He loved horses. Loved everything about them. How they smelled, how they moved, what they represented.

Horses could pull a wagon, taking you into town or just about anywhere else. They were work animals, pulling a plow or a disc harrow to make ready the waiting soil in preparation for a future harvest that would feed a family and provide money for living.

Add a saddle and they were recreation. He liked to saddle up and go for long, solitary rides through the northeastern Nebraska countryside. There was something about the strength of a horse, the rhythmic breathing and steady gait as they carried you across fields, streams, and roads and through groves of trees. From spring through harvest time the pleasant, reassuring fragrance of all that grew and lived constantly greeted you on horseback.

A horse never talked back to you. You could train it and if you did a reasonable job of it, the horse would do what you told it to do. You had to be strong-willed with your horse, show it that you were its master, train it to grow into the animal you needed. An ornery horse would soon either acquiesce to its owner's will or become someone else's animal. It was as simple as that. On a ride, or in the field, or just in the paddock, a horse was a friend to be greeted, patted on the nose, scratched on the ears, and brushed down, its eyes telling you of its reciprocal affection.

Horses almost always gave back more than they took, which meant they meshed cleanly with the Nebraska ethic, of truth, commitment, sharing whatever you needed and not ever wanting to put another person out. Need the shirt off my back? Your horse would give you the equivalent.

Each animal had its own character and personality. You could tell by the expression on its face and in its eyes if it was mad, or spirited or contented. Naming a horse gave it special properties - a horse most generally grew into their name and just saying the name brought up a mental image of the uniqueness of the horse.

As long as he could remember he had loved horses, had been around horses all his life, had learned their ways, had grown to understand and trust them. They were as much a part of his life, his chosen life, as anything else.

It was different with people. As much as he wished otherwise, people just weren't horses. People weren't as clear cut and as a result he didn't have much patience for them. He had been raised on a farm by a stern father who taught him the grow-up-quick-and-become-responsible life of a farm boy. It was what he knew and it was what the boys around him knew. And it was what he expected of his family.

And, another thing - unlike horses, people liked to talk. They gabbed on for hours about things that didn't matter and would never matter. They yakked and jabbered senselessly and then got mad or hurt or expressed some other emotion that he just couldn't and didn't want to feel.

Horses never did those things.

And on this day, the differences floated through his mind as he considered his life.

On this winter morning the farm was nestled deep in fresh Nebraska snow. Drifts surrounding the farmhouse caught the sun with their glistening coverings of snow crystals sparkling like a thousand tiny diamonds.

Over the last several months since the move, his family, warm inside the farmhouse, had asked a million questions. "What crops are we going to grow here, daddy?" "Can I have a horse this year?" "Are things going to get better now, daddy?" "Can we buy a tractor?" He suspected from his own thoughts that his family must also harbor other, unspoken questions like, "Are we going to be okay?" or "What will happen to us?" And from his wife, in the quiet at night as they lay in bed, the frank questioning, "I hope we made the right move coming out here."

If only people were like horses, patiently waiting to be told what to do and then obediently following directions without questions.

As he closed the front door and stepped out on to the front porch he stopped for a moment, just listening. A snow-laden blanket had not just covered everything within sight but it also muffled almost all sounds. This was his favorite sound - nothing. And, except for the occasional snow falling off of tree branches, making a gentle "sssshhhh" and then a muffled "whump" upon landing, that's exactly what he heard - nothing.

The windbreak trees a previous tenant planted around the farmhouse were splotched with white, the yard looking like a Currier and Ives print, dark trunks sticking straight up out of the ground with dramatic limbs and branches holding up white frosting as if in lifting it as an offering back to the grey skies.

Walking to the barn, each boot crunching through two feet of snow, he pulled open the barn door to be greeted with a friendly whinny from Dakota, the sorrel draft horse that was his favorite. He and Dakota had a perfect relationship. His strong farm companion never caused him a moment of grief, always did what he was supposed to, and was big and powerful. They had a bond; Dakota always looked up when he entered the barn, as if spotting a long lost friend.

"Here's some hay for you, Dakota," he said as he spread out some of the hay bought and laid up for the winter. "I'll get you water in a minute, boy," as Dakota nuzzled his arm.

When all the horses had been given fresh hay and water he sat down on a stump in the middle of the barn floor and thought about things.

It had been quite a year.

His brother-in-law Bill had finally talked him into moving from Eastern Nebraska, where the two families had lived on neighboring farms along the Cedar River. He loved the Cedar, slow and gentle in summer and fall, quiet and usually frozen over in winter, rushing, muddy and full in springtime. On hot summer Sundays Chance would take the kids down to the Cedar where they could cool off with a swim - laughing and splashing - before heading home in time for supper. His wife Rickie rarely joined them, preferring to stay home and enjoy the quiet farmhouse, feeding chickens, maybe doing a little sweeping to try to stay ahead of the ever-present dust that seemed to cover the floor of their house and everything in it. And, of course, Rickie would take part of her quiet time to fry up chicken to feed the hungry brood that could come rushing through the door any minute, sweeping in with them both dog and dust.

Bill was the husband of Chance's sister and Chance's wife Rickie was Bill's sister. May had married Bill at age 19 in January of 1908 in the place where Bill had determined to farm, almost 100 miles west from where he lived in Maple.

As the oldest child in his family and the firstborn son, Chance had grown up protective of his younger sister. He met Bill's sister Fredericka, "Rickie," at May's wedding, thought she was of sufficient age and demeanor, and having settled that score eventually made her his 18 year old bride four days before Christmas Day, 1909. By his wedding, his sister May had already given birth to two sons and future farmhands, Leonard and Earl. Chance and Rickie would have some catching up to do.

Bill and May and their young family began farming near Cedar Rapids, where Chance and Rickie also moved to a nearby farm immediately after their marriage, on the basis of good reports from Bill. Bill descended from a long line of German farmers. Chance was the son of a farmer who was the son of a carpenter who was the son of a saloon-keeper.

Chance and Bill were just four months apart in age. Their friendship and marriages melded the men and their wives together. It was a bit unusual for brother and sister to marry brother and sister. And, while the unusual part of their marriages made a romantic story for the women in both families, it also made the two young wives feel that they shared a dear kinship.

The two men spent many days together every year, working on each other's land when need be, hunting pheasant in the fall and deer after that. Bill always had some project or other. He was what you might call a restless soul. Always looking for the next thing, or planning this, or getting ready to do that. And he was a good farmer. He worked hard and always seemed to be ahead of whatever was coming.

It was in 1917 when Bill started talking about western Nebraska, where a man could grow wheat so high he would have to be on horseback to check the grain kernels. "Why, it'd take twice as much time to harvest as it takes here," he'd say. "You could have full silos every year." Bill would spin such tales about western Nebraska that a more gullible man might conclude that it was the promised land. According to Bill, it was much like when he and May got started together. They stepped out and bought their first farm on credit from the railroad, which in turn was trying to grow a different crop - farming population to feed the transportation infrastructure crisscrossing America.

Western Nebraska, along with almost every other place in the country that was westward, was growing. Things were opening up. It was easy to make a living. The times were good.

Chance wasn't gullible. Stubborn, yes. Ornery, sometimes. Single-minded, headstrong, bullheaded, demanding - yes, and to a fault. But not gullible.

But he listened when Bill described the splendor of the promised land, the place of milk and honey where a man could raise a family, work hard and receive a fine reward for his labor.

During the next year and a half when the two families would have supper together, Bill would start talking, painting a picture for Chance. Usually, the conversation started with a comment about weather and crop prices but it always quickly moved from current farms to future farms. Soon, the two men in their twenties were wagering each other on who could have the best crop if they lived in a place so fertile and grand where you could literally grow giant wheat and corn stalks on rocks. Each man imagined out loud the house and land and neighbors and grange that he would be part of and that would be part of him and his family and his life. It didn’t take too many dinners or too many conversations in the fields for Chance to begin to push Bill for more, perhaps motivated by a desire to look past the disappointment of his own farm, and in larger part to satisfy his secret desire to actually see the splendor of the western Nebraska dreamland that had been promised so descriptively.

Bill began to plan the inevitable move for his family. An exploratory trip was required, and before dawn one July day, carrying a small cloth wrapping of food that May had packed, he hopped a train headed west. When the train pulled into the Ogallala trainyards, Bill looked around to see if there were any railroad men in sight, and seeing none, quickly jumped off and casually sauntered over to the grain elevator. Two men were working on a wagon just outside the office as Bill walked up.

"Hello, can I lend a hand?" Bill said, and since he was a friendly guy, a conversation soon followed. Weather and crops were the initial and main thread and after a few minutes of sharing their personal opinions or distorted facts on both, Bill gradually steered the conversation to farming, imagining where the best farming land was to be found for a reasonable price. Both Ogallala men were of a mind that just south, in Perkins County, was where you were most likely to find that combination. Perkins had plenty of cheap land and it was fertile. Why, a man could move out there, build himself a sod house and start farming right away. It'd be a tough go the first year but he could probably make it okay and then the next year he would be doing real well.

"How would a man go about getting to see some of that land?" Bill asked.

"Well, Frank over there lives down in those parts and he's just come in to town," replied one of the men pointing to a darkly tanned man across the street, with what looked like heavy boxes just behind his wagon. "He'll be headin' back as soon as he picks up pieces for his machines."

"Well fellers, thanks for the talk and I'm much obliged," said Bill and, with a nod to the two men, he walked across to where Frank was now trying to leverage the crates over the tailgate of his wagon.

"Can I lend you a hand loading up, mister," began Bill. "For a ride?" in his friendliest voice.

"Depends on where you’re goin'. I ain't going to Kansas, you know," replied Frank with a wry smile.

"I'd be sure grateful if I could ride to Perkins County," answered Bill, "and I can't even spell Kansas," which made Frank chuckle and nod in agreement. Bill put his shoulder to the nearest crate lifting it easily onto the wagon.

As the men loaded the rest of the boxes, it was obvious that Frank was easy to talk to and willing to give Bill the lowdown on Perkins County. Frank lived outside of Grainton, a small Perkins County farming community about 50 miles SE of Ogallala.

Once everything was loaded, Frank called out, "Well, jump up on the wagon and let's get going, if you're going." Bill answered by putting a boot up on one wheel and in one easy move stepping up on the wagon and claiming part of the seat.

The ten hour trip was filled with Bill's steady questions and Frank's simple answers. It was hot and dry and Bill was glad the wind was blowing the road dust from the wagon to the side of the road. Both men spoke German, sprinkling their daylong conversation with words like "bauernhof," "pferde," "der weizen" and "die rinder" - German for "farm," "horses," "wheat" and "cattle" - as mile after mile of fields went by. By the time they reached Frank's farm late that night, Bill had a good idea how crops were doing from simple observation and had also wrung every drop of information he could from Frank. At one point as they were nearing the end of the journey, the western Nebraska farmer had suddenly held up one hand, as if to say, "Stop." He and Bill rode the rest of the way in silence.

Bill stayed six days at the Ernst farm, sleeping in the barn, working on the farm, and making himself a welcome guest, until he found out a neighboring farmer was going to Ogallala for parts for his machines.

The machines were something that Bill hadn't really studied before this. Frank Ernst had a machine that he said was six times more powerful than a team of plowhorses, could pull any kind of plow, drill or other farm implement, and didn't get sick, didn't get tired and didn't need hay in the winter. By the time Frank let Bill ride along with him on his Fordson tractor Bill could already see that the future for farming was with machines. Steam threshers had been around for years, threshing crews coming through every farming area during harvest time hauling with them the big, loud but powerful machines. A thresher was one thing, only needed at harvest time every year, but a farmer also needed to till, disk, harrow, and plant throughout much of the rest of the growing season. A single farmer couldn't justify buying a thresher, but Bill could see that no farmer could afford not to have one of those traction machines if he was going to stay in farming. It was a new way of farming that was going to change everything.

That next Saturday Frank's neighbor Swede Lingren headed out on the daylong trip to Ogallala with Bill riding alongside him. Swede was an intense man, responding quickly to all of Bill's questions with long answers, making the travel time fly by. Swede had come from Sabyhold Sweden, lived in Wisconsin for a bit, married a local girl and brought her to Perkins County 15 years ago to farm. It was said that Swede could practically tell you on what day to plant, by the way the wind was blowing on any given Sunday.

The two men arrived near the rail line about four in the afternoon. Within an hour after saying, "Thank you, kindly" to Swede, Bill had caught an eastbound train. Sometime the next day he was back in Central City, from where he hitched a ride to his farm and family. By supper time, he was back home near Belgrade, carrying stories to tell and dreams to weave. Bill couldn't wait to share what he had learned with his friend and brother-in-law, Chance. And he could barely wait to tell May that he had found the place where they were going to live out their life together.

With Bill exploring the land out west, Chance had tended to both farms, best he could. At the time, Bill had five young sons and Chance three, none old enough to help much. Chance did double work to keep up the two farms for the week as he imagined how much more they could do in a few years when there would be a team of strong young farm boys in both families.

Now that Bill was back he couldn’t stop talking about the idea of moving across Nebraska. His trip out west had splashed fuel on what had already been a fairly large flame in his heart.

Every time Bill and Chance were together it was just moments before the subject of Grainton came up. "You know, the town gets its name for what the area is famous for, grain," Bill would start out. Or, "That farm was a doozy. Everyone and everything I saw was fat. You know how you can tell the health of flowers? By the health of the bees! Even the bees are fat out there." And then he would launch into a full, almost minute-by-minute recount of his trip to Perkins County.

Over the next year Bill finalized a moving plan. His boys were still too young to drive the livestock along the roads, and he couldn't risk injury or loss to any of the animals. so he would transport his cattle on a Union Pacific railcar, paying the railroad to haul them the 220 miles from Central City to Ogallala. He had sold most of his horses during the recently ended "Great War," making a fair profit while prices were high, and setting aside the money, only using a little bit for emergencies. Bill planned to use some of that money for seed and maybe also borrow Frank's tractor until he could decide if he should buy one of his own.

May and the other seven kids would load up two wagons at their farmhouse in Belgrade, and riding behind the two remaining teams of horses they would make the several-day-trip to Grainton carrying a few belongings, mainly food and clothes and a couple of May's prized keepsakes that she couldn’t bear to part with.

Chance would drive one of the wagons for his sister and her family, while May drove the other. It seemed like a high stakes gamble to Chance, selling what they couldn't carry and moving across the state, something that made him uncomfortable. But when Chance would question his thinking, Bill would just say that he was more sure that this was the right move than he had been about anything in his life.

Finally, after months of planning, the 1919 move happened, albeit with a few unexpected problems.

The trip started out fine. Carrying knapsacks full of food and other trip necessities, Bill and his oldest son Leonard drove the livestock to Central City from Belgrade, loaded the animals on to a railcar and then rode with them for the overnight trip to Ogallala, leaving one evening and arriving at their destination early the next morning. During the trip, one steer went down. By the time they reached Ogallala the animal was dead. After giving the carcass to one of the Ogallala railroad men, Bill and Leonard drove the remaining animals to a spur line for the Chicago Burlington and Quincy Railroad and up onto a rail car for the last leg to Perkins County.

The final distance from the rail line to the farm near Grainton was uneventful with Bill and his son Leonard getting more and more excited. They were almost at the place that Bill had been talking about for years.

For days after the long trip on two different railroads, the coal boiler smell of steam locomotives still clung like cologne on their clothes.

The overland trip fared little better. Each wagon broke a wheel during the several day trip over country roads. Fortunately, both were carrying spare wheels and within an hour of each incident the wagons were traveling again. At night the kids and adults spread several of May's blankets out on a field to sleep. Only one morning started abruptly when a gopher snake was discovered in the blankets, curled up next to a child. Earl, Wesley and Raymond teased their sisters with the snake before the poor creature was finally able to secure its release and slither off into the tall grasses.

Within a week, both family and possessions - parents, kids, wagons, and horses - were on the farmland that Bill had put money down on earlier in the year. Chance and Bill put up a large tent for the family to live in while the two men, with Frank and Swede helping, constructed a simple sod home and dug a well. After several weeks the new family was reasonably prepared for living through the coming year in Perkins County. The barn and a more permanent farmhouse would come later.

When the family was settled in their new "soddy," and the well pump was drawing water and they had constructed shelter for the animals, the day came for Chance to return to Belgrade. He was quiet and sullen as he jumped onto the train heading east to home. As the rhythmic clack of the rails tapped a cadence for the ride, Chance reflected on the adventure. It had been good work, and as exciting as anything ever had been, to be a part of this new beginning for his sister and brother-in-law and their family. He had felt the same stirrings of dreams, being part of Bill and May's big gamble to move so far from their roots. He had always had dreams, but his took the form of small risks, moving 20 miles or so at a time, sticking to what he had been taught by his father, and what he knew. Moving over 200 miles away and starting over fresh with no family or friends around, that just made a fellow draw in his breath. That was like playing cards for money and betting a huge sum that the hand you had was the best one.

Chance had a sad disposition, much of the time, but he was not afraid. Life had its dangers, you couldn't tell when you might encounter a poisonous snake or a tornado might touch down and tear up a field or lightning might kill a few head of your livestock. But why tempt danger? Why lay it all on the line when there was so much uncertainty? A man just couldn't tell how the unknown would turn out.

Back home, the next several years would prove challenging for young Chance Wilbur and his growing family. Rickie seemed forever sad now that her brother and sister-in-law had moved. The two couples and their families had helped each other through drought, insects, tornadoes, blizzards, floods and hail. May and Rickie had assisted at the births of each other's children, and in raising their infants. May had been there to help Rickie as she gave birth to her firstborn, Ervan Wesley, and just 15 days later Rickie assisted May in giving birth to her thirdborn, Wesley Ervin. The children of both families would later grow up together, playing basketball, doing farm work and chores, and walking to the school house together. But it would be a lot of years before that happened.

For almost ten years, the golden era of farming had provided hope, promise and sustenance, as crop prices climbed and demand jumped. The war in Europe had seriously disrupted agriculture on the European continent and from 1900 through the end of World War I American farmers could build up a decent stake selling their crops at good prices for shipment to other countries.

The four years of the Great War had also brought tremendous opportunities if you raised horses. During the war, the U.S. military shipped 822,000 draft horses overseas for wartime service in Europe. Farmers with horses benefitted from the demand and Chance, the horse lover, was able to sell as many as he had.

In many ways, horses represented something different for Chance. They were steady and dependable and strong and pure, and while he wasn't much of a man for aesthetics he admired their graceful beauty. More than all of those distinctions, horses represented a way of life that had been passed down from father to son for generations, one that was important to him.

Horses had been important objects of wealth, influence and power for millennia, used in military conflict as weapons of war, raced by the wealthy, and ridden by conquering heroes who were lavished with fame upon their triumphant return home.

For Chance, horses represented ability. Ability to live simply but carry on the industrious nature that had helped Wilbur family generations for hundreds of years, back to the days when their family name was spelled and pronounced differently.

In every case, Chance was set in his ways. He stuck with what he knew. He steadfastly refused anything that conflicted with what he had been taught. The old ways were the best ways for good reason - they had stood the test of time. They were true.

Horses weren't machines with their complexities of parts and elements working together, made by men with other machines. Horses were simpler, sublime creatures, the finest animals that he knew.

Selling horses was second nature. For Chance horse trading was a test of wills. He knew the animals and their value, and blessed with that knowledge he could dicker with the best of them.

It was like a wheel that was balanced on its center. It didn't matter if you were a middlin' farmer, if you could raise and sell livestock. That he could sell horses helped offset downturns for the Wilbur family. During the years from 1910 to 1920 Chance raised and sold dozens of horses during a time when high demand and high prices for crops made up for poor farming techniques. In 1914 hundreds of thousands of American horses were railed to the east coast to replenish the British Army. Among them were six of Chance's choice geldings sold at over $200 a head, a record. As the rising tide lifted all boats Chance's boat was riding along with the rest of them.

In the five years between 1914 and 1919, corn prices had been the highest ever, doubling over that of the previous ten years.

While Bill Harms was planning to move his family west to Perkins County, the Wilbur family was moving north. In early 1916 Chance moved his wife and two sons 60 miles up the Cedar River to Primrose, leaving behind the Zabka family farm in Belgrade that had been in his mother's family for many years. The year prior had been a good year, giving them enough money to put down on their own farm. But while 1915 was good, 1916 brought drought and extreme heat. Despite everything that Bill Harms and Chance Wilbur did to produce good crops, corn yields were only 60% from the previous year and spring wheat yields were less than half. The price of wheat plummeted while the prices for corn climbed to record levels. If a farmer had been smart or lucky enough to plant more corn than wheat he was doing okay. If he had balanced his fields with both crops he could barely get by, but he could get by. But if he had planted mostly wheat, as both men had, it was a tough year. And yet, horses were selling well. Cattle were also fetching good prices, due to the increasing needs of feeding an army at war.

In 1920, a year after Bill and May moved west, 32 year old Chance Wilbur took a little risk, moving his family again, this time a little farther north to a farm outside of Spalding. Chance had stuck to what he knew, not reaching for what he had knew little about. His eldest son Ervan Wesley was nine and missing his cousin and best friend Wesley Ervin, Harold was six and missing two teeth and his closest cousin Howard who had just turned six in faraway Grainton, sweet little Virginia was four and a half and clinging to her mother's apron through much of the day, Walter was a tough two and half year old, and little Gustave was just a year old and toddling around the farmhouse.

Rickie had plenty to do, rising before four to light the fire in the stove, make a quick sweep and then cook breakfast for a family of seven. She would strain the milk that Chance had brought in before breakfast before heading out the door to let the stock out to pasture as her husband left to go work the farm. Feeding the chickens and slopping the hogs was next on her daily routine, coming before she would grab a little breakfast, make the beds, and make sure the kids were getting up. The two older boys would be long up, heading out with Chance to work the fields, best they could. Of the five kids at home, three of them were under school age. The morning would be complete when she had weeded the garden that every farm wife planted to help meet the family's food needs, churned butter, and got ready to fry up some chicken, bake biscuits, make a little gravy and put some fresh bread and butter on the table for dinner. After dinner, Rickie would gather the eggs and put feed and water out for the chickens. And that was just before 1 o'clock.

Increasingly, she had to take care of her two oldest boys who were catching the brunt of their father's frustration at the turn farming had taken. Chance himself had grown up as the firstborn in his family, never meeting the expectations that a father sometimes has of his oldest son. This boy, the first to carry on his name, was supposed to be the strong one, the hard-working rough and tough farmer's son, the example of all the father's own hopes in life. But genes had dealt Chance the same slender body as his father, William. As his younger brothers grew, they developed into stronger, bigger men, to his constant disappointment. As a result, his sullen, brooding countenance was a hallmark, a signature that characterized the man he had become.

His sons were disappointing him just as he had disappointed his father. They could not fix the problem that they had no part of. Every little thing his oldest boys did that didn't meet his increasingly demanding outlook was a disappointment, one that required discipline, just as he had been disciplined. It was a fact in his life to be passed on that the sharpest correction should be meted out on the eldest. "Spare the rod and spoil the child," his father had said, usually as justification for a sound whipping.

Just 10 years before, Chance had a young man's dreams. Newly married to Rickie, both of them having changed their given British and German names of Chauncey and Frederica to more "modern" American names, Chance dreamed of building a prosperous farm as a respected member of a growing farm community. It wasn't that he actually dreamed, but more that somewhere inside he harbored the idea that in 10 maybe 15 years if all worked out well he would have men working for him, a stable full of horses, and a houseful of kids to carry on his family name and help with work on his thriving farm. In his imaginary future, his father would then pay him compliments - he would get the approval that he had wished for all his life.

But a decade later, in 1920, the times were changing. The Great War was over. Soldiers had returned from the battles in Europe. The number of farms in the U.S. had grown substantially during the boom years, almost 15% from 1900 to 1920, as suddenly prosperous farmers took on more land and debt, and newcomers jumped into what had become a safe and prosperous life. Europe no longer needed the agricultural shipments from America as their farms recovered from war and armies and combat. Soon, there were more crops harvested and less demand for them as the American farm economy, and Chance Wilbur, struggled to adjust. By the time his second daughter, Marjorie, was born in 1922 the belt was considerably tighter at the Spalding farm of the Wilburs.

Where horse sales had helped the family income through the previous year, horse values had now dropped, with each horse worth substantially less than ten years earlier. Horse sales could no longer prop up a losing farm.

It was now a struggle and Chance grew gloomier as his hopes dimmed.

The only bright spot was the monthly letters from the Harms family that told a different story.

Bill and May and their children were happy on their farm outside of Grainton, a town that by all measures was growing up and quickly. The post office had come to town the year before, and for the next 11 years Grainton would grow annually with the addition of more and more farmers and families and merchants, a population that would reach its zenith in 1930. It was a fine town, with a hardware store, drug store, grocery store, a lumberyard and even a doctor.

Bill had bet on cattle and was doing well with a combination of farming and livestock. For 40 some years the Ogallala stockyards had been a bustling cattle auction and market as part of the Texas trail. The first summer the Harms lived in Perkins County Lieutenant Colonel Dwight D. Eisenhower led an eighty-one-vehicle military convoy through Ogallala on the Lincoln Highway, the first coast-to-coast road that had opened just six years earlier bringing a steady stream of newcomers with dreams and strong backs. Stretches of the highway even had hard surfaces, portending a new modern lifestyle that included convenience. Every letter to Chance and Rickie said the future was happening out west in Perkins County.

Chance and Rickie could attest that the future was not that bright out east in the Cedar River area. History always proclaims the winners and losers, always clear and accurate looking backwards, but rarely that obvious looking forward.

Finally, in 1928 with the wind and their recent farm struggles at their back, Chance and Rickie and their seven kids loaded up wagons, hooked up teams and moved west to a rented farm near Grainton. 17 year old Ervan had been employed for eight years by a neighboring farmer, bringing in needed cash into the household. The next three boys, 15 year old Harold, 11 year old Walter and 9 year old Gus worked on the farm, best they could, working the fields during planting and harvest, tending to chores before and after school.

The move was equal parts desperation and hope.

What they were leaving behind was what the new breed of American oilmen had coined "a dry hole."

But what they were heading toward was the future.

They were moving to the promised land to the west, to claim their new, promised life.

Their timing could not have been worse.

On this crisp, cold, snow-laden Christmas day in December 1928, as Chance sat on the stump in the barn of his new farm far away from the life he had known, his reverie in the past was abruptly interrupted by a looming question mark about the future. It was not common for him to think about the future. He was a much more practical man than that. But he had taken a big risk this year, moving family and livelihood over 200 miles across the state hoping, needing the prospect of a better life. The last nine years had been hard. His best friend and sister moved, his father had died, two successive farms had struggled, horse prices plummeted, nothing had gone the way he had imagined.

During those same nine years every month brought more glowing reports about life in Grainton from his sister May Harms. Chance had been slow to act, sticking with what he knew, staying in the area where he had grown up and was raising a young family, farming, and breeding and selling horses for seven years after burying his father. He was stubborn and tenacious, but the toll those years had taken on him brought him to this. Finally the uncertainty of moving had become less painful than the certainty of what he was leaving. Now, like millions of people around him, Chance had taken a gamble.

A new year was just ahead, a year that represented a fresh start.

He had bet on the horses that he loved, and he had stuck with the way of life he had been taught.

But this move was big. This was the chance of a lifetime.

The future was ahead and 1929 loomed brightly.

The irony of his timing could not have been more profound.