Sabra, who at first had paid little enough heed to these political problems, discovered that she must know something of them as protection against those times (increasingly frequent) when Yancey was absent and she must get out the paper with only the uncertain aid of Jesse Rickey.
She dared not, during these absences of Yancey, oppose outright his political and Territorial stand. But she edged as near the line as she could, for her hatred of the Indians was still deep and (she insisted) unconquerable. She even published—slyly—the speeches and arguments of the Double Statehood party leaders, stating simply that these were the beliefs of the opposition. They sounded very reasonable and convincing as the Wigwam readers perused them.
Sabra came home one afternoon from a successful and stirring meeting of the Twentieth Century Philomathean Culture Club (the two had now formed a pleasing whole) at which she had read a paper entitled, “Whither Oklahoma?” It had been received with much applause on the part of Osage’s twenty most exclusive ladies, who had heard scarcely a word of it, their minds being intent on Sabra’s new dress. She had worn it for the first time at the club meeting, and it was a bombshell far exceeding any tumult that her paper might create.
Her wealthy Cousin Bella French Vian, visiting the World’s Fair in Chicago, had sent it from Marshall Field’s store. It consisted of a blue serge skirt, cut wide and flaring at the hem but snug at the hips; a waist-length blue serge Eton jacket trimmed with black soutache braid; and a garment called a shirtwaist to be worn beneath the jacket. But astounding—revolutionary—as all this was, it was not the thing that caused the eyes of feminine Osage to bulge with envy and despair. The sleeves! The sleeves riveted the attention of those present, to the utter neglect of “Whither Oklahoma?” The balloon sleeve now appeared for the first time in the Oklahoma Territory, sponsored by Mrs. Yancey Cravat. They were bouffant, enormous; a yard of material at least had gone into each of them. Every woman present was, in her mind, tearing to rag strips, bit by bit, every gown in her own scanty wardrobe.
Sabra returned home, flushed, elated. She entered by way of the newspaper office, seeking Yancey’s approval. Curtseying and dimpling she stood before him. She wanted him to see the new costume before she must thriftily take it off for the preparation of supper. Yancey’s comment, as she pirouetted for his approval, infuriated her.
“Good God! Sleeves! Let the squaws see those and they’ll be throwing away their papoose boards, and using the new fashion for carrying their babies, one in each sleeve.”
“They’re the very latest thing in Chicago. Cousin Bella French Vian wrote that they’ll be even fuller than this, by autumn.”
“By autumn,” echoed Yancey. He held in his hand a slip of paper. Later she knew that it was a telegram—one of the few telegraphic messages which the Wigwam’s somewhat sketchy service received. He was again completely oblivious of the new costume, the balloon sleeves. “Listen, sugar. President Cleveland’s just issued a proclamation setting September sixteenth for the opening of the Cherokee Strip.”
“Cherokee Strip?”
“Six million, three hundred thousand acres of Oklahoma land to be opened for white settlement. The government has bought it from the Cherokees. It was all to be theirs—all Oklahoma. Now they’re pushing them farther and farther out.”
“Good thing,” snapped Sabra, still cross about the matter of Yancey’s indifference to her costume. Indians. Who cared! She raised her arms to unpin her hat.
Yancey rose from his desk. He turned his rare full gaze on her, his handsome eyes aglow. “Honey, let’s get out of this. Clubs, sleeves, church suppers—God! Let’s get our hundred and sixty acre allotment of Cherokee Strip land and start a ranch—raise cattle—live in the open—ride—this town life is no good—it’s hideous.”
Her arms fell, leaden, to her side. “Ranch? Where?”
“You’re not listening. There’s to be a new Run. The Cherokee Strip Opening. You know. You wrote news stories about it only last week, before the opening date had been announced. Let’s go, Sabra. It’s the biggest thing yet. The 1889 Run was nothing compared to it. Sell the Wigwam, take the children, make the Run, get our hundred and sixty, start a ranch, stock up with cattle and horses, build a ranch house and patio; in the saddle all day—”
“Never!” screamed Sabra. Her face was distorted. Her hands were clutching the air, as though she would tear to bits this plan of his for the future. “I won’t. I won’t go. I’d rather die first. You can’t make me.”
He came to her, tried to take her in his arms, to pacify her. “Sugar, you won’t understand. It’s the chance of a lifetime. It’s the biggest thing in the history of Oklahoma. When the Territory’s a state we’ll own forever one hundred and sixty acres of
