails

Rites of Spring

Illustrations

(i) - 1859 Cavalry Map of Tribal Realms

(ii) - Overland Trail Map

(iii) - Overland Trail Map (Detail)

(iv) - Frankie’s Meadow (Aerial View)

Afterword

The Homesteads

The Laws

The Loopholes

The Reality

The Homesteaders

The Descendants

Summary

A New Land and A New Journey.. . After the deaths of her family during their journey West in the summer of 1863, ten-year-old Frankie Harding continued on the trail, determined to find her family’s homestead waiting for her somewhere deep within the Sand Hills of the Nebraska Territory. When she finally pulls her team and wagon to a stop on her family’s homestead, she believed her journey was over. Frankie learns, however, that settling into life on a homestead is its own unique journey—a new and different journey. She learns that living within the land of the Sand Hills is vastly different than the life she knew on the open prairie; this new land, along with its unique and profound beauty, has its own rules and ways, as well as its own mysteries and unknowns. To survive and thrive on her homestead, she must unravel the mysteries and find the answers to the unknowns. With winter approaching—and the harsh weather and storms that will come with it—she has a limited amount of time to learn the truths about her new homeland. And, there are other challenges to this new journey that Frankie must face. Other homesteaders who have settled in the Sand Hills have their own rules and their own ways of doing things—and they have certain ideas about a ten-year-old girl living alone on a homestead. There are tribes of Indians roaming the Sand Hills with their own customs and their own ways of living—they, too, have their own ways of dealing with a young white girl living alone. And, Cavalry troops from distant forts have their orders to follow—they have their own regulations and dictates regarding ten-year-old girls living alone on the land. Frankie Harding has been tested by life before and she fought whatever battles were necessary to hold her life and her future together. Now, once again, she has to face all the twists and turns, dangers and complications that arise in her life. But this time, she’s forced to find different ways to deal with adversity—because now, disappearing into the prairie is no longer an option. Because she’s already home. And now, there’s nowhere else to go. True to herself and to her future, Frankie’s not willing to give up what she sees as rightfully hers. Once again, she’s chosen her direction—and once again, she’s determined to complete a new journey. A very different journey.

To Tara and Erika: They are always at my side, They always watch my back, And somehow, they always manage to be two steps ahead of me at the same time. And to Laura Welty Costy: who somehow always manages to apply an astonishing level of excellence to everything she does.

Copyright © 2023

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-89061-393-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89061-395-0 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-89061-394-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Frankie Harding sat on the wagon-seat, staring at the meadow in front of her. There was a massive long barn and a chicken-house. There was a dugout-soddie in the side of the valley wall to her right and a windmill pond sitting off to her other side. And across the quiet meadow, there was a house—a perfectly square house sitting calm and sure. Comfortable. Tucked into a grove of trees and protected by the hillside behind it. The house looked sturdy and strong, standing firm on its foundation. Immovable. Peaceful.

She studied the house; it was a square house built of square-cut logs, standing straight and solid, looking like it had been built and placed with care, looking as if it was expecting someone. Looking like, just maybe, it had been waiting for its new person.

And to ten-year-old Frankie Harding, still sitting on the seat of the massive wagon—the massive blue-green Conestoga—on the track at the valley’s entrance, it looked like home. She felt the driving-lines shift in her hands, and she glanced to the team, looking at the four black Shires that had pulled the Conestoga across the miles and miles of prairie grass. Sunny Jim was tossing his head, tugging on the lines and making the bit-rings rattle. She smiled at him, knowing he was just entertaining himself. Or maybe, just annoyed that he’s being required to stand still.

She put her attention back on the house, studying it. She could tell that the house itself was square; the roof angled up from each of the four walls to meet at a single chimney standing at the peak. There was a wide veranda that looked as if it wrapped around the entire house. On the front wall of the house, tucked under the veranda roof, she could see two doors and several windows, all of them shuttered, except one at the right front corner.

A long, narrow addition with a peaked roof was attached to the southeast side of the house; it was built of gray river-stone with a peaked roof and its own porch across the front with a door and two windows. The room was as long as the house itself, but only half as wide. And to Frankie’s eyes, it looked every bit as solid and strong as the house itself.

Staring at the log house with the long stone-room, she suddenly realized the truth. It was her home, on her homestead. It was what she had longed for. Yearned for. And it was here now, sitting right in front of her as the rays of the evening sun stretched across the meadow. The square house, with its long stone-room, basked in the last orange-golden light of the day, quiet and safe. Sitting silently in the summer-green grass of the valley’s meadow. Looking as if it had been waiting for her—looking as if it had maybe been waiting for this very moment.

Frankie didn’t know exactly what she had pictured in her mind; she wasn’t sure exactly what she had expected, other than something permanent—since nothing had been permanent for the last several months. But never once had she pictured anything more beautiful and more perfect than this pretty little meadow with this perfectly square house and its sturdy stone-room. Whatever she might have imagined, this, she decided, went far beyond her imagination.

This secluded home—sitting quietly and patiently in its own little meadow—is what had been calling to her. It had been pulling at her heart; drawing her northward. This is what her heart had been crying for. This was home; this was where she belonged. This was her place on the prairie. Deep in the Sand Hills. My own piece of the Nebraska Territory.

Frankie Harding stayed on the seat of the big Conestoga, feeling the warm evening air of late July coming off the grasslands beyond the valley; the soft-moving air was sifting down the hillside and drifting across the little meadow. She could feel it lifting the wisps of hair that had worked loose from her braids, tickling at her forehead and cheeks. My little meadow.

Behind her, she could hear scratching sounds—scraping and scrambling sounds coming from the tailgate of the wagon. She grinned, knowing exactly what it was. It was the sound of collie-dog toenails—the sounds of a tawny little collie-dog scrambling into the wagon. And she knew what would happen in a moment.

Sure enough, a moment later, a white collie-muzzle poked through the pucker-hole of the canvas top. Then the little collie-dog wriggled through the opening and sat herself on the wagon-seat.

Frankie ruffled her ears. Apparently, Matilda had decided her job of moving the herd was done. Because now she sat looking over the meadow, looking as if she figured her person would be asking her opinion about the valley.

Off to the left of the track she had followed into the meadow, Frankie could see a windmill standing near a cluster of trees, catercorner across the meadow from the house. The windmill pond was shaped a little like an hourglass, and it stretched along the base of the hillside. It sat quiet and still, its surface dappled with a mix of the last reflections of the evening sky and the leafy shadows of the trees that surrounded it. Frankie studied the trees for a moment. Ash, cottonwood, and hackberry. A burr-oak. A handful of elderberry trees. And at least a half-dozen that she didn’t recognize.

The windmill’s wooden tower reached above the treetops, high enough above the branches for its sails to catch the prairie winds that coursed above the valley walls. The wooden wind-sails were stirring, turning slowly, responding to the evening breeze. The tower stood in place, steadfast, looking happy enough to be doing its job of keeping its pond full. Looking as if it knew a young girl and her blue-green wagon would be arriving with an assortment of livestock that would all need its cool water.

She eyed the structure for a moment longer, trying to remember exactly how a person would work the brake to stop the sails when necessary—there was a way to set the sails to spill the wind. She studied the frame of the tower, trying to spot the brake-lever. She pictured the other windmills she knew—the ones back in Indiana. This one looked similar, but studying the tower and the pipes and the sails, she could tell it was different. She figured she’d probably need some education about this particular windmill.

Her mind drifted back to the couple she’d met downriver a couple of hours earlier—the older couple with the seal-brown mare hitched to the light spring-wagon. Everett and Ida Dunbar. Frankie thought back to the conversation, to the friendly smiles and their delight at having new neighbors moving in to the ‘Kinison place’. They seemed nice enough. Everett Dunbar seemed to know plenty about this place. He might be able to teach me something about the windmill. Surely, he’ll know about workings of the tower and the gears.

Frankie watched as the loose herd—her animals, her livestock—wandered over to the edge of the windmill pond. Slowly, calmly. Taking their time, drinking deeply, and then raising their heads to look around. The water dribbled from their jaws as they stood studying their surroundings, looking at the trees, the pond, and the buildings. Looking at the grasses of the meadow. Looking around the meadow as if, maybe, they felt the same way she was feeling. Maybe feeling like they were in an odd kind of trance too. Feeling both a little mystified and a little content at the same time. Maybe they were aware, in some way, that they were done with their journey.

Somehow, they seemed to understand they were home; they seemed to know they could settle in and settle down. Maybe they understand this is home. Maybe they know that tonight, after everything gets quiet, they’ll be sleeping in their new homeland.

Surely, she thought, they must be realizing—just like she was—that this was something permanent.

We’re home, Matilda. We’re here. This is where we belong.

Frankie wasn’t sure exactly why she hadn’t already climbed down from the wagon. Thinking about it, she was surprised she hadn’t jumped down and gone running across the grass—wildly excited over her arrival. But for the moment, it felt right to stay quiet and still; it felt right to take her time. Maybe, she decided, it even felt a little safer to stay where she was there in the Conestoga’s jockey-box.

And after thinking about it for a moment, she decided ‘safer’ was a strange word to be using, because actually, there was no danger here in this meadow. No danger at all. Nothing but peace and quiet. And a stillness.

Yet she stayed where she was, not quite willing to relinquish her vantage point on the high wagon-seat.

There’s plenty of time, she told herself, realizing she was talking out loud, speaking softly to herself, the same way she’d talk to a horse that needed calming. Plenty of time.

The song of a meadowlark came to her; it was singing its evening song, its song to the twilight. A mourning dove called out softly; its mate cooed a soft response a moment later. Somewhere in one of the trees growing along the slopes of the hillsides, a woodpecker banged its beak into a trunk, rapping out some sort of message into the deepening gloom of the evening.

Matilda nudged her side and nuzzled her hand with her wet muzzle. Frankie ruffled her ears, spoke softly to her. Acknowledging her. Knowing the tawny little collie-dog was probably wondering why they weren’t getting down from the wagon.

Frankie stood up in the jockey-box, scanning the meadow, her eyes pausing for a moment on the massive barn that stood across from the house, the massive barn that stretched along the valley wall beyond the pond. A large barn-lot stood at the front of the barn. Along the side of the barn, she could see a string of stall-doors, each with its own outside pen. Another lot was at the far end of the barn. Beyond that, she could see two smaller buildings.

And beyond those buildings, out where the meadow narrowed, a plank fence stretched between the hillsides of the valley. On the far side of the fence, was another valley with its own meadow that looked to be bigger than the home meadow where she had pulled the Conestoga to a stop. The second meadow had more fences dividing it into four pastures. And there in the midst of the fences, down a center track, another windmill tower stood sturdy and tall.

Not far from the Conestoga, off to her right, was the chicken-house with a wire-fenced chickenyard. Frankie studied it for a moment before letting her eyes move to the hillside behind it. At the base of the hill were two wood-framed doorways—twin doorways, standing some twenty yards apart and each tucked under its own A-framed roof. The doorways cloaked with bricks of sod, making them look as if they had been carved right into the slope. Sod-dugouts behind the doorways? Maybe. Probably.

She turned her attention to a log building that stood between the chickencoop and the main house—a building that looked a lot like the main house. It was just as square and straight, just as strong and solid, but smaller. It, too, had a four-sided roof with a chimney poking up in the middle of the peak. A narrow porch stretched across the front wall.

And just beyond that building, the big square house stood solid and silent in front of a tree-covered valley wall, the house still looking as if it knew she’d be arriving this evening in the big blue-green Conestoga with a four-hitch of black Shires. Looking as if it had been keeping an eye out for a young girl who would drive her wagon down the entrance track into the meadow with a Jersey cow and calf, four brindle oxen, a herd of shiny-hided horses, and three skinny mules.

Looking across the meadow from the house, Frankie studied the long barn once again; it was settled in front of its own tree-filled hillside, looking as if it had been waiting, too—maybe, waiting to hear the sound of animals that belonged on a homestead. Maybe, it had been waiting for the sounds of cows lowing in the evening; waiting for the sound of streams of milk hissing against the bottom of a milk-pail. Maybe, just maybe, the barn wanted to hear the sounds of horses snorting and nickering inside its walls once again.

To Frankie, it seemed as if the whole valley—with its pretty little meadow and its quiet, tree-shadowed pond and the silent, sturdy buildings—had been waiting patiently. It all looked safe. Everything felt protected. It all seemed sheltered and secure. And it was all sitting pretty. Her Uncle James and Aunt Sarah, she decided, had chosen well.

Her aunt and uncle and four cousins—her only family after her father and mother died—had made plans to leave Indiana and move out here. Out to the West. Back when her father was alive, the plan had been to settle in the southwest part of the Nebraska Territory, far to the west and south of this place. But when a new opportunity presented itself, months after her father had died, the decision and the direction had changed.

This place, far to the north of the original homestead, was deep in the region of the Nebraska Territory known as the Sand Hills. Her family had heard about this homestead from a woman who had been widowed out in the Nebraska Territory and had returned to her parents’ home in Indiana. Frankie’s Uncle James and Aunt Sarah had changed their plans; they decided to come here to this homestead. Because as her Aunt Sarah had said, ‘it felt right in their hearts’.

Her Uncle James said it felt right in his gut. Frankie’s cousins, Isaiah and Thomas, wanted this place to be the family home too. Her oldest cousin Samuel, nearly a man himself and someone who usually stayed deep in his own thoughts, had spoken his mind—he said he had strong feelings about this place in the Sand Hills. Like his father, he believed that a future could be made on this homestead. And Frankie’s younger cousin, Little Charles, didn’t care where they were going, because much like Frankie, he just wanted to go on an adventure.

The widowed-woman’s husband, Daniel Kinison, had a dream for his family; and he had spent five years building the homestead. He had been fatally injured out here on the homestead, and when he died, the dream died with him. Because shortly after his death, his widow left everything behind; she gathered her children and returned to Indiana to her parent’s home. She was done with the homestead, done with everything about it. She had abandoned her husband’s dream.

Once back in Indiana, Lillian Kinison had spoken to James and Sarah Harding about the homestead. And once again, the homestead in the Sand Hills had become someone’s dream—this time, it became a dream for James and Sarah Harding and their four sons. And for their niece, Frankie Harding. Because she had become part of their family, and they had become hers.

And the dream of settling into a new home and a new life had settled deep into her heart and mind—just as it had for the rest of her family. The dream had taken shape; the plans had formed; the papers and deeds had been signed. Everything had been finalized.

She had traveled out West with her aunt and uncle and four cousins in two wagons from Indiana. They crossed the Mississippi River and, then, the Missouri River. They traveled along the Independence Road that followed the banks of the Little Blue River. The massive blue-green Conestoga pulled by the four black Shires and the smaller Murphy-wagon pulled by the four brindle oxen, had carried the family’s belongings and supplies. They had traveled with the dark-chestnut Morgan mare, Fanny, and the Jersey milk cow, Blossom.

The hearts of everyone in the Harding family had been set on the homestead that waited for them far to the north of the great Platte River—this very homestead sitting deep in the midst of the grass-covered hills of the Nebraska Territory. The dream of a new life and a new community and a new future had bonded the Harding family together with a fresh hope and excitement. A new home; a new direction; a new world.

But then, the fever that haunted the trail along the Little Blue River—the same fever that took the lives of thousands of emigrants traveling in the thousands of wagon parties moving westward—struck her family. Her uncle and aunt and cousins died from fever beside the Little Blue River Road; they died while traveling to this homestead in the Sand Hills of the Nebraska Territory.

Frankie had been left behind, orphaned a second time. And with no home in Indiana to return to and with no other family, she chose to continue on the path—to continue with the dream. She decided that the dream was her inheritance; the direction and the path and the waiting homestead had become hers. It had been her family’s future, so she had adopted it, just like they had adopted her. She had hitched the four Shires to the big blue-green Conestoga, and she had continued the family’s journey—because she had become the family—she had become the whole family.

Nothing had stopped her from coming home. Some of the people in the wagon party tried; the Army at Fort Kearny down on the Platte River had tried. No one had been able to sway her mind, and no one had been able to beat it out of her. But some had tried.

It had been her family’s dream, and the dream had grown bigger as she traveled home. She had begun her journey with the four black Shires; she had reclaimed the four oxen, the Morgan mare and the milk cow, along with her newly-dropped calf. Two dogs—the half-grown collie-dog and the brindle greyhound-wolfhound mix—had joined her on her journey. Three mares, four geldings, a fine-looking stallion, and three sorry-looking mules had joined her too. They had all become her new family, and they had all walked toward a new future right alongside her. So we’re all here now. This is the dream. This meadow.

As the sky-color changed into the soft spreading pinks and oranges of twilight, Frankie stood in the high jockey-box of the blue-green Conestoga watching her animals watering-up; she watched as they turned and began walking back to the center of the meadow, wading through the tall summer-green grasses of the pretty front-meadow of their new home.

And right now, right here on what was her own homeland, Frankie realized she still didn’t want to get down from the wagon-seat. She felt fear rising inside her—a sudden fear that if she took her eyes off what was in front of her, for even a moment, it would all disappear.

She sat down on the wagon-seat, thinking about how many miles she had traveled riding on the seat of the Conestoga, holding the reins to her Shires and sending them forward, sending them toward their new home. Trusting the journey. And now that the journey was done, suddenly, she was afraid. She sat on the wagon-seat in the deepening twilight, afraid to breathe. Afraid to move. She waited. She listened.

The sounds of the twilight breeze in the grasses whispered to her. Reassuring her, reminding her that she was home. Speaking gently, telling her that she belonged here, that she was safe here. The leaves in the treetops murmured. The birds of the prairie sang softly to the coming night. The turtledoves called sweet and low to the colors of the coming twilight.

Benjamin and Bo, Buck and Billy—the four brindle oxen—all lowered themselves to the meadow floor, almost at the same time. All making the same soft, chest-to-the-ground thudding sounds. They lowered their heavy bodies slowly to the prairie soil, giving their contented oxen-grunts and ox-groans that said they were done moving for the day.

Fanny, the Morgan mare, and the three bay mares—Belle and Easy and Silk—left the windmill-pond and moved out into the sweet-scented grass, lowering their heads as they walked, starting the chomp-and-tear rhythm of their grazing. The big chestnut geldings, Solomon and Samson, were already in the middle of the meadow, their noses down in the grass. Rock and Boone, the other geldings, had already worked their way toward the far end of the meadow, down near the plank fence that stretched between the two slopes of the valley, standing in companionable silence, looking as if they were more interested in dozing than grazing.

The three mules—Septimus, Aloysius, and Artemis—snorted and snuffled and rolled; they stood up again and gave themselves a good shake, sending their long ears flopping. From across the meadow, they looked at her, eyeing her on the wagon-seat for a minute or two, studying her calmly with that wise and knowing look that all mules could direct at humans.

Still standing in harness, High Boy tossed his head and pinned his ears back against his head to show his annoyance; he knew his work was done for the day. He was showing his bossy streak, displaying his irritation, as he always did, when things weren’t going his way. Frankie grinned. High Boy was letting her know it was time for the harnesses to come off. And as the other three Shires gave airy-soft snorts, she laughed—Little Bub, Sunny Jim, and Black Mack were thinking similar thoughts.

Still tied to the wagon-seat where he had traveled through the day, Trumpeter stomped on the meadow floor—the blood-bay stallion pawed the ground then, echoing the sentiment of the four Shires. Frankie’s grin grew bigger. Seemed like all her animals had made plans for the evening.

Laughing Girl, the long and lean wolfhound-greyhound mix, came toward the wagon in her pretty-stepping, long-reaching trot; she was grinning her sly-eyed grin, apparently content with her evening patrol of this valley that was nestled down into the prairie land.

Frankie took a long, slow breath. The air was starting to cool as the twilight faded to dusk. Night was settling in. She climbed down from the jockey-box, putting her foot on her land. Her homeland. My first night on my homestead.

Once on the ground and standing on her own land, Frankie realized she was feeling an urgency, a sudden pressure to hurry and see everything before darkness settled in. And that was a feeling she didn’t want. Because she didn’t really want to run around, trying to see everything in a hurry; she didn’t want to scurry around in half-light, or by lantern-light, trying to see everything and learn everything about her homestead. Because she didn’t want that to be her first memory of her home.

Right now, she decided, she wanted to hold onto the memory of driving her team across the little ford on the North Loup River and up the track leading to the valley’s entrance. She had liked the way it felt to follow the track up and around and down—down below the level of the prairie—and right into the meadow. She already had the first memory of her homestead. She would always remember her first sight of the quiet little meadow, her first sight of the meadow grasses and the trees and the hillsides. Her first sight of the sturdy buildings and the quiet windmill pool. And she didn’t want to let go of those fresh and new memories. She didn’t want them pushed out of her mind and heart.

It seemed to Frankie that she was already pretty full-up with new things and new memories; she decided she already had plenty to sleep on. The rest of the new things and the new discoveries could wait until daylight. Right now, I’ll do the normal things. The things I’ve been doing every evening. Unhitching, unharnessing. Watering the stock. Milking the cow.

She decided to take her time on her first evening at her new home. She wanted to settle down slowly because, after all, there was no reason to rush or hurry now. There was plenty of time because no one was hunting for her right now. No one was following her; no one could find her. So she had all the time she wanted. Because she was home.

Tonight, she decided, she would sleep in the Conestoga. And tomorrow, after the morning sun woke her, she would have a day of adventure and exploring, of looking and learning. Tomorrow, she would walk through this dream that her family had dreamed.

Frankie started the process of settling in for the night, the same process that had been part of her life every evening on the trail. She unhitched and unharnessed the four Shires at the tailgate. Same as always. She released them then, letting them go to water-up and then graze in the meadow. In my meadow.

She untied Trumpeter and led him to the windmill pond, letting him drink long and slow; she waited while he lifted his head to look around, waited while he lowered his head to drink again. He lifted his head and looked around the meadow again, dripping his sloppy-drops of water on her head and shoulder. Frankie grinned, realizing that it was her water that was dripping on her. Trumpeter stood beside her, towering over her, turning his head to the side and back again, surveying his domain. My domain.

When the blood-bay stallion finished watering-up, Frankie walked him back to the big Conestoga. Smiling at the feeling of her ground beneath her feet as she picketed him close to the wagon. I’m on my soil. And my grass.

She haltered Blossom and brought her to the wagon. Lifted the milking stool and the pail from their hooks on the side of the Conestoga and started milking, sending the streams of rich Jersey milk hissing against the sides of the pail. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the soft fawn-colored cowhide, listening to the familiar belly-rumbles and gurgles deep inside the milk cow. Just the same as she had done every night on the trail. The buff-colored heifer, Primrose, snuffled around her shoulders, nuzzling her. Wet-muzzling her. Leaving baby-cow slobber on her. Frankie smiled her crooked little smile. Because, she realized, it was actually her baby-cow slobber.

By the time Frankie finished with Blossom and released her for the night, the moon was showing above the eastern slope of the valley, just high enough to send its pale light slanting across the meadow. She watched as the early planets and stars were revealing themselves, twinkling. Winking at her as if they knew something wonderful. The North Star stared down, eyeing her—calm and serious—as if it knew something that she didn’t. As if it knew about life on this homestead and the life in this pretty meadow within this quiet valley.

Once her work was done and her animals and their needs were seen to, Frankie settled herself on the tailgate, sitting cross-legged and breathing in the cooling air of the prairie, night air that was thick with the scent of sweet grasses and warm soils. She drank a cup of warm Jersey milk and ate some of the cold rabbit meat with a few pieces of bacon and cornbread. She tossed pieces of cold rabbit and bacon to Laughing Girl and Matilda and then opened a can of peaches. She ate the peaches slowly, watching as her animals settled down into the moon-bathed meadow grass. Calm, relaxed. Homing themselves to the meadow.

She finished her supper and stayed where she was for a while longer. Calm and relaxed. Homing herself to her meadow.

Once the full of the night settled down around her, Frankie moved back into the Conestoga, slipping in among the boxes and crates and barrels. Realizing it was the last time she’d do so. Because tonight would be the last night she would live in the Conestoga—it would no longer be her only home.

Because tonight was the end of her journey. Tomorrow, there would be a change; tomorrow, at least some of what was in this big wagon would be in the big square house across the meadow. And tomorrow night, she would sleep in that house. In her new home.

Frankie listened as a mockingbird started up his repertoire of stolen songs while she untied the laces of the canvas top and raised the edges to let the night air flow through. She pulled back the quilt—the quilt that had covered her Lieutenant while he lay on the mattresses, healing from the snake-bite. It was the crazy quilt, with its silk and satin and velvet patches, and all its crazy stitching and embroidery, her Aunt Sarah had made.

She could picture her Aunt Sarah sitting in the house back in Indiana, working in the evenings, always sewing on her quilts. And she could see Isabelle in the little white cottage back at Fort Kearny, sitting on the settee doing the hand-work on a newly made dress. Her Aunt Sarah. Her Lieutenant. Her Isabelle. Gone from her life. The tears rose in her eyes, welling-up, and then spilling down her cheeks.

Frankie curled up on the narrow bed, pulled the crazy quilt to her shoulders and let the tears trail down her cheeks. The pillow dampened with the tears. Tears of sadness. Tears of relief and peace and safety. And finally—after the tears stopped and her heartbeat slowed—she felt herself drifting into sleep.

As her tears slowed and finally stopped, the mockingbird was still working his way through his night-songs; somewhere beyond the meadow, a killdeer sent out its string of sharp staccato-notes. From under the wagon box came sounds of the two dogs making their night-beds in the grass—turning and scratching, and then turning some more. Settling down. And then giving their soft dog-sighs.

Above the meadow, high in the Sand Hills sky, the waxing moon sent its light slanting across the land, bathing the meadow in soft silver-blue light. And Frankie realized she had somehow made a shift in her life. Somehow, she was in her own future.

It was a rooster’s crow that woke Frankie in the morning. She stayed where she was under the crazy quilt, lying still, staring at the canvas cover of the Conestoga. Trying to gather her thoughts. Trying to understand why she was hearing a rooster. Because she hadn’t heard a rooster since before she and her family had crossed the Missouri on the journey to the Nebraska Territory.

There had been no roosters in the wagon party, and there hadn’t been any roosters at Fort Kearny either, because all the milk and eggs had come from Fort Farm Island, more than a mile from the fort. The only things crowing in the mornings at the fort were the bugles.

But the crowing that had awakened her this morning was definitely not a bugle. Frankie knew that much for sure. It was definitely a rooster. And to her thinking, it seemed a little strange she’d be hearing a rooster crowing way out here at the end of her Cheyenne Trail. She stayed where she was. Thinking. Knowing it couldn’t be some neighbor’s rooster, because Everett and Ida Dunbar were her closest neighbors, and they were almost ten miles away.

And then she remembered Everett Dunbar talking about seeing some of the chickens Lillian Kinison had left behind. He’d seen some of the chickens that had gone wild wandering around in the trees when he had been here in June, ‘checking on the place’. He had told her ‘they were far too wild to catch’.

Frankie listened, hearing the crowing once again in the cool morning air. And then, another rooster’s call sounded—it was a croaking call, rather than a true crow. A third rooster sounded off with another croaky-call, and then another. One adult rooster, she thought, and at least, two young ones. Maybe three.

The croaking-calls told her they were immature birds that hadn’t found their true voices yet. And that told her something else; it told her that there had to be a hen or two around. At least. Because the young roosters would have to be from a fairly recent hatching. From the sound of things, they probably weren’t much more than three or four months old.

While she busied herself pulling on her shirt and trousers, and then her boots, Frankie looked out from under the edges of the wagon-canvas, looking across the meadow as the daylight was coming on. She grinned, confident that somewhere out there, pecking around in the brush and leaves under the trees, there were three or four roosters. And probably, a hen or two. Hopefully more.

She felt her grin growing, knowing that no matter how ‘wild’ the chickens were, she could have them penned in the coop by midnight. And within a couple of days, she would be eating her own chicken eggs for breakfast. Her chickens and her eggs. Because she knew of a few tricks to handle half-wild chickens. Even if the Dunbars don’t.

Frankie squeezed out through the front pucker-hole of the wagon-canvas and climbed up onto the wagon-seat. She surveyed her meadow and the buildings scattered around it. Neat, clean, comfortable. Secluded, hidden, safe. Pretty. Frankie felt her crooked little grin becoming a wide, relaxed smile. My home. My homestead.

Out there in front of her was her meadow. Out there in front of her were her livestock. Her oxen and her milk cow and calf; her horses and her mules. They were all there in her home meadow. Some were lying in the meadow grass, slumbering and snoring and snoozing in little groups. Others, like the three underweight mules, were already awake and eating, going for weight-gain just as they should be. The mares were still sleeping; High Boy and Little Bub were dozing nearby. Sunny Jim and Black Mack were standing beside the windmill pond, scratching each other’s necks and shoulders with their teeth.

Matilda was standing on the ground beside the wagon-tongue, looking up at the wagon-seat, her ears cocked and her head tilted. Watching her person as though she was wondering what was on the to-do list. From the brush and trees on the slope beyond the house came the full crow again, followed by the jumbled croaky-crows of a couple of younger roosters.

Up on the western hillside, Laughing Girl was moving through the trees, trotting along the slope, already busy with her self-appointed task of patrolling the boundaries of the little valley. Frankie whistled her in, and when the big hound came bounding across the meadow, grinning her wolfhound-greyhound grin with her tongue lolling out from the side of her mouth, Frankie tossed a few pieces of jerky to both her and Matilda.

Home is where the food is, Girls. She watched the two dogs snatch the pieces of jerky out of the air. Home is where you eat.

Frankie watched them chomping on the beef and gulping it down. She grinned at them when they sat their bottoms down, watching her, expecting more meat to fly through the sky. She tossed a few more pieces of the jerky, wanting to get them ‘homed’. The faster they realized this meadow and these buildings were home, the better. She decided to ‘home’ herself, too, and started gnawing on her own piece of jerky.

She smiled at the thought of homing herself, smiling as she remembered the way the stars had been looking down at her last night, winking. As if they were happy she had made it to the meadow. She climbed off the seat, jumped down from the wheel, and looked toward the wood-framed dugouts over against the hillside.

The adventure, Frankie decided, would start there. She’d begin on the eastern edge of the meadow with the first dugout, then move to the chicken-house, then on to the second dugout.

After that, she’d head to the small square building and find out exactly what it was. Then she’d explore the main house and the long stone-room. She’d cross the meadow after she was done, and go through the barn and the buildings beyond it.

Frankie looked across the meadow. Looking once again to the big house, she felt a shiver run up her spine. The main house; the perfectly square house. The smaller building; perfectly square. An outhouse stood behind them, close to the base of the hillside. My buildings. My outhouse.

In a little while, Matilda, we might just sit and have our first meal in the kitchen of that perfectly square house. She looked down at the little collie-dog standing beside her, watching her, waiting for their morning work to begin. I’ll bet there’s a stove we can fire up and get a breakfast going. And maybe, we’ll brew up a pot of coffee.

She laughed as Matilda tilted her head, listening. The little collie-dog wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about brewing coffee; she was listening for certain words that would explain exactly what work she would be doing. Because Matilda’s heart was always happiest when she had work to do.

Frankie took a deep breath, readying herself. There was a lot going on here this morning; a lot to explore and a lot to understand. A lot of treasures here—household furniture and items, farming tools and equipment. The Kinison woman had said she had left everything.

‘You won’t need to take much,’ she had said. ‘All the furnishings and such are still there. It all goes with the sale of the place, and you’re welcome to all of it. I don’t want anything to do with it.’

Looking toward the square house again, Frankie could see lace curtains in the un-shuttered window at the front corner of the house. Lillian Kinison must have been telling the truth; she must have left a lot behind if she hadn’t even bothered to pack up the curtains.

Frankie headed toward the eastern hillside, toward the first structure in the little valley—the wood-framed entrance of the nearest dugout. Looking at it as she approached, it looked a bit like the dugout-soddy she had seen back in the hidden valley, way back on the Cheyenne Trail. This one, though, was standing firm; nothing about it looked ready to cave in. This one had a sturdy, well-built wood-frame for an entrance with sod-bricks built up and packed tight against the outside walls of the entryway.

When she pushed the door to the dugout open, she learned a few things right away. First, the wood door was solid and strong. Second, the dugout went deeper into the hillside than she had expected. And third, the dugout wasn’t a simple dirt cave that had been carved into the dirt of the hillside—the entire interior was actually wood-framed.

Looking at it, Frankie decided the man named Daniel Kinison must have dug the whole space out of the hillside and built a little wooden house within the space. Then, he had filled in around it, and above it, with dirt and blocks of sod. The peaked wooden roof and walls of the entry still showed from the outside, but the rest of the dugout disappeared into the hillside.

The inside walls were vertical board-and-batten, built straight and clean. A bunk was built into one wall; a table sat against another wall with two wooden boxes for seats. A potbellied stove stood against the back wall of the snug little room, with the stovepipe going straight up through the ceiling, rising up through the sod and the hillside. The wooden structure had been built simple and solid; designed as it was—insulated with the surrounding dirt and sod—it would stay warm in the cold months and cool during the hottest days.

Frankie studied the room and the structure itself. Intrigued and pleased. This, she decided, must have been the first thing Daniel Kinison had built. And probably, he had lived in it while he was building the rest of the homestead. As she looked around her, she decided that this alone—this neat and sturdy little sod-dugout—would have been a nice enough place for her to live.

Clearly, Daniel Kinison had known how to build something that would last. Frankie could almost hear her Uncle James’s voice; he would have talked about the skills of the man who built it. He would have been pleased with this little dwelling place; he would have remarked on how well it was built. And Frankie could hear him saying that everything that could be seen here in this structure would bode well for the rest of the homestead.

She stepped outside and closed the heavy door behind her. She smiled, deciding it was a perfect little dwelling place, so she christened it as such. It was only the first structure in her meadow she had seen, but she had learned a lot, not just about the dugout, but about Daniel Kinison himself. She stepped back and gazed at the entrance, at the hillside. My hillside. My Dwelling Place.

The next structure on her list was the chicken-house and its coop. It was standing empty not more than a dozen yards out from the hillside, placed about halfway between the Dwelling Place and the second dugout.

The chicken-house might have a different purpose than the Dwelling Place, but to Frankie’s eyes, they had a lot in common; everything about it was neat and solid—both the henhouse and its coop were built well and built to last. And at the moment, standing out in the grassy meadow all by itself, it looked like it was lonely for its chickens. The henyard gate had been fastened open, and from the look of things, instead of giving the chickens to her neighbors when she left in the middle of winter, Lillian Kinison had simply released them to fend for themselves. To Frankie, it seemed an odd choice to make and an odd way to leave things. But up to this point, she hadn’t really understood any of the choices Lillian Kinison had made.

Given the way Daniel Kinison had built it, it must have been in his mind to keep the chickens well protected. The henhouse itself looked to be pretty snug; the posts of the henyard were solid. Heavy timbers had been trenched deep into the ground around the coop’s edges. The chicken-wire was fastened firm and tight to the posts and timbers, stretched tightly around the sides and across the top of the yard. It would be difficult for predators to dig underneath; no hawks or owls would be poaching chickens from above.

As pleased as she was with what she saw from the outside, she was every bit as pleased when she explored inside. The roosts were solid and the bars were wide; the nest-boxes were built well, off the ground and fastened to the wall. And there was a window that allowed light and fresh air to fill the space. A separate door led into small room with a row of hog’s-head barrels along its back wall.

A feed-room. Frankie smiled at the thought. Daniel Kinison had seen fit to build a separate storage-room for the feed; it was a smart way to raise chickens, clean and easy. The barrels held a variety of grains, and at first, it surprised her to see that most of the barrels were completely full—the winter’s supply of feed for the hens had barely been touched. Thinking about it though, it made sense. Because Daniel Kinison had died in mid-January and his wife had left soon after. No one had touched the feed since then.

To Frankie’s mind, it was a nice discovery because, depending on how many chickens were actually wandering around in the brush and trees, there might be enough feed left for the coming winter. It was a nice little treasure, Frankie thought, both for herself and for the chickens.

Stepping out of the feed-room and into the morning sunshine, Frankie glanced toward the hillside beyond the house. The spurts of crowing had come from that direction earlier, and now, along with the crowing, she could hear different chicken-sounds. Chicken chortles and chicken clucks, and an occasional outburst of squawking—flustered rants, excited bluster, and a few angry tirades. Frankie knew those sounds and what they meant. Hens! Those are hens squawking! Perhaps tonight then. Tonight the chickens will come home to roost.

Every bit as happy with the henhouse as she was with the Dwelling Place, Frankie headed to the next building on her tour—the second dugout—sitting in its own little nook along the hillside.

From the outside, it looked to be a twin to the first, with the same wood-frame entrance packed with dirt and blocks of sod. But as she swung the door open, Frankie discovered this dugout was very different than the other one. A long, low stairway led downward into a deeply-situated dugout. Ten steps down, Frankie found herself in a room much larger than the Dwelling Place, a room that went much further into the hill—a good thirty feet, by Frankie’s figuring, and looking to be at least half as wide.

The inside walls had the same vertical board-and-batten as the other dugout and the chicken-house, but here, all the walls of the room were lined with wooden shelves and bins. Down the middle of the room were more bins, lined up and stacked as neatly as she had seen in Fort Kearny’s commissary. Tucked in among them and beside them was an assortment of hog’s-head barrels, the lids all tight and secure. A long worktable stood in front of the row of bins and barrels.

With light from the morning sun filtering down the stairs and into the room, Frankie could see exactly what the room was designed to be—it was a root-cellar, built to be a safe and protected storage space for garden produce. For squashes and pumpkins, beets and carrots. Onions and potatoes. Any and all kinds of crops.

While she waited for her eyes to adjust to the low light, she sniffed the air. Her Aunt Sarah used to say the ‘scent of the air is the true test of a good cellar’. This air smelled clean, and Frankie figured her Aunt Sarah would approve. And true to a good cellar, the room itself was cool and dry; winter or summer, it would always remain so. It would never be hot, and it would never freeze. And that was one of the wonderful things about root-cellars.

Frankie grinned; this room was another treasure. It was as valuable as any building on the homestead. On a homestead, a root-cellar could make the difference between eating well year-around, or scraping-by through the winter months, perhaps even starving.

Frankie made her way along the rows of bins, knowing she was probably grinning like a fool. She was so busy looking into the bins and barrels that twice she tripped over Matilda, and once she bumped into Laughing Girl. The dogs were both busy snuffling along the floor, carrying out explorations of their own.

She knew her grin was growing wider as she eyed the stored produce, because even now, well into the summer, there was still a lot of food from the previous winter. The bins along the walls held potatoes and yams, turnips, beets, and onions. Parsnips and carrots. Winter squash. A good number of the bins held pumpkins. One hog’s head barrel held walnuts; another was full of hazelnuts. Another was full of oats, rolled and ready for cooking.

There was a crate of apples that were past saving, and there was some spoilage in a few other bins. But all told, most of the food was still fine from the winter storage, and that spoke of a good cellar. Long-term storage was the glory of a good root-cellar.

Frankie headed up the stairs, back into the sunshine, still smiling at this wonderful find. She closed the heavy root-cellar door and looked to the next building on her route of discovery—the smaller of the two square buildings. And for Frankie, that building was a bit of a mystery, because there was no obvious purpose for it. Not one that she could figure out. Not yet, anyway. She took a breath and walked toward it, wading through the meadow’s grass. She headed around the side of the building to the front porch with Laughing Girl and Matilda trotting beside her.

The small square building—just like the big house, the outhouse and the barn—was built from heavy, square-cut logs. Solid and strong. And even though it stood fairly close to the end of the long stone-room on the main house, it still had a quality to it that set it apart; it stood there by itself, looking sturdy and solid, a match for the big house in both shape and roofline. It looked to be only about half the size of the main house, but every bit as solid. And like the main house, its chimney went right up through the center of a roof that sloped up from all four sides.

She was surprised when she stepped onto the front porch and through the door, because four feet inside, straight in front of her, a single wall split the building into two rooms, one to each side. The fireplace sat in the middle of the wall, opening into both rooms. Each room had five beds. Two sets of bunks, upper and lower, were along the side wall with a window between them; a low bunk was along the back wall, below its own window.

It reminded Frankie a little of the soldiers’ barracks at Fort Kearny—it wasn’t nearly as big and it didn’t have rows and rows of bunks—but it was built for the same purpose. Lillian Kinison had spoken about her husband’s plans to raise beef for the Army, a plan that meant a lot of cattle and a lot of work. Which would require a number of men. Looking around her, Frankie suddenly understood the reason for this building—it had been built for the future hired-help. Kinison had planned well.

With solid walls of square-cut logs and the fireplace in the middle, there was no doubt it would be warm in the winter; with the windows and door providing a cross-breeze, it would have good ventilation in the summer.

Looking at the windows, Frankie realized they were still shuttered tight for the winter; she grinned and decided it was time to change things up. She made her way around the outside of the building, standing on the rock ledge of the foundation, reaching to release the hooks on the shutters.

At one point, she caught herself wondering if anyone would mind. Then, she laughed at the thought. No one would mind. Because no one was here. No one but her. Because this was, after all, her building. Her barracks.

Frankie swung the shutters wide and fastened them open, letting the sunlight pour into the barracks. Prairie sunlight. Sand Hills sunlight. When she was done and stepped to the front porch, she looked at the sunlight illuminating the interior and decided that the building seemed to be waking up. Coming alive. Because suddenly, there was a return to life in the meadow. In her meadow. On her homestead.

She had her own little Dwelling Place. And a chicken-house. She had her own root-cellar. And now, she christened the building before her. The Barracks. My own Barracks. She grinned and went back inside, unhooked the windows and opened them wide on their hinges, letting the morning air flood inside. Prairie air. Clean and fresh.

Satisfied with her exploration of the Barracks, Frankie stepped out onto the narrow porch and studied the next building to explore. The one that excited her the most. The one that had been waiting for her.

Frankie eyed the big square-house with its long stone-room addition. The end wall of the addition stood a few strides away from the Barracks with its gray-brown, river-rock walls soaking up the heat of the morning sun. The long room looked plenty strong and sturdy, as if it was made to stand alone, even though it was attached to the main house.

She called to Matilda and Laughing Girl still wandering inside the Barracks, doing their sniffing and snuffling among the bunks. She heard their toenails clicking on the wood floor, coming through the front door and onto the porch, ready to follow their person in this new game of discovery.

When they reached her, Frankie headed toward the long porch that ran across the front of the stone-room, walking straight to the door sitting halfway along the length of the rock wall. She eased it open, curious about the room, still wondering about the reason for it. Wondering why it had been built that way—attached to the big house as it was.

The minute she stepped inside, she understood. It was a pantry-room—a very long pantry-room. Its walls were lined with shelves and cabinets and counters, and under the counters were tilt-out bins. Checking them, Frankie discovered that the situation here was much the same as in the root-cellar and the henhouse. The bins and the cupboards in the pantry were nearly full. There were crates and bins of cornmeal and flour, kegs of oats and beans and rice. Bags of dried peas and parched corn, of pepper and salt and sugar. In the cabinets, there were bags of coffee, jars of dried fruits, tins of molasses and vinegar, bottles of spices and herbs. Cans labeled as baking powder and baking soda. Pots and pans, bowls and sifters, pitchers and platters and baskets were stacked on the counters and lined up on the shelves above them.

At the far end of the room that stretched toward the Barracks, there were counters and shelves that held pails and buckets and an assortment of pans. Pans that Frankie recognized as separating pans for milk and cream. And along with the separating pans, there were milk-tins and churns and jars, wooden-molds and butter-crocks. Everything in that part of the room told the story; it had been designated as the dairy-room.

From the look of all the pans and buckets that were stacked and sitting on the counters and shelves in the rest of the room—some arranged neatly where they belonged and some scattered and in disarray—Frankie figured it was exactly as Lillian Kinison had left it the day she walked away from the homestead. At the end of the counter, she spied a large galvanized tub filled with plates and cups and glasses crusted with dried food. Probably left unwashed after the last meals in the house. Probably, since January.

Frankie looked at the tub of dishes and then, at a pile of cloth on the floor beside the counter. Dirty tablecloths. Dirty dishtowels. Some shirts and trousers for kids. Socks. A lady’s blouse. A couple of aprons.

Apparently, Lillian Kinison had indeed just left everything behind. She just let things lie. Maybe because she was too exhausted to clean and tidy things. Or maybe she was hurrying to leave because she was scared to be alone. Or maybe she was too sad. Or given the hateful way she had talked about the homestead, maybe she had just been mad.

Looking around the room, Frankie figured the rock walls and the rock floor kept the room cool and quiet—and from the look of things, Daniel had done his best to make it tight against rodents. When she opened the window in the end-wall of the dairy-room—the wall that faced the Barracks porch—Frankie felt the prairie air surge into the room, swirling and freshening everything it touched.