Grandma Dora (Hartmann) Hansen’s Memoirs of the Homesteading Experience of the John M.

Hartmann in Perkins County, South Dakota (1909-1914)

(Recollected February 1965)

Edited by David F. Maas, Grandson of Dora (Hartmann) Hansen

Unedited holograph at conclusion of typed document

The following is a true report of the five years of homesteading in Perkins County, South
Dakota. These are the memories as I saw them and knew them at the age of 6 to 11 inclusive.

It was 1909. We were living in the little town of Corsica, in Douglas County, South
Dakota. Dad was a carpenter at that time. Rumors had it that free land could be had in Perkins
County. Land agents were taking men by the dozens to see this wonderful prairie land. So Dad,
Uncle John Hendricks, and several other good friends decided to join with others to go see for
themselves. The time was ripe, that is for the land agents. The grass that year was knee high and
bountiful all over the plains and was quite convincing to those looking at it.

The men talked to some of the ranchers that had lived there for some time and were told
quite frankly that this was a very unusual year. But “seeing is believing,” these “green horns”
thought, and said as much. Of course, it ended with each of this party staking their claim of 160
acres. This was to be theirs if they “proved up” or stayed and lived on it for five years. If not, it
went back to the government. Of course, there were dreams. If it could raise grass like this,
think of the other crops it would raise.

But these poor sod busters were in for an awful let down. When the next year and the
next year and the next stayed so dry, the “dream crops” failed to mature. The land agents
neglected to say that rain was a scarce item in Perkins County. We managed to stay the five
years to prove-up on our land. But many of our friends and close neighbors couldn’t take it for
more than two years, so they left. This, of course, helped us as we could graze our cattle on this
free land. I’m getting a little ahead of the beginning of my story.

Dad and Uncle John came back late that summer of 1909 to build our homes. They had
to haul the lumber 24 miles all with horses and wagons, and only trails to follow. The rest of us
came early in February 1910. Dad had helped Uncle John get his building done first. So after
trying to live with Uncle John (there were nine in their family and six in ours—all in a three
room house in the dead of winter), it wasn’t easy.

So one very cold day, Mom bundled us kids with most of our belongings in a bob sled
and we went home, ready or not. It wasn’t very cozy. [We had] just the shell of the house done
to keep out the snow and cold. The old cook stove, of course, had to do double duty. We were
comfortable, after a fashion, and it was “home.” Dad had built a basement barn for the team and
a couple of milk cows we had at the time. Then we had Rover, a black and white pup. He had to
be in the house most of the time as there was no place for him outside yet.

One morning after putting him outside for air, he started to bark furiously, scratching at
the door. Dad opened the door to see what the trouble was, when [he noticed that] not more than
20 feet away, a grey wolf [was] nosing around and coming for Rover. The opening of the door
scared the wolf that time. Another evening, Dad and Fred were watering the stock by a pump
some distance from the house. It was snowing and cold when they saw three of these grey
wolves lurking in the shadows. Dad went for his rifle, a big 45-70, which he had fired a few
times, doing a good job of keeping these predators away. They didn’t bother us much after the
first winter.

That coming fall, a new school house was built, the first one in that township. We had
two and ½ miles to walk to school. We had our church services and Sunday school in this
schoolhouse the first year. The second year it was decided to build a new church. Our minister
was our first school teacher too. The church was built three miles from our place. This meant
more walking. Dad would hitch up occasionally, but most of the time we walked. If it was a
matter of two or three miles, it was just taken for granted that walking was in order, and walk we
did.

Our church was a United Evangelical (now known as E.U.B.), but it also was the only
church within miles of us. So we had a good attendance. There were four families originally
from England who were Methodist, three families of Holland descent, and two or three
Norwegian families. Then there were several families that were formally U.E. members. It made
no difference as to the creed; they were all very good to come and take part in the church
activities.

We lived seven miles from our Post Office at Lodge Pole, South Dakota. There was also
a general store and blacksmith shop in Lodge Pole. But when cream had to go to market (at least
once a week in the summer time) or other important things, that meant going 24 miles to
Hettinger, North Dakota. That meant getting up very early in the morning and not getting back
until late at night again, or else staying over until the next day. Either Dad or Mom would go;
sometimes they could double up with the neighbors.

Mother was just as good with horses as Dad was. Mom would hitch up Old Dixie and go
to the Ladies Aid, if the weather permitted. These meetings were always held in homes, which
sometimes meant driving five miles or so to a meeting. One very warm day, the meeting was at
our place. The sky, later in the day, got real dark and looked very threatening. A couple of the
members left, as they only had two and ½ miles to go. But the minister stayed as they had five
miles to go.

It didn’t take long either until the storm struck. It really rained and hailed; the hail, the
size of golf balls, lay in drifts, against the house and in the ditch. We picked some up after the
storm and made ice cream, which was a real treat to us. Yes, it can rain in Perkins County—so
far and far between, though usually accompanied with hail like this storm, which would wipe out
everything even if one had the promise of a crop. Strange as it seems, and as dry as it got, we
could usually raise all the potatoes we could use. Once in a while, there was a fair crop of flax or
small grain. It didn’t pay to plant corn; we didn’t even get fodder for feed. It was always a
problem to get enough feed for the livestock for winter. Dad had to go get a load of straw (not
hay) for feed. This took a couple of days, and driving most of the night, too. On this particular
trip, he had to cross a crick which had quite steep banks. He didn’t mind it in the daylight, but
coming back [at night] with a load of straw [was another matter]. It was pitch dark when he got
to this place.

He couldn’t guide the horses, so he said he grabbed the brake rope, shut his eyes, and let
the horses have their head. Well, he got through and home all right again. This was also the
year when Dad would take the pitch fork and pull up the Russian Thistles while they were still
green and the stickers weren’t hard yet. He stacked them by the barn for [cattle] feed that winter.
They didn’t get fat on it, but it kept them alive. It didn’t make any difference how dry it got all
summer; Russian thistles would grow and thrive in spite of the draught. One particular summer,
the grain that had been planted that spring, never came up until after a shower of rain in the
month of August. It was a beautiful green field, but too late as far as a grain crop was concerned.

Dad planted some trees when we first moved to Perkins County. He got them to grow
alright, but they never got more than six feet tall. This is also due to the hard pan in the ground
today. Today, after 50 years [1965], they still are alive, but no bigger.

In the summer, when we kids were not in school, we were out with the cattle, always a
mile to two miles from home. Especially as the last three summers when our friends had left, we
could use that land for cattle grazing. Sometimes it meant being out all day, bringing the cattle
home around noon for water, then out again. Usually though, Fred, being able to handle a horse,
would go for half a day. Then Joe and I, on our own two feet, would go out for most of the day.
We had from 20 to 40 head of cattle to herd. When we had the 40 head of cattle on hand, 15 of
them belonged to some friends, which, through some agreement with Dad, we were to herd and
keep them through the summer.

Water was another problem; we didn’t have a windmill like the ranchers had. Water had
to be pumped by hand for all the livestock. Dad usually saw to that part of it, but when it was
hot, it wasn’t that easy. He got permission to water our cattle at the Johnson Dam when we were
in that territory. First, we would have to make sure that the JX (J-bar X) cattle were nowhere in
sight. Then we would lift the top two wires of the fence on top of the post and lower the two
lower ones. Then [we would] let the cattle in to drink and out as soon as possible. We could see
the ranchers fence in their sections of land after the sod busters came in. This dam was close to
the fence line, so it was just a matter of minutes to have the cattle in to drink. This, however,
was a big responsibility for two kids (8 and 9 years old) to get this chore done—without ever
getting our cattle mixed up with 200 or more range cattle. It was always hot, and we never
carried drinking water with us, so sometimes watching cattle wallow in all that water, and
drinking their fill would make us all the more thirsty. We did at times scoop some water in our
hands, but the muddy look and foul smell was enough to end that idea of ever tasting it. Yes, it
was a chore and responsibility to herd cattle hour after hour, day after day. But we had fun too.
There was “Old Mules Egg” which was always fun to climb on when the cattle were grazing
close by. This rocky butte was named this because of one specific huge rock shaped like an egg,
standing on end. Then there was Peanut Butte where we could find all kinds of sandstone shaped
like peanuts or marbles. It was fun to hear them pop when we smashed them on a larger stone.
There were also table tops where we could pick up pieces of isinglass. It was clear and we could
flake off pieces—clear like glasses.

Then sometimes it was fun to climb on the rocks or find a shady spot for a little rest. I’ll
bet we looked like Indians in the summer. I don’t remember ever wearing a hat. We usually
wore heavy shoes, mostly as a precaution against stepping on cactus. The prairie was full of
different varieties of cactus; so were the hills. I guess there were plenty of snakes too, but with
all our climbing among the rocks on the hills and running through the prairies, I’m sure the
Master’s hand was always guiding us, as we never got into any trouble with them. Once in a
while, we heard of a cow that had to be destroyed because of snake bite. Of course, Rover was
always with us. Nothing ever dared harm or threaten us kids when he was around.

We always tried to get the cattle home before sunset. It seems that at sunset, wild
animals came out of hiding and started their hunting. If we didn’t get going in time, or had a
ways to go yet, Rover would inform us that the hunting had started. He would spy a coyote up
on a rocky point, and charge, barking after it; he was a great bluffer. We knew that coyotes were
afraid of us as we were of them, but we didn’t stick around. We hurried those cattle home then.
Rover was a great hunter too; he usually won his point, though it didn’t work the time he tried to
bluff a porcupine and got his nose full of quills. The poor dog had a sore nose for awhile.

There was a time or so when we became so engrossed in our play that we forgot to keep
an eye on the cattle, and presto—when we looked for them, they were gone. Then we really had
to make tracks. They could just be grazing over the next knoll, or to make it hard for us, just
plain wandering among the hills in any one of a dozen ravines, ditches or valleys between the
hills. We had a favorite lookout spot on two of the hills from which we usually could spy them.
There was a range of rocky buttes between our place and Uncle Johns, practically two miles
straight across.

We had our grazing permit to the south and west of these hills and what grazing there
was in those hills. East of the hills was grazing land for a sheep herder. So when we couldn’t
find them, we were pretty sure they were on their way to the east side of the hills. This meant
some fast footwork to get them headed back.
 There was the time, one of the first years we lived there, that we only had a few cattle,
mostly milk cows that got away from us. We had left them bedded down and close to home. We
ran home for either a drink of water or some dinner. We hurried back to find no cattle in sight.
We looked through the hills. The tracks showed that they had gone east. But we could not see
them anywhere in the forbidden east valley. So we had to go home and tell Dad. Of course, we
got a good scolding, and he set off to try to find them. It was late evening by this time. Dad
thought it funny that at least two of the cows did not come as they had baby calves in the barn.
He also saw the tracks going last and had heard some cows bellowing in the distant east to the
south of us. He had an idea as to where the cattle were. A Polish immigrant with a sour
reputation had staked a claim in that direction and was living there. The cattle had wandered to
his place and he put them in his corral. It cost Dad a dollar or two to get them out again. These
were the only unfriendly people we had out there and we made sure the cattle didn’t get to the
“Polocks” again. Our neighbors otherwise were friends in need and indeed.

[There was] a Norwegian family of five by the name of Isaacson. Clara, their youngest
was my age, and we were bosom friends. Isaac and Louise were older. We always walked to
school together, at least for a while. We had a choice of either going over the hills or follow the
road around. Of course in winter, we never tried the hills, but in summer, coming home from
school, we had more of a gradual climb to get to the top of the hills, so we would take the “short-
cut” home. I’m sure it was no shorter, after making the climb up and again down, but it was more
interesting. In winter, we stuck to the road. Winters could be cold and lots of snow. I remember
one winter when the fence and posts disappeared under the snow. A good snowstorm coming
from the northeast could really pile in on us, and it was far from pleasant for us sometime going
to school. We had the usual overshoes, cloth tops and cloth leggings. We couldn’t have gone
without them, but after walking two and ½ miles in snow, it would work in and eventually make
our footwear damp and wet, resulting in cold feet.

Then too, the schoolhouse wasn’t warm as the teacher had just as far, and sometimes
even farther, to go than we did, so they didn’t get there much earlier than we did. Coal was the
means of heat, and while probably keeping live coals through the night, it didn’t have much
heating power. Sometimes snowstorms would come up while we were in school. But the folks
had told us, if it ever got bad while we were in school, we were to stay with Uncle John’s. They
only lived half a mile from school and we always had to go with them through their place to go
home anyway. They had five kids.

One day when Fred and I were the only ones in school from our way (Isaacsens had
moved to another farm) it began storming as school was out. We went along to Uncle John’s, but
decided to go on home. The storm got worse by the minute. Loose Russian thistles would go
rolling by and it was getting dusk fast due to the storm.

We had just got to the top of a knoll about 2/3 of a mile from Uncle John’s. Fred was in
the lead, when he said, “Let’s go back,” pointing at two shadows crossing our path into the wind
not more than 15 feet ahead of us. We couldn’t make out what they were for sure, but we did
know for sure at this time of day, the coyotes and wolves were out hunting. Uncle John was
always a great kidder and tried to tell us it was only Russian thistles, but we said we had never
seen Russian thistles go into the wind as these shadows had done. It is doubtful we would have
made it home that night if we had gone on. It got dark so early and particularly facing the wind
and snow, we probably wouldn’t have been able to stay on the trail and so have been hopelessly
lost. I’m sure the folks, especially mother, had a good many anxious hours wondering if we
really had stayed at Uncle John’s or not.

We were 22 children in this school at one time, and had our usual programs which were
always well attended. The school house was a get-together place and had seen lots of good times.
It was there we had our annual oyster supper. The mothers brought the milk; the school board
bought the oysters and crackers. This soup was cooked in a wash boiler. There would be a lot of
oyster stew consumed that night. Then once a year, a social would be held to make money. There
was the box social, tie social, and sock social etc. which was always a big evening. People would
come for miles by team or horseback to attend these social events. Then there was the
occasional birthday party or surprise party when the weather was permissible. I remember one
party walking home from Uncle John’s; it was a cold and clear, bright, moonlit night in January.
We could have seen home if it hadn’t been for the hills. It was at these parties that we learned to
play games like spin-the bottle, button-button, pretty kitty, and some magic tricks. It was also at
these parties that we learned the Virginia Reel. My Dad, being a good singer and always willing,
would sing “Down the River, Down the Ohio.” We wouldn’t let him quit until he got home.
This, of course, was in the winter time when most of the parties took place.

Our Christmas Eve programs were always a grand affair. Mom would always see to it
that I had a new dress and hair ribbon for the program. It would be hand-made, every stitch of it,
as sewing machines were far and few between. So a new dress was quite an event. She always
made the boys blouses and shirts too. We always worked hard for the program and for our
reward we would get a bag after the program with our name on it. We would have to go up front
when our names were called. These bags contained a small bag of hard and colorful Christmas
candy, peanuts and nuts, and either an apple or an orange. You will never know how we looked
forward to these treats. Then imagine my disappointment when one Christmas my name wasn’t
called. Mr. and Mrs. Everhard and son Arthur, then 18 years old, were in charge of the treats
that year, and not too well acquainted with the Sunday school kids; they missed my name. Of
course, I got a bag, but it just wasn’t as good as the one with my name on it would have been.
There were no gifts under the tree. Though we did have a Christmas tree for the program,
candles were used for lighting during the program, which I’m sure induced us to speak and sing
all the better. These candles were a problem to the fathers; they were a fire hazard and so had to
be watched pretty carefully.

We always looked forward to Christmas at our place. The folks always seemed to
squeeze the money enough so there was always a gift for us on Christmas morning. I do
remember though one year when Christmas was awful skimpy. It had been an awfully dry year.
There weren’t as many new warm clothes that winter and we were always trying something new
like Mother roasting barley in the oven until it looked a nice brown color. She then would grind
it in the coffee grinder. It was a good substitute for coffee. And after popping corn, we would
grind the old maids or the brown unpopped corn and grind it too. It made a rather tasty dry cereal
type of meal, when served with milk and salt or sugar. It helped to satisfy the appetite a little.
Milk was always plentiful in the summer, but at times in the winter, there wasn’t much due to the
lack of good feed for the cattle. In the cold winter time, we kids got our cups of hot coffee just as
the folks did. And I don’t remember any of us getting these so-called children’s diseases in the
five years we were there.

But this doesn’t mean that everything ran smoothly either. We had our accidents and
such. There was the day, when coming home from school Fred had his cheek on the right side
cut wide open. Coming from school, there were fourteen us kids who all had come as far as
Uncle John’s. Then our roads would separate. Fred had teased one of the Stadt girls. She was my
age. She got mad and chased him with a big stick. There happened to be a barbed wire fence
close by. Just as Fred got to the wire, he turned his head just in time for a sharp barb to rip over
an inch-long tear in his cheek. Boy we were scared when the blood ran down his face, and we
still had two miles from home. We stopped at Uncle John’s and got him cleaned up some before
going on home. He still carries that scar.

Then there was the time George nearly lost three fingers. I wasn’t home at the time, but it
was a Sunday morning and Joe and George had been left home to keep an eye on the cattle while
Dad, Mom, and Fred went to church. Joe was given strict orders to leave the horses alone. Joe,
always a little more bold and daring, so instead of heeding Dad’s warning, he somehow got the
saddle on Nellie. She was our favorite all around horse. He put George, only six years old, in the
saddle. Joe wasn’t more than eight at the time. Things might have gone along fine if they had
gone through the gate. But to save time, they went to a place where we usually turned the cows
through, by raising the top wires to the top of the pole and fastening the lower ones to a nail near
the ground. This was fine for cattle, but not for horses, especially with a saddle on. Anyway, the
horse went under, and when the saddle horn caught, she gave a jump. The saddle, George, and all
came off, but because George had his hand around the saddle horn, his fingers were badly cut. It
was lucky that Joe was not big enough to fasten the cinch on the saddle, or it may have been a
different story. George also carries those scars. There wasn’t a doctor any closer than 24 miles
away. We had no telephones, and had only horses for transportation. So such minor things like
cuts and bruises were treated at home the best we knew how.

Joe also contracted poison ivy once. He wasn’t sick, but his face was swollen and broken
out. It was lucky our teacher knew what it was, and what to do for it. Fred, one time, was coming
home from herding cattle. He got off the horse to open the gate. It was windy, and when he had
one foot in the stirrup, a thistle flew against the horses legs. The horse jumped, and Fred was
dragged about 20 feet, when his foot got loose. This could have ended in tragedy instead of just a
scratched face.

Then there was the time Fred and I were sent to a neighbor about three miles away. This
neighbor had borrowed our iron shoe last; it is used to repair shoes. We had to go through some
J-X rangeland. Everything went fine [when we were] going, but coming home we noticed 200
head which had wandered down this way and were grazing right where we had to go. Most of
them had gone across the trail, but a few were still on behind and we had to cut through them.
We were used to cattle, and we walked as unconcerned as we could, but just we got practically
through, a silly little calf let out a “beller” which was the trigger for the cattle to come, running
to see what was wrong. We knew too what would happen when that calf bellowed and we ran.
Those irons we were carrying were heavy too. But Our Guiding Hand was ever present as we
were only about 30 feet from the fence. We threw ourselves down and under the fence away
from the cattle and we got home safe.

Then there was the time it seemed like the whole world was afire. It was in the late
summer on a very windy day. Dad had gone to Uncle John’s to help shingle their house that
morning. The cattle were put out on the range, but for some reason we didn’t understand, Mom
didn’t send us out after them. She made us stay in the house, which we didn’t mind. It was no
fun playing in such wind, but we noticed Mom was uneasy. She would go to the door and look
out. Finally she told us to get something on our heads and to go to Uncle John’s as fast as we
could run.

She told us then a prairie fire was coming. Dad had not returned yet, so that he hadn’t
seen the signs, or he surely would have been home. Joe and I were told to run and not wait for
anything. Fred had to come with her and help with George. He wasn’t more than four years old
then. The wind was in the west and by following the road we were in the shelter of the hills, for
awhile anyway.

We got to Uncle John’s OK. They were busy getting a fire break or fire guard plowed
around the place. They also had spied the signs of the coming fire and Dad had let out for home,
going over the hills. So we missed each other and he did not find us home, giving him some
anxious moments too, not knowing where we were. But there wasn’t time to worry as the fire
now was coming, racing with the wind. As far as we could see was fire coming, and we had
nothing to stop it; it’s a horrible feeling, but not for long.

Anyone able to wield a wet sack was kept busy, especially after the fire has gone by. The
head fire is the flame that races on burning up, flaming high, licking up the loose dry grass in its
path. Then the second fire comes and cleans up what the head fire missed. This burns slower, but
is more thorough and treacherous. It is usually the one on which the wet sacks are used on.
 We were safe at Uncle John’s. The freshly plowed fire guard helped to save their place.
One of the neighbors, a bachelor had come through our place just before the fire and he stopped
and helped Dad, as he didn’t have time to get home. Everything at our place was saved too.

Then going home, it was a strange looking world. Everywhere for miles, as far as we
could see, was black. Our cattle were safe though, as they didn’t like the strong west wind. We
could call it “horse sense.” They were all nestled on the east slopes and pockets of the hills,
where the grass was still green. Being out of the wind, these places were safe because the fire
jumped over them. I guess that animals must sense calamity like this fire and know what to do.
Here they were not more than a mile from home unguarded all afternoon, safe in the shelter of
the hills. Any other time they would have been miles by this time if left alone that long. We took
the cattle along home. Evening was coming and it was milking time. Dad could never milk, so it
was up to Mother, Fred, and I to do that.

Seeing the cattle safe, Dad went out to the horse pasture to see how the horses had fared.
They all seemed OK except for singed hair, even old blind Snap. She was blind, but a jewel in
the harness. But poor old Snap—it wasn’t long after that when she came to an untimely death.
Isaacson’s just south of us had moved away for the summer and gave Dad permission to let the
horses to run on their property. Snap, though blind, was good at sticking with the rest of the
horses. But this time they had wandered farther away and got to running. She tried to follow
them, but fell head-first in an old empty abandoned well. It was about eight feet deep. I don’t
think she knew what happened though. Naturally her neck broke because she landed on her head.
There were lots of these abandoned wells left throughout the country where squatters had tried to
dig for water and were not always successful, so they left them. These were dug by hand. Some
had wire fences around, but a few were left unguarded or the wire had been broken some way
like the one Snap had fallen into.

One Sunday morning Mr. Isaacson came over for help. His favorite young black mare
had fallen or slid backwards into one of these dry wells. This one was at least 12 feet deep, so
they had to dig a ditch slanting toward the bottom of the well. When they got it so her front feet
were free, they would put a long rope either around her neck or halter if there was one, and use a
team on the other end to practically pull her out, as having to sit in such a position for so long
wasn’t easy for a horse, and her legs, especially the hind ones were pretty cramped by this time.

Yes, there was danger for the livestock too. There was the winter when after a bad snow
storm, a rancher had been looking for some cattle he knew were missing. He had ridden all over
the range where his cattle had been seen. He rode past an abandoned sod shack, and he thought it
funny that there was frost on the windows. Upon opening the door, he found eight of his cattle.
They were all dead but one. They had gone to the shelter of this sod shack to get out of the storm
and cold winds. Somehow the door got bumped open, so they crowded in. The door opening
inward naturally got pushed shut again, so they were trapped in there for eight days. The shack,
being pretty tight, caused these critters to suffocate. There was no way for them to accidentally
break the windows. Either they were too high up and only small square ones. There were a few
of these sod houses built out there. They were not much for looks, but they were more
comfortable than those built from wood. The sod pieces used for this were about a foot long,
about eight inches wide and two and ½ to three inches thick. These were stacked up like brick
against some framework. After the shell is done, it is plastered all over inside. It is warm in the
winter and cooler in the summer. It took more time to build these, though not too much money
involved.

One time I spent nearly all winter with my Sunday School teacher. She and her brother
had homesteaded together a couple of years before we came out there. She had been thrown from
her horse when working with the cattle, and landed on one knee on the frozen ground, which
gave her lots of trouble. Her not being able to get around very well was the reason for my being
there. I helped her with little chores, like washing dishes and such things. Neither she nor her
brother had been married at the time. Both of these good people had been burned badly on their
faces and hands once when they had been caught out in the open when a previous prairie fire had
gone through there. Their faces especially were scarred from that incident.

They were very good to me and somehow kept me from getting homesick that long
winter. She also gave me my first big, and to me, beautiful doll for Christmas the next year. And
a couple of times, in the summer time, I had a chance to go to town with her which was a big
treat for me. I got my first introduction to the game of Chance when I went with her once. There
was a showcase full of pretty things, like pretty beads, bracelets and such things. It was 10 cents
a chance if I drew the lucky number. I had a dime to spend. I could have gotten some candy or a
new ribbon with my dime, but no, I had to take a chance and came away with two bars of soap as
my prize. I’m sure they were worth the dime, but a big disappointment to me. And I did not get
another dime either. I had to take my lesson and like it.

We did not see too many kinds of wild animals while we lived in Perkins County. We
would see antelope occasionally when we headed for school in the mornings. Then there were
the prairie dog towns. These animals are a little larger than pocket gophers. They would sit up by
their holes, scolding at us until we got close. Then they would scoot down their holes. These
prairie dog holes were the cause of horses occasionally breaking a leg by stepping in them while
running. There were the foxes, the porcupine, the occasional grey wolf, and the ever-present
coyote. In the evening, we could hear them yapping at each other in the hills.

One time Rover was making an awful fuss down the lane a ways. Fred came in with the
report that a big cat was hanging on a fence post. And hanging was right. He was too large to sit
on it. His body seemed to hang on both sides of the post. Dad wasn’t home at the time, so Mom
got the 45-70and blazed away at him. He evidently didn’t like the whine of the bullet and he beat
it. We never saw him again. One thing I’m sure of. Mom was a true pioneer woman.
 In the summer of 1913, Dad was gone to Iowa to help his brother John to rebuild his
house and at the same time try to find a place for us, as our five years were up the next spring
and we planned to move to Iowa. I don’t think Mom minded it, as she was anxious to get out of
there. But it was up to her to look after the crops, if there were any, look after the livestock and
us kids all that summer.

Besides that, there was a fuel problem, not for heating in the summer, but for cooking,
baking, and other domestic uses. There were no cobs to go pick up, no wood or brush close by,
so there was only one thing to do: hitch up the team to the wagon with double box on, get some
pails or baskets together, load us kids in the wagon, and take off for the rangeland to pick up dry
cowchips. It took the better part of a half day to get a load.

In the winter time we burned lignite coal which was dug from the hills. My cousin had
opened a mine of this coal, and by helping ourselves, we got it pretty cheap. It burned well and
really a little cleaner than real coal and just as much heat as the other.

Yes, we had our hard times, but there were happy ones too. There was the nice fall
Sunday morning when Isaacson’s and our family all piled into a wagon headed for a picnic at the
Schwindle place. It was a drive of about five miles. William Schwindle, a son, had been our
school teacher for two years. The neighborhood had been invited to a picnic and watermelon
feed. Mr. Schwindle had managed to raise quite a few nice watermelons and was happy to share
them. Some of their relatives had sent them a barrel of apples too, and we were all given a treat
to munch on while driving home. “Oh Happy Day!”

Yes, Perkins County had been a part of the wild and wooly west. We found plenty of
evidence to prove that Indians and buffalo had roamed these prairies. We found the circle of
stones where Indian teepees had been. We would find arrowheads, both flint and steel, and
occasionally a bead or two carved from the colorful stone from the hills. There were dry skulls
with horns and bones of the buffalo lying on the prairie.

So after five years of battling drought in the summers and cold hard winters, the J.M.
Hartmann family too, had enough. We were ready and anxious to see our grandparents and hosts
of other relatives that we hadn’t seen for those five years.

We had an auction sale February 27, 1914 and left soon for Defiance, Iowa and
civilization.

Dad sold the homestead about five years later to Isaacson’s our closest neighbor for
$10.00 an acre.

Sale Bill on the next page:

 February 27, 1914

The sale bill called for:

Eleven head of horses

Nine milk cows /Two yearling heifers

One Bull

Machinery:

2 wagons, 2 hay racks, 1 grass mower

2 seven foot discs 1 fourteen inch stubble plow

1 Sulky plow 1 fourteen inch breaking plow

1 -2 horse cultivator 1 one-horse cultivator

1 buggy

2 sets of harness

1 Galloway Cream Separator

Household goods and other numerous items

Free lunch at noon.

Terms for sale, all sums of $10 and under cash, Over that, time will be given until noon
November 1,1914 on bankable paper, bearing interest at 12%

Incidentally, Mom baked all the buns and doughnuts for the sale. There was a big turn out
as sales like this were few and far between.

The sale netted around $1200.00