"Skidi!" Clarence Big-Saddle swore. "It worked. I didn't think it would."
Clarence Big-Saddle lived on his land for many years, and he paid no taxes. Intruders were unable to come down to his place. The land was sold for taxes three times, but nobody ever came down to claim it. Finally, it was carried as open land on the books. Homesteaders filed on it several times, but none of them fulfilled the qualification of living on the land.
Half a century went by. Clarence Big-Saddle called his son.
"I've had it, boy," he said. "I think I'll just go in the house and die."
"O.K. dad," the son Clarence Little-Saddle said. "I'm going in to town to shoot a few games of pool with the boys. I'll bury you when I get back this evening."
So the son Clarence Little-Saddle inherited. He also lived on the land for many years without paying taxes.
There was a disturbance in the courthouse one day. The place seemed to be invaded in force, but actually there were but one man, one woman, and five children. "I'm Robert Rampart," said the man, "and we want the Land Office."
"I'm Robert Rampart Junior," said a nine year old gangler, "and we want it pretty blamed quick."
"I don't think we have anything like that," the girl at the desk said. "Isn't that something they had a long time ago?"
"Ignorance is no excuse for inefficiency, my dear," said Mary Mabel Rampart, an eight year old who could easily pass for eight and a half. "After I make my report, I wonder who will be sitting at your desk tomorrow?"
"You people are either in the wrong state or the wrong century," the girl said.
"The Homestead Act still obtains," Robert Rampart insisted.
"There is one tract of land carried as open in this county. I want to file on it."
Cecilia Rampart answered the knowing wink of a beefy man at a distant desk. "Hi," she breathed as she slinked over. "I'm Cecilia Rampart, but my stage name is Cecilia San Juan. Do you think that seven is too young to play ingenue roles?"
"Not for you," the man said. "Tell your folks to come over here."
"Do you know where the Land Office is?" Cecilia asked.
"Sure. It's the fourth left-hand drawer of my desk. The smallest office we got in the whole courthouse. We don't use it much any more."
The Ramparts gathered around. The beefy man started to make out the papers.
"This is the land description — " Robert Rampart began, " — why, you've got it down already. How did you know?"
"I've been around here a long time," the man answered.
They did the paper work, and Robert Rampart filed on the land.
"You won't be able to come onto the land itself, though," the man said.
"Why won't I?" Rampart demanded. "Isn't the land description accurate?"
"Oh, I suppose so. But nobody's ever been able to get to the land. It's become a sort of joke."
"Well, I intend to get to the bottom of that joke," Rampart insisted. "I will occupy the land, or I will find out why not."
"I'm not sure about that," the beefy man said. "The last man to file on the land, about a dozen years ago, wasn't able to occupy the land. And he wasn't able to say why he couldn't. It's kind of interesting, the look on their faces after they try it for a day or two, and then give it up."
The Ramparts left the courthouse, loaded into their camper, and drove out to find their land. They stopped at the house of a cattle and wheat farmer named Charley Dublin. Dublin met them with a grin which indicated he had been tipped off.
"Come along if you want to, folks," Dublin said. "The easiest way is on foot across my short pasture here. Your land's directly west of mine."
They walked the short distance to the border.
"My name is Tom Rampart, Mr. Dublin." Six year old Tom made conversation as they walked. "But my name is really Ramires, and not Tom. I am the issue of an indiscretion of my mother in Mexico several years ago."
"The boy is a kidder, Mr. Dublin," said the mother Nina Rampart, defending herself. "I have never been in Mexico, but sometimes I have the urge to disappear there forever."
"Ah yes, Mrs. Rampart. And what is the name of the youngest boy here?" Charles Dublin asked.
"Fatty," said Fatty Rampart.
"But surely that is not your given name?"
"Audifax," said five year old Fatty.
"Ah well, Audifax, Fatty, are you a kidder too?"
"He's getting better at it, Mr. Dublin," Mary Mabel said. "He was a twin till last week. His twin was named Skinny. Mama left Skinny unguarded while she was out tippling, and there were wild dogs in the neighbourhood. When mama got back, do you know what was left of Skinny? Two neck bones and an ankle bone. That was all."
"Poor Skinny," Dublin said. "Well, Rampart, this is the fence and the end of my land. Yours is just beyond."
"Is that ditch on my land?" Rampart asked.
"That ditch is your land."
"I'll have it filled in. It's a dangerous deep cut even if it is narrow. And the other fence looks like a good one, and I sure have a pretty plot of land beyond it."
"No. Rampart, the land beyond the second fence belongs to Hollistor Hyde," Charley Dublin said. "That second fence is the end of your land."
"Now, just wait a minute, Dublin! There's something wrong here. My land is one hundred and sixty acres, which would be a half mile on a side. Where's my half mile width?"
"Between the two fences."
"That's not eight feet."
"Doesn't look like it, does it, Rampart? Tell you what — there's plenty of throwing-sized rocks around. Try to throw one across it."
"I'm not interested in any such boys' games," Rampart exploded. "I want my land."
But the Rampart children were interested in such games. They got with it with those throwing rocks. They winged them out over the little gully. The stones acted funny. They hung in the air, as it were, and diminished in size. And they were small as pebbles when they dropped down, down into the gully. None of them could throw a stone across that ditch, and they were throwing kids.
"You and your neighbour have conspired to fence open land for your own use," Rampart charged.
"No such thing, Rampart," Dublin said cheerfully. "My land checks perfectly. So does Hyde's. So does yours, if we knew how to check it. It's like one of those trick topological drawings. It really is a half mile from here to there, but the eye gets lost somewhere. It's your land. Crawl through the fence and figure it out."
Rampart crawled through the fence, and drew himself up to jump the gully. Then he hesitated. He got a glimpse of just how deep that gully was. Still, it wasn't five feet across.
There was a heavy fence post on the ground, designed for use as a corner post. Rampart upended it with some effort. Then he shoved it to fall and bridge the gully. But it fell short, and it shouldn't have. An eight foot post should bridge a five foot gully.
The post fell into the gully, and rolled and rolled and rolled. It spun as though it were rolling outward, but it made no progress except vertically. The post came to rest on a ledge of the gully, so close that Rampart could almost reach out and touch it, but it now appeared no bigger than a match stick.
"There is something wrong with that fence post, or with the world, or with my eyes," Robert Rampart said. "I wish I felt dizzy so I could blame it on that."
"There's a little game that I sometimes play with my neighbour Hyde when we're both out," Dublin said. "I've a heavy rifle and I train it on the middle of his forehead as he stands on the other side of the ditch apparently eight feet away. I fire it off then (I'm a good shot), and I hear it whine across. It'd kill him dead if things were as they seem. But Hyde's in no danger. The shot always bangs into that little scuff of rocks and boulders about thirty feet below him. I can see it kick up the rock dust there, and the sound of it rattling into those little boulders comes back to me in about two and a half seconds."