George takes and ride to far western Kansas (1886) where he homesteads and tries to farm.
Chapter 3 - Inching Along
Frank Beeler seemed to want all the company he could talk into going with him to his windswept wilderness. Piled onto his horse-drawn wagon with him and George were another black man with his family and, almost a hundred miles south in Topeka, a black woman further filled out their party. Turning west, they drove another hundred miles and passed near George’s former home of Minneapolis, then began a 200-mile long, 1000-foot climb. With trees growing scarce and not much dead wood to scavenge for campfires, they relied when possible on “prairie firewood”—dried piles of cow or buffalo manure.
The open, silent land did not look hospitable to George’s intent to settle on a claim and farm it. Although it supported prairie grasses, tall sunflowers and lamb’s quarters, its vegetation was phasing into desert—sparsely scattered sagebrush and locoweed, tall white poppies, prickly pear and other small cacti, and thistles. Almost the only trees were cottonwoods along creeks.
They reached the area still today known as Beeler, Frank having surveyed it and started its only store. No blacks lived anywhere nearby, not even in the several-block county seat of Ness City fifteen miles away, and very few closer than the all-black town of Nicodemus 100 miles north. The man with his family left the area, possibly feeling deceived by false advertising, as did the woman from Topeka.
Frank’s claim to George that much of Ness County’s land was up for grabs was true of almost half of its 700,000 acres, but misleading; the sites that remained available were the ones with no water. George was not so fortunate as to get a site relinquished or abandoned by a settler driven away by rattlesnakes, coyotes, field mice, blizzards, and the scant choice of human companions. The best he could find was a tract to which water would have to be hauled uphill from Walnut Creek. He could try digging a well; but if he failed to strike water, he would have to hope summers would not be as hot and long as to dry up the creek.
The co-owner of Ness City’s Borthwick Bank much later told of meeting George on the coldest day in his long memory. George Borthwick had set out in his buggy over snow-covered ground for a day of visiting clients including Steeley, who had written asking for a loan on his property. The temperature dropped so fast and far that he arrived at his last stop at Steeley’s with his buffalo robe pulled to his eyes in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Steeley came from the soddy,” he said, “and with him a slim… Negro, quite dark, and smiling… I could hardly climb out of the buggy; but when I did so, Steeley said, “George, here, will look after your team.” I staggered indoors; never more glad in my life to get where it was warm.”
Thawed by the fireplace enough to become aware of his surroundings, he smelled the dinner George was cooking. Regaining his capacity to think, he worked out Steeley’s loan with him.
Someone mentioned that George also would like a loan. “Up to this time,” Borthwick recalled, “I hadn’t paid much attention to the young Negro; but as I questioned him about his property, I became more and more impressed with his extreme intelligence. He… seemed to glow with enthusiasm and his… variety of information was amazing.” Carver asked him if he would like to see his collections from nature. “He opened a door and brought me out to a sort of sod-house addition,” Borthwick said. “I opened my eyes wide, because he had turned it into a veritable conservatory… of flowers… growing in… luxuriance in spite of the cold weather.” Other visitors to the room would recall window shelves crowded with buffalo horns polished and in their natural state, Indian artifacts, beautiful local rocks and native plants—mostly cacti—in tin cans decorated with colored paper. George showed Borthwick threads of asbestos in some of the rocks and told him uses of the fireproof material.
They reached the area still today known as Beeler, Frank having surveyed it and started its only store. No blacks lived anywhere nearby, not even in the several-block county seat of Ness City fifteen miles away, and very few closer than the all-black town of Nicodemus 100 miles north. The man with his family left the area, possibly feeling deceived by false advertising, as did the woman from Topeka.
Frank’s claim to George that much of Ness County’s land was up for grabs was true of almost half of its 700,000 acres, but misleading; the sites that remained available were the ones with no water. George was not so fortunate as to get a site relinquished or abandoned by a settler driven away by rattlesnakes, coyotes, field mice, blizzards, and the scant choice of human companions. The best he could find was a tract to which water would have to be hauled uphill from Walnut Creek. He could try digging a well; but if he failed to strike water, he would have to hope summers would not be as hot and long as to dry up the creek.
The co-owner of Ness City’s Borthwick Bank much later told of meeting George on the coldest day in his long memory. George Borthwick had set out in his buggy over snow-covered ground for a day of visiting clients including Steeley, who had written asking for a loan on his property. The temperature dropped so fast and far that he arrived at his last stop at Steeley’s with his buffalo robe pulled to his eyes in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Steeley came from the soddy,” he said, “and with him a slim… Negro, quite dark, and smiling… I could hardly climb out of the buggy; but when I did so, Steeley said, “George, here, will look after your team.” I staggered indoors; never more glad in my life to get where it was warm.” Thawed by the fireplace enough to become aware of his surroundings, he smelled the dinner George was cooking. Regaining his capacity to think, he worked out Steeley’s loan with him.
Someone mentioned that George also would like a loan. “Up to this time,” Borthwick recalled, “I hadn’t paid much attention to the young Negro; but as I questioned him about his property, I became more and more impressed with his extreme intelligence. He… seemed to glow with enthusiasm and his… variety of information was amazing.” Carver asked him if he would like to see his collections from nature. “He opened a door and brought me out to a sort of sod-house addition,” Borthwick said. “I opened my eyes wide, because he had turned it into a veritable conservatory… of flowers… growing in… luxuriance in spite of the cold weather.” Other visitors to the room would recall window shelves crowded with buffalo horns polished and in their natural state, Indian artifacts, beautiful local rocks and native plants—mostly cacti—in tin cans decorated with colored paper. George showed Borthwick threads of asbestos in some of the rocks and told him uses of the fireproof material.
The open, silent land did not look hospitable to George’s intent to settle on a claim and farm it. Although it supported prairie grasses, tall sunflowers and lamb’s quarters, its vegetation was phasing into desert—sparsely scattered sagebrush and locoweed, tall white poppies, prickly pear and other small cacti, and thistles. Almost the only trees were cottonwoods along creeks.
They reached the area still today known as Beeler, Frank having surveyed it and started its only store. No blacks lived anywhere nearby, not even in the several-block county seat of Ness City fifteen miles away, and very few closer than the all-black town of Nicodemus 100 miles north. The man with his family left the area, possibly feeling deceived by false advertising, as did the woman from Topeka.
Frank’s claim to George that much of Ness County’s land was up for grabs was true of almost half of its 700,000 acres, but misleading; the sites that remained available were the ones with no water. George was not so fortunate as to get a site relinquished or abandoned by a settler driven away by rattlesnakes, coyotes, field mice, blizzards, and the scant choice of human companions. The best he could find was a tract to which water would have to be hauled uphill from Walnut Creek. He could try digging a well; but if he failed to strike water, he would have to hope summers would not be as hot and long as to dry up the creek.
The co-owner of Ness City’s Borthwick Bank much later told of meeting George on the coldest day in his long memory. George Borthwick had set out in his buggy over snow-covered ground for a day of visiting clients including Steeley, who had written asking for a loan on his property. The temperature dropped so fast and far that he arrived at his last stop at Steeley’s with his buffalo robe pulled to his eyes in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Steeley came from the soddy,” he said, “and with him a slim… Negro, quite dark, and smiling… I could hardly climb out of the buggy; but when I did so, Steeley said, “George, here, will look after your team.” I staggered indoors; never more glad in my life to get where it was warm.”
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Someone mentioned that George also would like a loan. “Up to this time,” Borthwick recalled, “I hadn’t paid much attention to the young Negro; but as I questioned him about his property, I became more and more impressed with his extreme intelligence. He… seemed to glow with enthusiasm and his… variety of information was amazing.” Carver asked him if he would like to see his collections from nature. “He opened a door and brought me out to a sort of sod-house addition,” Borthwick said. “I opened my eyes wide, because he had turned it into a veritable conservatory… of flowers… growing in… luxuriance in spite of the cold weather.” Other visitors to the room would recall window shelves crowded with buffalo horns polished and in their natural state, Indian artifacts, beautiful local rocks and native plants—mostly cacti—in tin cans decorated with colored paper. George showed Borthwick threads of asbestos in some of the rocks and told him uses of the fireproof material.
They reached the area still today known as Beeler, Frank having surveyed it and started its only store. No blacks lived anywhere nearby, not even in the several-block county seat of Ness City fifteen miles away, and very few closer than the all-black town of Nicodemus 100 miles north. The man with his family left the area, possibly feeling deceived by false advertising, as did the woman from Topeka.
Frank’s claim to George that much of Ness County’s land was up for grabs was true of almost half of its 700,000 acres, but misleading; the sites that remained available were the ones with no water. George was not so fortunate as to get a site relinquished or abandoned by a settler driven away by rattlesnakes, coyotes, field mice, blizzards, and the scant choice of human companions. The best he could find was a tract to which water would have to be hauled uphill from Walnut Creek. He could try digging a well; but if he failed to strike water, he would have to hope summers would not be as hot and long as to dry up the creek.
The co-owner of Ness City’s Borthwick Bank much later told of meeting George on the coldest day in his long memory. George Borthwick had set out in his buggy over snow-covered ground for a day of visiting clients including Steeley, who had written asking for a loan on his property. The temperature dropped so fast and far that he arrived at his last stop at Steeley’s with his buffalo robe pulled to his eyes in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Steeley came from the soddy,” he said, “and with him a slim… Negro, quite dark, and smiling… I could hardly climb out of the buggy; but when I did so, Steeley said, “George, here, will look after your team.” I staggered indoors; never more glad in my life to get where it was warm.” Thawed by the fireplace enough to become aware of his surroundings, he smelled the dinner George was cooking. Regaining his capacity to think, he worked out Steeley’s loan with him.
Someone mentioned that George also would like a loan. “Up to this time,” Borthwick recalled, “I hadn’t paid much attention to the young Negro; but as I questioned him about his property, I became more and more impressed with his extreme intelligence. He… seemed to glow with enthusiasm and his… variety of information was amazing.” Carver asked him if he would like to see his collections from nature. “He opened a door and brought me out to a sort of sod-house addition,” Borthwick said. “I opened my eyes wide, because he had turned it into a veritable conservatory… of flowers… growing in… luxuriance in spite of the cold weather.” Other visitors to the room would recall window shelves crowded with buffalo horns polished and in their natural state, Indian artifacts, beautiful local rocks and native plants—mostly cacti—in tin cans decorated with colored paper. George showed Borthwick threads of asbestos in some of the rocks and told him uses of the fireproof material.