The Well

In the Plains country of Wyoming territory, I'm at a homesteading family. This is an account of how they lived, and nearly died. Frontier, gentlemen! Herewith an Englishman's account of life and death in the West.

As a reporter for the London Times, he writes his colorful and unusual stories. But as a man with a gun, he lives and becomes a part of the violent years in the new territories. Now, starring John Dainer, this is the story of J. B. Kendall, frontier gentleman.

I came across the shack in the mid-afternoon. It seemed to spring out of a slight depression in the unchanging flatness of planes, this isolated cabin with its miniature corral. And, startling against the sun-brown earth, the tiny patch green lawn.

As I drew closer, I saw a child, perhaps three years old. She hugged a shapeless lump of calico in her arms and stood quiet in the doorway, watching gravely as I approached. I called hello to her.

Her eyes remained on me, wide, grey-blue. The only reaction to my voice, a tightening of her hands about the faceless doll. I saw the window, a flap of canvas serving for glass, rough hewn logs, ill-fitting, the chinks filled with baked earth. At the side of the cabin a few yards away was a well with

its rope and an iron bucket. I looked back to the child but she was no longer there. Instead a tall, flaxen-haired woman stood in the doorway, a Winchester held in her hands. Dingle your spurs, mister. Go on.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I wondered if I could have some water. Put the horses well. I'd be willing to pay. Yes? We're not used to strangers riding this way. Where you headed?