Vol. LIV. No. 2345. 
NEW YORK, JANUARY 5, 1895. 
$1.00 PER YEAR. 
THE TERRIBLE RAIN BELT COUNTRY 
DESERTING A DESERT. 
Where People and Prospects are Dried Up. 
“ Where did those people come from and where are 
they going ? ” I went to the window to see what had 
occasioned Uncle Joe’s inquiry, and I saw moving 
slowly along the road an emigrant train, consisting 
of several white-covered farm wagons, commonly 
called “prairie schooners,” all loaded down with bed¬ 
ding, household utensils, women and children, and 
drawn by horses and mules. Following these, were 
more horses and colts, a dozen cows and calves, and 
two boys on ponies who kept the tired creatures mov¬ 
ing along. Hens and chickens were stowed in boxes 
built on to the sides of the wagons, or hung under¬ 
neath them between the wheels. The men of the 
party were driving the teams, and it was evident that 
they intended to camp at the river near our house. 
“They are Rainbelters, no doubt,” said I; “one 
meets them everywhere and every day this fall.” 
“What do you 
mean by Rainbelt¬ 
ers ?” asked Uncle 
Joe. 
“ I mean those 
unfortunate 
people who have 
tried to make a 
home in that part 
of the country 
that lies between 
the land over 
which irrigation 
extends, and the 
land where it is 
expected with 
good reason, that 
there will be rain¬ 
fall enough to ma¬ 
ture crops. When 
we speak of the 
rainbelt, we mean 
eastern Colorado 
and western Ne¬ 
braska.” 
“I still do not 
see why it is called 
r a i n b e 11,” said 
Uncle Joe. 
“It has been 
boomed as a strip 
of land where the rainfall is sufficient to mature 
crops. The fact is, that once in a while, possibly 
three years out of ten, they do raise a fair crop there; 
but so often does it happen that the crops are an utter 
failure, that the people who go there without means, 
are starved out—you see a sample of them at the river 
—the whole outfit, people and animals, look as though 
square meals were the exception. The people who go 
there with some means, manage to live through the 
dry years with the help of the income of their cattle 
and fowls—for everywhere on the plains where Buf¬ 
falo grass grows, one finds good grazing for stock.” 
“ Let’s interview those folks,” said Uncle Joe, who 
had been watching with interest their preparations 
for camping; “I want to see how people manage 
when all the home they have is on wheels, and all 
their worldy goods are in a prairie schooner.” 
When we reached the river, the supper was being 
made ready. Potatoes and tomatoes were cook¬ 
ing over a camp stove. The bedding was being ar¬ 
ranged in and under the wagons ; the stock were eat¬ 
ing their fill of Alfalfa that had been brought in the 
wagons for them, and the youngsters were already 
paddling in the river, pushing the two babies over 
the shallow water of the ford in a washtub. The hens 
and chickens had been let out for a little run, and the 
women—brown as gypsies from their outdoor life, 
were getting the evening meal. They seemed very 
glad to have some one to talk to. In our conversation 
we learned that they were from Nebraska ; that they 
had had but one really good crop in nine years ; that 
they hoped to find a place where they could feed their 
stock and stay through the winter, and that they 
expected to find plenty of work helping harvest the 
immense crop of potatoes in our vicinity. 
“Aren’t you afraid of losing your chickens?” I 
asked. 
“ Oh, no, ” said the woman ; “ they will come up to 
the wagons as it grows dusky, and if they don’t, Ben, 
there, pointing to an alert Shepherd dog, “ will bring 
in the strays.” 
The next day we started down the Platte River on 
business. We followed the river road for 40 miles. It 
was a direct way from the rainbelt country to the 
mountains, and in going that distance we met eight 
“outfits” going westward, all coming from the 
“burnt out” country as they called it. They all 
wanted to stop and ask about the roads and the way, 
and in turn we asked our share of questions. One 
company had with them a nice herd of horses and 
cattle, and were seeking some place near the moun¬ 
tains to feed them through the winter. One family 
were going back to a mountain town where they had 
formerly lived, had “got enough of the rainbelt.” 
Most of them had no extra stock, but were going to 
the vicinity of Greeley to earn something digging 
potatoes. Others expected to make a n$w home 
among strangers ; they had left forever the parched 
land that refused them a pittance to live upon, after 
all their hard and faithful labor. It made my heart 
ache to see them; for the young and middle-aged, 
it was not so hard ; they could bear the hardships, 
and even enjoy the changes, but for the old and feeble 
it seemed too cruel. Early in the summer, James 
came to work for us—another victim of the rainbelt 
fraud. 
“ How did you happen to find your way to that 
country ? ” I asked. 
“ I saw it advertised in Eastern papers.” 
“ I suppose they gave it a great name ? ” 
“ Oh, yes ; praised it up as something wonderful.” 
‘ ‘ Did they say it could not be irrigated ? ” 
“ They said it depended on rainfall.” 
“ Then you went there and liked the place ? ” 
“ Yes, I saw granaries filled with grain—this was 
the spring after they had a good crop. The people 
there told me they had a good crop about every other 
year, and a half crop other years. I thought that 
beat running in debt and paying taxes back East, so 
I paid a man $100 to relinquish his homestead right, 
and paid $19 for my papers. I dug a well, put up a 
sod house, and went to breaking ground. I had a 
friend with me ; we expected to get a herd of cattle 
to run on the prairies, and to farm ; but when we 
tried to engage cattle in March, we found that they 
had been spoken for in the fall; we got only 117. 
That did not give income enough at $1 a head for us 
to live on, so my friend went out to work ; I kept on 
plowing ; it was dry when I begun, but it grew so 
much drier that I couldn’t get the breaking plow into 
the sod, so I had to quit.” 
“ What will you do with your claim ? ” 
“ I have sold the 
improvements, and 
shall have to let 
the land go — I 
can’t get anything 
for that.” 
“ The man you 
bought of didn’t 
reason that way.” 
‘ ‘ Of course not; 
he knew it was 
his time to sell 
when I came that 
way,’’added James 
with a laugh. 
“After all,” he 
continued, “ I got 
my experience 
pretty cheaply, all 
things considered. 
It isn’t so bad for 
a young fellow— 
he can start again; 
but for a man with 
a family it is pretty 
tough. I was real 
sorry for one man 
who came in there; 
he had a wife and 
two children, and 
about $3,000, that 
he put into improvements and tools. He can’t get 
away unless he loses everything, and if he stays wait¬ 
ing for good crops, he must drag along a half-starved 
existence, living on what he can make from a few 
cows and his hens.” 
These unfortunate people rent homes among us. 
Work is not plenty in the winter season here. The 
consequence is that many of them would suffer were 
it not for the generosity of their neighbors and organ¬ 
ized societies for helping the poor and suffering. Day 
after day, they come to our door asking for work. 
The last comer was a man between 50 and (50 years 
old. It was the same old story—starved out in the 
rainbelt. 
“ What do you think of that country ? ” I asked. 
“ It is as pretty land as lies outdoors,” was the quick 
reply. “ All it wants is water.” 
“How did you happen to settle down there ?” 
“I was working in Denver, and heard about the 
land, went down there, saw it, and took up a claim.” 
“ Whom do you blame for it ? ” 
“ Nobody, but myself ; of course it was well adver¬ 
tised, and a good crop helped sell it. I haven’t had a 
crop since I bought]there.” 
“ What shall'you do ? ” 
