She gave herself the luxury of a leisurely bath, soaking her abused hands in hot water till they were almost smooth. Then she exchanged one of the dark blue calicoes that she had worn ever since she had reached the claim, for a clean green-and-white gingham. And then, oh joy, she sat down in the deep red chair that had come by freight a few days before, and took out the first book she had touched since she had stepped into Tripp County. At least an hour to read and rest and invite one’s soul, with nothing driving her, indoors or out. She opened her “Oxford Book of Verse” with delight as well as hunger. How she would read!
Her lame shoulders settled back into the comfortable depths of the chair. The flies droned outside the screen door. The wind blew through the rooms—a wind that stirred, but did not cool, the air… The book closed in her hands; her head drooped. She was back in Platteville with Aunt Jule telling her that she was too big a girl to walk on stilts…
Bronx gave a warning bark and started up the trail, woofing loudly as he went. Becky started, and picked up the book which had fallen to the floor. It was prairie again, not Platteville. She ran to the door, half expecting to see a Welp come down the road.
A lean, sorrel horse ambled over the hill with two people on his back. He came down the Linville trail, and his driver reined him in at the side of the house. She was a gaunt, weather-beaten woman with thin wisps of faded hair flying about her face. Her shoulder blades thrust out the back of her dress; great cords stuck out when she moved her neck. A little girl sat in front of her. “You seen anything of a white horse?” called the woman.
Becky hurried out to the trail. It seemed good to have a visitor, even one who came hunting a horse.
“He’s been missing since yestiddy noon,” said the woman. “Last time we seen him he was out eatin’, and when we looked again he was gone. We started out after him early this morning, but we ain’t seen hide er hair of him.”
“We lost our cow the same way a few weeks ago,”said Becky.
“Where’d you find her?”
Becky explained the cow’s mysterious return.
“Was she an all-red cow with a white nose?”
“Yes.” Becky described Red Haw and her rope.
“I bet I seen that cow. The Welp boy was milkin’ her along the creek-bed one afternoon. I don’t hold no truck with those Welpses so I didn’t speak to him, but I know right well they ain’t got no cow now.”
“Why didn’t they keep her after they got hold of her?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t dast do that. Folks has been lynched for less’n stealing a cow. They probably pulled up her stake so’s to make trouble for you an’ then stole your rope. They’re a thieving, low-down set, those Welpses. I never seen a meaner boy than that Pete.”
“Do you suppose they have your horse?”
“No, I went along that way to look, first thing. No horse there, and no place to hide one, less’n they put him behind their tin can pile. That’s most big enough to shelter an animal. No, they’re mean enough to steal anything, but I reckon they didn’t do it, this time.”
“Won’t you come in and rest a few minutes?”
The woman hesitated. “Oh, do. Let’s, ma,” begged the little girl.
“I don’t know but we might as well. There ain’t much of any place left to hunt; I been all around the creek. I guess the Mister’ll have to start out tomorrow when he gets back from town.” She got out of the man’s saddle, and lifted the little girl down. “She’s plum tuckered out, riding in this hot sun.”
The child raised a pair of violet eyes, fringed by dark lashes, to Becky’s face. They were her one beauty; her pinched little face was the face of a cripple, and her back bent in an unmistakable spinal curvature.
Rejoicing in her day of work, Becky led the way into the house. The woman gave a sweeping glance of appraisal about the room; the little girl showed open delight in her surroundings. “You sure got it nice here,” she said.
“My name is Rebecca Linville. What’s yours?” asked the hostess.
“Marietta Kenniker.”
“We’re new homesteaders, so we don’t know the neighborhood yet. Do you live near us?”
“We live in the sod house two miles up the creek, past the Welpses. We seen your things when you drove past our place. You had bed springs.”
“Marietta never seen bed springs before except when she was to the hospital,” explained her mother.
“Do you like homesteading?”
Marietta shook her head. “It’s too lonesome.”
“Haven’t you any brothers or sisters to play with?”
“Marietta’s all,” said the woman. “I had nine, but she’s the only one left. And she the way she is!”
A slow flush crept over the little girl’s face. Becky melted with pity. She brought out bread and strawberry jam, made from the Platteville garden. She gave the child Joan’s doll to hold. “This belongs to my little sister,” she said. “She’s about as old as you.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“I’m twelve. I’ve stopped playing with dolls. But I look like eight.”
“She wasn’t born that way,” explained Mrs. Kenniker. “She had a fall when she was a baby. She’s always been pindly. But I don’t know but it’s a good thing; if she’d been well she’d be worked to death. That’s what always happens to women folks on the prairies.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“I’ve lived in Dakoty fifteen years. Come here when I was first married, from Kansas. I was sixteen then. I’ve homesteaded twict—once before, in Gregory County.”
“Why did you leave your claim there to come to new land?”
“Oh, it wasn’t ours. We proved up on it, but we couldn’t pay for it; the bank got it.”
Becky tried not to show her astonishment. Fifteen years. That made her thirty-one years old. Could this gaunt woman, with the hollow eyes and the yellow skin drawn tightly across her cheeks, be only thirty-one? She looked sixty.
“So you thought you’d try it again.”
“The Mister did. I didn’t want to come. I’m like Marietta here; I hate the prairie.”
The little girl turned her sober eyes upon her mother. She had laid down the doll and was looking at the rows of books in the new bookcase.
“It’s beautiful country,” commented Becky.
“Oh yes, it’s likely country all right—in the springtime. But that fresh grass is just like a false face. You wait till the green goes and the blizzards come, and then see what you think about it! It’s bare everywhere, and the sky shuts you down just like a cover. There’s no gettin’ away from it. And the wind blows all the time; it nags at you till it finally gets you. I ain’t got no love for the prairies.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Oh, the Mister he’s cracked about it. The prairie seems to make him drunk, you might say. The minute he seen this land opening advertised he was crazy to come. I know just how it’s going to end: we’re going to put in five years of back-breaking work, and starvin’, and lonesomeness, and no schoolin’ for Marietta, and then the bank’ll get it all. But you can’t make him believe that. When you’ve got the prairie in your blood you can’t get it out.”
Becky’s quick brain revolved the woman’s words. That was the way this new country had attracted Uncle Jim; that was the way it had affected her. There was a call of the prairie, sure enough. It had drawn her, just as it had drawn Uncle Jim, and the Mister. She wondered if the prairie woman was right—if these green promises would never be realized; if the springtime face that the prairie showed—the life, the sparkle, the color—was only a mask to lure the unwary.
“I suppose it is lonely in the winter.”
“It’s just like lookin’ at an empty cupboard,” said Mrs. Kenniker. “There ain’t nothin’ there. You look out your window as soon as snow flies, and you see just miles of nothin’. And that prairie wind keeps agoin’ and agoin’ all the time. You know it’s the wind and n
othin’ but the wind, and you say to yourself that you ain’t agoin’ to give in to it. But it keeps at you till it finally gits you.”
Becky looked her sympathy.
“I ain’t acarin’ about me,” went on Mrs. Kenniker. “I’m usen to it, now. But Marietta’s stuck out here where she ain’t gittin’ no schoolin’. She ought to be fillin’ her head up, because she ain’t never goin’ to be able to use her arms ’n her legs. And she’s awful smart about books; she reads everything she lays hands on.”
The child had drawn her chair close to the bookcase, and was looking at the shelves with hungry eyes. “You got a lot of books.” She looked at her mother eagerly. “I’m going to ask her if she knows.” She indicated Becky.
“Yes, do,” urged Mrs. Kenniker.
“Have you got a book called ‘Little Women’?”
“Oh, dear,” said Becky. “I did have it, but it isn’t out here with us. It was worn to rags, and we left it in Platteville when we came away.”
Marietta looked her disappointment. “Did you read it?”
“Oh, many times. I loved it when I was your age.”
“I started it once,” said Marietta. “The doctor’s little girl had it when I was at the hospital in Sioux City, and she let me take it. I read up to the place where Beth falls in the skating pond. Then I got too sick to read, and when I was able to sit up again she had gone away, and taken the book with her. That was two years ago, and I never knew how it turned out. I’ve ast and ast everybody I’ve seen. Can’t you tell me what came after that? I was just crazy about that book!”
And Becky told her, struggling to remember the details, of Amy’s painting experiences, of Jo’s attempts at writing, of Beth’s final illness, of the coming together of Laurie and Amy, of Jo’s romance. And as she saw the hunger in the child’s eyes, and the eagerness with which she followed the story, she realized what prairie living meant to the people that could never get away from it. It was a prison. There seemed no verge to its boundless sweeps, the sky that bent over it was its only limit, but it was a prison just the same. Her heart overflowed with pity for the mother and the little girl, and she pressed “Polly Oliver’s Problem” and “Greek Heroes” into Marietta’s hands at parting, with an offer to lend her more books later.
Mrs. Kenniker looked her gratitude. “We got something good on this trip, if it wasn’t a horse,” she said, as she took up her reins and started off.
* * * *
Becky got the food ready for the Linville supper, then sat down on the back step of the house to await her family. The wind had dropped, as it always did about sundown, the air was cooler, and the prairie looked subdued and peaceful. A striped gopher ran out of his hole and approached almost to the girl’s feet. A mourning dove called out its plaintive, haunting note. The sunshine lay like a warm smile on the ground, and the air was still and sweet. It was hard to believe, in the face of that quiet and serenity, that the prairie could ever betray her.
She heard the wagon coming while it was still far off, and saw Bronx’s tawny figure dashing down the trail to meet it. The children were singing, and Job and Methus were trotting along at a lively pace. It was too bad that the family were returning from that direction, so that her improvements could not burst upon them unannounced, but she would not let them miss anything. “Drive around the house,” she called as they approached.
“What for?”
“You’ll see.”
The wagon jolted around the house, the three passengers looking eagerly over the side. One by one they took in the changes, the new flower beds, the new walk, and—wonder of all—the new trees.
“You have made a day of it!” said Dick.
“Glad I wasn’t here to be made to carry those stones!” commented Phil.
But Joan went to the little aspen tree, looked up into its shaking, shining leaves and said nothing.
They were delighted with the living-room, and did not hesitate to say so. The victrola and the books were welcomed with shrieks of joy, and even the green gingham dress came in for its share of approval. Becky felt conscience-stricken as she saw their pleasure. “I’ve been so busy homesteading that I’ve let the home-making go,” she thought to herself. “I must change that; I’ve got to keep up both ends.”
“Needn’t think you’re the only one that’s been planning improvements,” said Dick, coming from the barn with his arms full. “Just cast your eye over this.” He laid down on the door step a pile of green-and-white striped canvas, with an occasional rod of metal sticking through.
“It looks like an awning,” said Becky.
“Good guess,” replied her brother. “That’s just what it is. Mr. Cleaver has had a new window cut in his land office at Winner, and the window’s too big for the old awning. I offered to buy it to keep that south sun out of our window, but he wouldn’t take anything for it. He said the awning would take the wear and tear off the castor beans; they wouldn’t have to grow so fast to shade you, and that it was no good to him. He put it into my wagon box before I could refuse it. I’ll get it up tomorrow.”
“Bet it’s the only awning on the Rosebud Reservation,” exulted Phil.
“Seems like Platteville here tonight,” said Joan. “I wish Uncle Jim could see it.”
CHAPTER VI
THE ENEMY ATTACKS
When Becky had been packing the toys Uncle Jim had advised her not to take too many. “All the books the children own,” he had said. “Joan’s doll, a baseball and bat, and some board games for the long, winter evenings.”
“But what will they do in the summer time?” she had asked.
“Don’t worry about that; the prairie itself is a pastime. If I know my kids—and I think I do—they’ll never be bored a minute. When they get time to play they’ll do it without toys. The land itself is a background for any pretend in the world.”
And Becky learned that he was right. The hard work in which the children had to share made playtime more attractive than it had ever before been to them, and when the weeding, the chores and the dishes were done they never asked: “What shall we do?”
For there were so many things calling to be done. The creek-bed was a place of eternal fascination. Where it ran swift and deep between narrow banks there were snail shells and queer water-hyacinths and bright-colored pebbles. Where it widened into broad pools there were blunt-nosed suckers and frogs and turtles. A black-and-white-nosed badger lived in a hole near the creek’s edge, and tortoises as big as the bottom of a dish pan lumbered along its banks. On the big stone hill snakes lay about and sunned themselves on the flat rocks. The fact that the children were forbidden to go there alone only added extra fascination to the place. They dared not disobey, but they never passed by without throwing a stone up the hill in the hope of dislodging a yellow-and-brown bull snake or a diamond-backed rattler from his sun porch.
There was always the prairie dog town to visit, where Bronx lived in perpetual hope of catching one of the scolding little beasts. They invariably waited, while he ran barking madly up to them; then at the last moment disappeared suddenly into their homes, with a last defiant yap. There was not the slightest chance of his getting one, but he never gave up the hope, and each time started after them with his original spirit and zest. The excitement of the chase was always at hand, for when there were not prairie dogs there were chipmunks, everywhere, cotton-tails showing their white backs ahead of you, and an occasional jack rabbit that always took to the hills when pursued. His hind legs were so long that a dog had no chance with him in a race, for he ran faster on a slope than on the level. “There goes an ole jack, back-legging himself up the hill,” Joan used to say.
The long slough grass was a delightful place to wander, for after the meadow lilies and the buffalo peas were gone, wild larkspur and golden coreopsis made splashes of color on its surface. As you walked through it, giant grasshoppers jumped ahead of you in clouds, and now and then a meadow-lark, who waited until you were almost upon her, darted up from her nes
t on the ground.
Down on the edge of the creek the children had built a small “homestead” of their own, and it was here that they played oftenest during the hot summer days. Together they had cleared a space on which they placed the tiny farm buildings that they had made out of old boxes. It was a complete claim outfit: with house, barn, shed, several wagons, a hay-cart and, most wonderful of all, a windmill that went round and round in the breeze that never failed. Their little farm was the delight of their hearts, and there was no limit to the games that could be played, with it as a background. The doll and the baseball were untouched, and Becky, while she bemoaned the clay on the overalls, rejoiced at the sunburn on the faces and the flesh that grew on the thin legs.
The young Linvilles had helped Becky “get the wash out” in the early morning, and had just started to play in their little settlement when the Wubber children arrived.
The three oldest had walked over the burning prairie trail, wheeling the baby, Twinkle, in a home-made wagon.
“Pa and Ma is hoin’ the corn,” announced Autumn, joyfully. “She said we could stay till we fit.”
The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack Page 66
