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Updated: June 6, 2025
And, as Ma Wagor complained, the Brulé was becoming so settled "it would be havin' a Ladies Aid before long with the women servin' tea and carryin' callin' cards around." That would be no place for me. For a long time I sat gazing out of the window over the open spaces. What would this mean to the people whom I was to bring west?
With her long yellow braids hanging beneath a man's straw hat, strong capable hands, and an easy stride, she went about singing hymns as she worked, taking upon herself many tasks that she was not called upon to perform. And Fred Farraday was taking much of the heavy work of the print shop off our hands. Ma Wagor, too, was an invaluable help to us.
Listening for the explosion of the oil was like waiting for the crack of doom. Then we remembered. Pa Wagor had sunk the barrels underground, using siphons, "just in case of fire." Sparks leaping up, flying across the breaks the prairie was on fire! We checked our flight, sanity returning with the emergency. We had to go back simply had to go back and fight that first outbreak of flame.
"Hain't no use a calf-bawlin' over a prairie fire. If it gits yuh, it gits yuh, an' that's all there is to it." With these consoling words he swung into the saddle and turned his horse's head toward the fire. Ma Wagor came outside where Ida Mary and I watched the reflection of flame against the darkening sky. The air was still. There was no wind. "I'm goin' home to milk the cow," Ma announced.
How the fire got such a start before we detected it was a mystery. With the shack walls already burning hot and the strong wind, it had been like spontaneous combustion. Ma Wagor was baking bread on an old oil stove. Perhaps a draft from the open window had fanned the fire. But the origin didn't matter now.
"It's no wonder the men we elect to run things make such a fizzle when they get into office," Ma Wagor snorted one day with impatience; "they wear themselves plumb out getting there." Old Porcupine Bear, wise man and prophet, warned us that it would be a hard winter, and the plainsmen agreed that it was a humdinger. I asked the wise old Indian how he could foretell the winter.
We're going to have a newspaper out here, Pa, did you ever ?" Pa never did. Where had I seen these two old people before, and heard this woman talk? "Where you from?" she asked, but before I could answer, she went on, "We're from Blue Springs." Pa wrote "David H. Wagor" on the petition.
If there were water on the Strip, the witches missed it; either that, or it was too deep for the rods to detect. One of the experts said there was indication of some kind of liquid deposit far underground. The settlers shook their heads and said there must be something wrong with the witches or the divining rod, and Ma Wagor declared, "I never did have any faith in them little sticks."
Something, as Ida Mary had predicted, had happened. Ma Wagor came in from the store. "Land sakes," she exclaimed, "you musta been through some confusement! You look like a ghost." It didn't matter. "I have four hundred dollars. There will be another hundred or so when the agents finish checking up on the card sales, and I'll get a check from the News Service.
Ma Wagor had worked heroically, helping us to save the important records, the mail, and the prairie from being swept by fire. When it was all over she did not whimper about her loss. When I saw Pa coming, I ran to her. "Ma, here comes Pa. This will kill him. You had better go meet him."
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