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Updated: June 6, 2025
I cannot recall that we ever planned ahead of proving up on the claim. We measured life by proving-up time. Only the dirt farmers planned ahead. And Ma Wagor who was an inveterate matchmaker. I can see her now, driving across the plains, holding her head as high as that of the spotted pony she drove a pony which, though blind as a bat, held its head in the air like a giraffe.
"You'll be mighty sore and stiff for a few days," he said as he laid the mail sack down on the floor; "sorry, miss, I scared your horse," and touching his ten-gallon hat he was gone. "Where did he hail from?" Ma Wagor demanded from the store where she had been watching. "He's not from Blue Springs, Ma."
The business of the newspaper increased rapidly, and advertising began to come in from the small surrounding towns. Ma Wagor was kept busy in the store, selling groceries to the Indians who camped around for a day dickering, and to the white settlers who were generally in a hurry. So little time! So much to do!
The logic of this had already occurred to us, and we were not particularly cheered by the cowboy's confirmation of our worst suspicions. "What do you suppose they're buildin' them fires for?" Ma Wagor was anxious to know. Sourdough couldn't say as to that. But he 'lowed it might be to burn the scalps in. At that we missed Ma. She had slipped into the house to wash her feet.
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