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Page 84
No reference is made to the employees. No more faithful, competent and
efficient force of men exists in the clerical portions of any
government, but there is--or was, for their day is now over--a class of
land speculators commonly called land sharks, unscrupulous and greedy,
who have left their trail in every department of this office, in the
shape of titles destroyed, patents cancelled, homes demolished and torn
away, forged transfers and lying affidavits.
Before the modern tiles were laid upon the floors, there were deep
hollows in the limestone slabs, worn by the countless feet that daily
trod uneasily through its echoing corridors, pressing from file room to
business room, from commissioner's sanctum to record books and back
again.
The honest but ignorant settler, bent on saving the little plot of land
he called home, elbowed the wary land shark who was searching the
records for evidence to oust him; the lordly cattle baron, relying on
his influence and money, stood at the Commissioner's desk side by side
with the preemptor, whose little potato patch lay like a minute speck of
island in the vast, billowy sea, of his princely pastures, and played
the old game of "freeze-out," which is as old as Cain and Abel.
The trail of the serpent is through it all.
Honest, earnest men have wrought for generations striving to disentangle
the shameful coil that certain years of fraud and infamy have wound.
Look at the files and see the countless endorsements of those in
authority
"Transfer doubtful--locked up."
"Certificate a forgery--locked up."
"Signature a forgery."
"Patent refused--duplicate patented elsewhere."
"Field notes forged."
"Certificates stolen from office"--and soon ad infinitum.
The record books, spread upon long tables, in the big room upstairs, are
open to the examination of all. Open them, and you will find the dark
and greasy finger prints of half a century's handling. The quick hand of
the land grabber has fluttered the leaves a million times; the damp
clutch of the perturbed tiller of the soil has left traces of his
calling on the ragged leaves.
Interest centres in the file room.
This is a large room, built as a vault, fireproof, and entered by but a
single door.
There is "No Admission" on the portal; and the precious files are handed
out by a clerk in charge only on presentation of an order signed by the
Commissioner or chief clerk.
In years past too much laxity prevailed in its management, and the files
were handled by all corners, simply on their request, and returned at
their will, or not at all.
In these days most of the mischief was done. In the file room, there are
about ---- files, each in a paper wrapper, and comprising the title
papers of a particular tract of land.
You ask the clerk in charge for the papers relating to any survey in
Texas. They are arranged simply in districts and numbers.
He disappears from the door, you hear the sliding of a tin box, the lid
snaps, and the file is in your hand.
Go up there some day and call for Bexar Scrip No. 2692.
The file clerk stares at you for a second, says shortly:
"Out of file."
It has been missing twenty years.
The history of that file has never been written before.
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