by Kirby Larson
“Hattie.” Mattie tugged on my skirt. “Is that thunder?”
I shook off my daydream. “I don’t hear—” A deep rumble shook me from my toes up. “What is that?”
The ground rolled beneath us as a shudder of noise rolled over us.
“Horses!” Chase’s face went white. “Wild horses!”
He’d no sooner said the words than I knew he was right. I pictured the wild, frothing herd headed right for us. “A stallion can bite through the neck of a grown horse,” Rooster Jim had once warned me. I trembled to think what it could do to the children.
“Piggyback,” I said to Fern, swinging her onto my shoulders. I snatched Mattie’s hand. “We’ve got to run for it!”
Flowers, greens, and buckets forgotten, we ran across the prairie, joined at the hands and wobbling like an unwieldy snake. The earth roared and writhed as it must have during Creation.
I turned and saw them, a tidal wave of horseflesh, nearing the other side of the creek. They’d soon be upon us.
The stallion guided his herd this way and that, closing the space between us. The mares followed his every lead. I handed Fern over to Chase. “Head for home,” I ordered.
“Hattie—” Chase started.
“Go!” I screamed. Off they flew. I thought of the stones in my pocket; they’d worked against wolves and boys, but they’d be worthless against wild horses. I had no idea what to do. But I would not let those horses cross the creek. Would not allow them to harm those children. My skirt flapped in the breeze as I turned. I remembered Perilee’s comments about the clothes on the line attracting the antelope. Maybe they’d have the opposite effect on skittish horses.
I ripped off my skirt and petticoat and began flapping them like a demented bird in bloomers. The stallion froze at the creek’s edge. His herd stopped, too, as one, whinnying and stamping as he paced back and forth.
“Hee-yaw!” I waved and yelled and danced around. The stallion twitched and snorted and took one high step into the creek. “Hee-yaw!” I screamed. I flailed my arms and wailed like a dime-novel dervish.
The stallion lowered his head, flesh quivering on his massive, gleaming neck. He stepped back. And back again.
My woolen wings fluttered and flapped at the ends of my arms. “Back! Back!” I stepped forward. The stallion hopped back again and stopped. He froze, wild eyes fixed on me. What kind of creature did he imagine me to be? I prayed a fearsome one. I inched forward one more step and gave a ferocious flap. He yanked his head back and wheeled around. He paced and pranced, there on the other side of the creek. Then, with a shake of his powerful head, he launched into a gallop and led his four-legged band in the opposite direction.
I collapsed, exhausted, to the ground. Something sharp bruised my tailbone. I shifted and fished around on the ground for the offending item. It was one of my wishing stones, no doubt flung from my pocket in my wild display. Was it the stone, my antics, or the Lord once again moving in mysterious ways that had turned the horses? Who could say? My ragged breaths turned to sobs as the full force of the close call hit me. If anything had happened to Perilee’s children…I wiped my face with my petticoat. There was no time to wallow in what could have been. I shook myself off, clutching my limp and torn garments, and headed for Perilee’s to bring in the dry laundry and start supper. When I got home that night and undressed, the wishing stone fell out of my pocket. I set it on the kitchen table—a reminder of wishes come true—lit the kerosene lamp and finished writing my Honyocker’s Homily.
As I close this installment, let me say this: for all the times my aunt admonished me that a lady never goes out without at least one petticoat under her skirt, I am most thankful. My trusty underthings saved the day for me and for those three children. It seems that this season of sowing is not simply about planting flax and wheat. Along with the grain, it appears I have also sown strong seeds of friendship.
The next Sunday, I started off to church. I walked a bit out of my way, to pass close to Perilee’s to see the progress on the new barn. Pastor Schatz from the Lutheran church had recently organized a barn raising. I’d even pounded a few nails myself that day. While it was wonderfully satisfying to see a sturdy structure arise from the ashes, literally, what had lifted my spirits most was seeing all the Vida folks come out. The County Council of Defense members were noticeably absent, but otherwise nearly everyone came by to lend a hand or a word of advice. Mrs. Nefzger had the grippe but sent three of her raisin pies. Perilee dabbed at teary eyes all day, and Karl kept shaking his head. “That’ll hold till after harvest,” said Rooster Jim, admiring the day’s work. “Then we’ll get the roof on.”
I shook my own head, thinking about that day. Coming back to the present, I was startled to turn the bend and see Perilee, in her best dress, holding her girls by the hand and Chase right behind.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To church.” Her look ordered no questions. “You stay right next to me, you promise?”
“Like a burr,” I promised.
Perilee tucked her arm through mine snug, as we walked through a rainbow of wildflowers. We took turns carrying Fern. Mattie and Chase followed behind like calves, distracted by this butterfly or that bug or newly bloomed lily.
Across the flat prairie, the church sailed into view, a small ship of salvation on the buffalo grass sea. Perilee’s grip on my arm tightened as each step drew us closer. By the time we arrived at the front door, I thought my arm would fall clean off.
Mattie and Chase were pulled away by the Saboe kids, off to Sunday school. Holding Fern, I led Perilee to a pew near the back. It rocked as we settled in, smoothing wool skirts into place with callused hands.
“Let us pray.” Reverend Tweed led the opening prayer.
I glanced at Perilee. Her eyes were squeezed so tight her eyelashes disappeared. A wrinkle weaved its way across her forehead. I reached over and squeezed her hand, one-two-three. Perilee’s eyes opened, and I winked at her. She smiled, and the wrinkle dissolved.
“Open your hymnals to page ninety-seven.” Reverend Tweed stood again. “We will sing ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.’”
Mrs. Martin crashed out a semblance of the tune on the careworn upright piano. The choir lurched and stumbled somewhere near the proper melody. The congregation tried to follow. It was painful, even for me.
Then, softly, surely, an angel’s voice broke through the tumult, offering a place for that raggedy mix of voices to land. It pulled the hymn out of muddled confusion and lifted true praises to the Lord.
I stopped to listen. It was Perilee.
A few other folks had also stopped singing and were craning their necks to find the source of the only real music in that little church. I nearly burst with pride.
“You have the voice of an angel,” Reverend Tweed told her as he shook her hand after the service. “You’d be a wonderful addition to our choir.”
Perilee’s face lit up. Before she could reply, Mrs. Martin piped up. “We are already overloaded on altos,” she said.
“Surely—” began Reverend Tweed.
“I do thank you for your offer, Reverend.” Perilee tugged her shawl around her. “But with the baby coming, I don’t see how I could manage.” She started down the stairs, and I was close behind, shifting Fern to my other hip. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Martin, moving in behind us, her face puckered up like a prune. Reverend Tweed was about to be on the receiving end of a sermon.
Perilee and I called to the children.
“She’s awful,” I said.
Perilee shrugged. “It was nice to sing,” she said wistfully.
“Plenty of time to decide after the baby is born,” I said. Then and there I determined to get Perilee in that choir. Maybe I could threaten to join if they didn’t let her in.
Once again, she slipped her arm through mine. We girl-talked our whole way back to her house. The kids jump-frogged ahead of us, playing some kind of complicated game of tag. Perilee asked me to stay to
dinner. “It’s just make-do,” she apologized.
“Your make-do is better than the Ritz,” I said, helping myself to some more chicken and dumplings.
She smiled shyly. “It’s the company, not the cooking, that makes the meal.” She pushed back from the table. “I’ll bring out the coffee.”
“Stay put.” I poured coffee for the three adults and we sat and visited. I was beginning to understand almost all of Karl’s conversation, with its mix of German and English. He got us all to laughing over Violet’s new bad habit. Seems she’d turned goat, trying to take nips out of Karl’s britches.
“Stop, stop!” My stomach hurt from laughing so hard. But it felt good. The good mood wrapped around me and kept me company on my walk home and through my evening chores.
CHAPTER 14
MAY 1918
* * *
THE ARLINGTON NEWS
Honyocker’s Homily ~ Chicken Farmer
I may not have finished high school, but my homestead life continues to provide essential education. I have learned that no price can be put on good neighbors. I don’t mean to imply I merely treasure the folks around me for the way they help. Granted, I wouldn’t be looking out at a quilt of sprouting grain as I survey my flax and wheat fields had my neighbors not intervened. Nor would I be blessed with several new additions to my homestead family.
Rather, the lessons this life has planted in my heart pertain more to caring than to crops, more to Golden Rule than gold, more to the proper choice than to the popular choice.
* * *
About two weeks after the stand-off with the wild horses at Wolf Creek, I hied myself to Vida. I had a check due from Mr. Miltenberger, and I hoped there were some letters. Since the fire, I had lost Traft’s front-door delivery service. If I never saw that man again, it would be too soon.
To my very pleasant surprise, I was not the only pilgrim on the path that day.
“Leafie!” I called out to the figure striding purposefully ahead of me. She turned and waited for me to catch up.
“Doing any more of them burlesque dances out there on the prairie?” She grinned.
“Perilee told!”
“Honey, a story that good can’t be kept under a barrel.” Leafie shook her head. “Wouldn’t you love to know what that stallion made of you?” She chuckled.
“What takes you into town?” I decided to shift the subject.
“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that.” She patted her knapsack. “And an errand for Karl.”
“He’s done planting.” I sidestepped a patch of gumbo lilies. “What’s keeping him so busy he can’t get to town?”
She looked thoughtful. “Yes, well…He says he don’t want to leave Perilee alone, but…” Her voice trailed off.
I picked up my pace a bit. “But what?” Leafie had about twenty years on me, but you’d never know it from her stride.
“It’s this Council of Defense monkey business. Those Martins and their knucklehead friends have gotten the whole town worked up. Did you know they broke up services last week at the Lutheran church? Traft fined Pastor Schatz! Said next time he’d put him in jail!” Leafie shook her head.
“You tell me the good Lord’s in charge of this mess and I’ll scream.”
“Is that why Karl isn’t going to town?” I shivered.
“Perilee asked him not to.” Leafie flipped her tobacco pouch from the front pocket of the man’s shirt she always wore. She expertly rolled a cigarette and lit it. “She also asked him not to go to services at the Lutheran church, but that he wouldn’t do.” She picked a shred of tobacco off her tongue.
“That man. Never went before, but now that there’s trouble, he’s determined to attend.”
We made the last turn on the path, and the Vida church popped into sight. I thought about Reverend Tweed’s last sermon: “Winning the War at Home.” “They wouldn’t hurt anyone at a church, would they?”
“That wouldn’t stop them.” Leafie took an impatient puff. “Did you hear about Edward Foster? They nearly lynched the poor old man simply because he said too many of our boys are dying in the war. And him a distinguished veteran.” Leafie stopped to loosen her bootlaces. “Rock,” she grumbled, leaning on me to shake out her boot. Nothing came out. She peered inside and shook it again. “Like trying to find an honest man on that silly Council of Defense,” she said. She laughed at her own joke and slipped her boot back on.
“You shouldn’t joke like that.” I looked around. “What if someone overheard you?”
She snorted. “Let them try to come after me.” She patted my hand. “Listen, there are worse things than the wrath of the Martin brothers. And the worst thing of all is standing by when folks are doing something wrong.” She seemed to turn her thoughts somewhere else. “As if there was something more admirable about Lemuel Johnson because he was 100 percent American—whatever that is.” She turned to look me full in the face. “Now, you tell me—you think I should keep quiet when those peabrains turn their meanness on Karl because of where he was born?” She fixed her gaze at me.
I thought about all that had happened in the last month or so. “No, not keep quiet, but…” I stopped.
“Will you listen to me?” She shook herself like a hen un-ruffling its feathers. “All worked up over them toads. Sorry, Hattie. Let’s stop in Charlie Mason’s café and have us some pie and coffee.”
I wondered how a person got like Leafie. Or even like Traft. So sure of what was right. Maybe when I was Leafie’s age, such matters would be clear as glass to me, as they were to her. Right now it seemed to me that life was as clear as the cup of muddy coffee Charlie Mason served up.
“You want to walk back together?” asked Leafie, scooping up her last bite of buttermilk pie. “Meet back here in an hour or so?”
I agreed, paid for my pie and coffee, and left my nickel change for a tip. My errands would take me to Nefzger’s store and the post office, all one and the same, and all connected to his sod house.
Mr. Nefzger greeted me as I stepped inside. “Got some mail for you.”
“Thank you.” I flipped through the envelopes. Thank God there was one from the Arlington News. That meant I could buy a few supplies. “I could use another bag of beans,” I said. “And some kerosene.”
He set my items on the counter. “How are things out your way?”
“Fine.” I opened my pocketbook. “You should see my fields. They’re green velvet quilts.” I laughed at myself. “Never thought the sight of growing plants could be so thrilling.”
“It’s something I’ve never tired of,” he said. “Wait till you see the flax in bloom. I’ve never been to the sea myself, but I imagine it couldn’t be bluer than a field of flax.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” I handed over what I owed him.
Mr. Nefzger cleared his throat. “I hate to mention this, Hattie. But Chester left a bill here.”
“A bill?” My hand froze in midair over my pocketbook.
He nodded. “For the fencing.” He fumbled under the counter and brought out a piece of paper. An IOU. I looked at it.
“Two hundred and twenty dollars?” I reached my hand out and steadied myself on the counter. “He didn’t pay for any of it?”
“He took sick. I didn’t want to push it.” He cleared his throat.
I fumbled with my pocketbook. Two hundred and twenty dollars! “I’m sorry—it can’t be all at once.” I counted out every bill in my pocketbook and set the money on the counter.
He didn’t reach for the bills. “I should have told you sooner.” He looked as sick as I felt. “I know times are tough. I’ve got the bank pushing on me to collect on accounts.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nefzger.” I started numbly for the door. “I’ll get this paid off as quickly as I can.”
In a fog, I moved through the doorway. If I hadn’t been in shock, I might have had the wherewithal to turn a cold shoulder to the person I next encountered: Traft Martin.
He made a fuss of tipping his
hat to me. “Good day, Miss Brooks. How is the homesteader today?”
“Fine, thank you.” I cradled my parcel to my chest and began walking. Let’s see, $220 from—how much did that leave me?
“You heading to the café?” He fell into step beside me. “Allow me to escort you.”
“Oh, there’s no need.” Oh, Lord. I envisioned my ledger in my mind. Would there be enough to pay for the binder? The thresher? The grain sacks? What kind of payments would Mr. Nefzger expect? Would I have to go to Wolf Point and take everything out of my bank account there?
“Think nothing of it.” Traft smiled. “Are you all right?”
Would I need to take out a loan? Karl didn’t believe in them, but—
“Hattie?”
“What?” I realized he was still walking next to me. I walked faster.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.
His words jarred me out of my shock. He hadn’t seen me in a while, he says. Well, I’d seen him. And his handiwork.
“For a short woman, you cover a lot of ground, and quickly.” He put his hand on my arm to slow me down. “Is there some reason you want to avoid me?”
I couldn’t believe his gall. “Some reason? Some?”
He spread his hands, palms up, as if inviting me to explain.
It may be true that discretion is the better part of valor. But Leafie’s words as we walked to town were still rummaging around in my brain. And the nerve of this man. Was he stupid as well as mean?
“I saw you.”
“Saw me?”
“After the fire. At my house.”
Traft’s body jerked back for an instant. It was as if he’d been struck. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Don’t tell me you weren’t there.” My hands curled into angry fists. “Don’t add liar to your list of dubious accomplishments.”
“I’m not lying.” His voice lost all its bluster. “I was at your place. But to stop another fire. Not start one.”
