by Kirby Larson
I was restaking my green beans when I heard a rider approaching. I glanced up, shielding my eyes from the sun with my vine-stained right hand. It was Rooster Jim.
“Come on in and have some coffee.” I dropped my hoe and stepped toward him as he trotted Ash into the yard.
He wore an odd expression, one I couldn’t read. “This isn’t a social visit, Hattie.” After he swung down off Ash, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time brushing prairie dust from his pants.
“Is something wrong? Is it Perilee?” I wiped my hands on my grimy apron. “The baby?”
“No, no, they’re all right.” He wrapped Ash’s reins around the saddle horn. The silky gray horse nibbled at some clover that was taking over my onions. “Mr. Ebgard wanted me to tell you. Wanted you to know right away.”
I edged toward him. “Jim, you’d best tell me right out. And be done with it.”
He tugged off his hat. “It’s Martin,” he said, working his hands around its brim. “He’s contested your claim.”
“What?” I exhaled hard. “I don’t understand. What’s that mean?”
“It happens. A couple months ago, Lisa Edwards, over by Cow Creek, got her claim contested by a neighbor. Said she wasn’t really living on the place, wasn’t fulfilling the residency requirement.”
“But I live here,” I sputtered. “Have since I came out.”
“Well, it’s not your living here that Traft’s challenging.” Rooster Jim ducked his head and spoke to his shoe tops. “It’s your age.”
A warmth crept up from my chest over my neck to the top of my head. “Age?”
Jim lifted his head. “See, unless you’re the head of household, you’ve gotta be twenty-one to file a claim.”
“But Uncle Chester filed—”
“Traft says he had no right to leave you something he didn’t really own.”
“Is that true?” I rubbed my forehead. “About leaving it to me?”
Jim cleared his throat. “Technically, probably.”
My head felt so light, I thought I might faint. “But why?” I asked. Don’t know why I did—I knew the answer. Traft couldn’t grow the biggest ranch around hemmed in by honyockers like me. He’d probably been cooking this up since I turned him down that first day. Oh, why had I been so smart to him? Maybe if I’d been a little more civil—
“What do I do?”
“Here’s how it works. Mr. Ebgard hears the case because he’s the closest land official. Traft tried to get him to make a ruling today, but Ebgard said you had the right to be heard, too.”
Uncle Chester’s letter came back to me: I trust you’ve enough of your mother’s backbone. Did I have enough for another fight? “So I have to go to Wolf Point?”
Jim nodded.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“But that’s no time to—” I stopped myself. To do what? Age five years? I couldn’t change the fact that I was sixteen. Well, almost seventeen, come October 28.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Jim asked.
I thought it over. I did. I wanted him and Karl and Perilee and Leafie. All my friends. I wasn’t sure I did have enough backbone to face Traft one more time. But I couldn’t bear the thought of having my friends watch me lose my claim. And to Traft Martin! “Thanks. But I’ll go on in myself.”
Rooster Jim patted my shoulder as he left. “However it comes out, you should be real proud of yourself, Hattie. Real proud.”
I thought about that as I got ready for bed. What good was being proud when you didn’t have a roof of your own to be proud under?
The bell jingled as I entered Mr. Ebgard’s office. He hopped right up and found me a chair.
“Afternoon, Mr. Ebgard.” I kept my chin up. Helped to hold back the tears.
“I’m real sorry about all this, Hattie.” He fussed with some papers on his desk. “Part of the job.”
“I know.” I lifted my chin another inch. “Shall we get started?”
He sighed. “I expect we’d better.”
The bell jingled again. Traft Martin swaggered inside. He made a big show of tipping his hat to me. “Good afternoon, Miss Brooks.”
A curt nod was all I would give him.
Mr. Ebgard reached behind him and flipped through his files. He fumbled around so long that Traft began to rock on his feet. “Come on, Ebgard. Can’t be that many B’s.”
A few more moments and Mr. Ebgard pulled out a file. “Let me review my notes.”
Traft slammed down on an empty chair. “What’s to review?” He jerked his thumb toward me. “She isn’t twenty-one. Plain and simple. She admitted as much to witnesses.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Mr. Ebgard interrupted. “When is your next birthday, Miss Brooks?”
“Coming up. End of October. October twenty-eighth.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Ebgard scribbled something down.
“Now you can bake her a cake.” Traft leaned forward on the chair. “Her birthday isn’t the question here. It’s her age. Ask her how old she is.”
“I’m in charge of this hearing,” said Mr. Ebgard. “And you’d best let me run it my way, Mr. Martin, or I will reschedule this hearing for October twenty-ninth.”
I couldn’t stop my smile. I still wouldn’t be old enough on October 29, but I saw what Mr. Ebgard was trying to do.
“Now, Miss Brooks. Will you please tell me where you were born?”
“Oh, for crying out—” Traft slapped his hand on his thigh.
“Your birthplace?” Mr. Ebgard continued calmly. “And year?”
“Arlington, Iowa,” I answered. “October twenty-eighth, 1901.”
“See!” Traft closed his eyes to do the math. “That makes her sixteen. Nowhere near old enough.”
“Who are your parents?” Mr. Ebgard asked.
“Raymond and Katherine Brooks,” I answered.
He nodded and made a note.
“But they are no longer living.” I touched Mother’s watch, pinned to my blouse.
“Oh?” Mr. Ebgard scribbled something else. “So who is your guardian?”
I chewed on my lower lip. “No one, sir. I mean, different folks took me in, but I didn’t have anyone official like that.”
“No guardian?” Mr. Ebgard’s pencil poised above the paper.
“No.”
“Would you say your upbringing was different from most girls your age?” he asked.
“Cut this tea party talk and get down to business!”
Mr. Ebgard raised his eyebrow at Traft. “Your upbringing?” he prompted.
I thought about it for a minute. Mr. Ebgard’s questions were even beginning to puzzle me. What did any of this have to do with my homestead claim? “Well, I guess it was fine. I mean, I didn’t have folks to fuss over me like some girls I know.” Mildred Powell, for one. If she even got one sniffle, her mother put her to bed and waited on her hand on foot. “I guess I learned to do for myself sooner.”
“How much sooner, would you say?”
“How much?” I wrinkled my forehead. Then I smiled. I saw exactly where Mr. Ebgard was headed. I decided to play along. “Oh, five or six years, I’d say.” I nodded. “Yes, definitely five or six years.”
“Ebgard!” Traft looked ready to explode.
“Five or six years. Hmmm.” Mr. Ebgard scribbled furiously on his paper. “Very interesting.” He scribbled some more. I glanced over at Traft. He was rolling a cigarette, dropping tobacco on Mr. Ebgard’s office floor. The cigarette was finished by the time Mr. Ebgard spoke again.
“Mr. Martin,” he began.
Traft shifted in his chair, dropped the cigarette in his pocket and smirked at me.
“Mr. Martin, while the law does specify an age of majority in order to file a homestead claim—”
“Yes, and it’s not sixteen!”
“It also provides for the ability for a single woman, head of household, to file. Some might infer that the majority age applies in such a case—”
“I am going to rule that the head-of-household status takes precedence over the age requirement. And, as Miss Brooks has herself explained, her sixteen years are the equivalent of twenty-one years for other girls raised under more fortuitous circumstances.” Mr. Ebgard scribbled one final time on the paper. “I find this contestation has no merit.”
I fought the urge to throw my arms around Mr. Ebgard’s neck. I was so happy, I probably would’ve squeezed the life out of him. “I get to keep my claim!”
“Well, to be accurate, you may continue to work to prove up on it.” He smiled.
“Ebgard, don’t be a fool.” Traft ran his hand over his face. “We’ll see what the Council of Defense has to say about this. You know, she’s awful friendly with Karl Mueller. And I’ve seen her out at the Ren place and—”
“And I know that Miss Brooks has loyally purchased Liberty Bonds and war stamps.” Mr. Ebgard was standing now. “At great personal sacrifice. I would be very careful about making any accusations along those lines about her.” He leaned forward across the desk.
I thought there might be blows, so I jumped up. “No hard feelings, Mr. Martin?” I stuck out my hand. Traft looked as if he might spit in it. He turned on his heel and slammed out the door.
I held my breath as the window glass in the door rattled, then stilled. I turned to Mr. Ebgard. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Nor I you,” he said. “Now you go home and do what you need to so I can give you that final certificate come November.”
“Give?” I teased. “For thirty-seven seventy-five, you mean.”
“I’ll take great personal pleasure in taking your cash and in signing my name to your deed.” He reached for his hat. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? My treat.”
Where I couldn’t have eaten a bite before coming in, I was suddenly starving! “I’d love to.” I took his arm and we strolled over to Erickson’s Hotel and ate the biggest dinner they served.
CHAPTER 21
OCTOBER 1918
* * *
THE ARLINGTON NEWS
Honyocker’s Homily ~ An Ill Wind
The Spanish influenza epidemic has become more than a news item for us here. I will confess that until now, though I have prayed for the many stricken by this plague, the situation only touched me in a superficial way. After all, I don’t know those Bostonians or San Franciscans or Kansans who have taken ill; the numbers, though alarming, held no personal arithmetic. But when I learned that Mr. Ballagh, a baker at Hanson’s Cash Grocery and Bakery, had taken ill and died, my heart ached. It seems the misfortune of one can plow a deeper furrow in the heart than the misfortune of millions.
* * *
Rooster Jim brought the news back from one of his trips to Wolf Point. “The Spanish influenza,” he said. “Mr. Hanson and his whole family are sick with it. Same for the Ebgards.” And I’d heard that Mrs. Martin hadn’t left Sarah’s bedside in three days.
Leafie got busy and whipped up huge batches of sagebrush tea. “This is disgusting!” I spit out my first sip.
“Most stuff that’s good for you is,” she answered. She set a big glass jar of the murky tea on my kitchen table. “I want you to drink every drop of that,” she ordered. “I don’t know much about this influenza, but I know sagebrush tea’s good for most of what ails.” We shared supper together and then she left, headed for Perilee’s to deliver a jar of tea there.
The next morning, I had two visitors, bright and early.
“Hey, Hattie!” Chase called out. “Guess where we’re going?”
“To New York City?”
Chase laughed. “Even better. Karl’s letting me ride along to Richey to pick up the part for the tractor.” He hopped out of the wagon and handed me a strudel Perilee had sent over. “And don’t tell Mama, but we’re going to buy her a sideboard while we’re there,” he confided. “Karl put some money down on it last time he was to town.” Chase smiled. “Now she’ll have a proper place to put her silver and such.”
After I saw them off, I did my chores, then walked over for supper with Perilee and the girls. We quilted awhile on a Flying Geese quilt we’d pieced. It was one of the nicest things we’d done; we planned to enter it in the Dawson County fair next year.
“My eyes are starting to get blurry.” I finished up the last of my thread. “I’ve got to quit. I’ll come back tomorrow and we can finish.”
Perilee yawned. “I’m bushed myself. What with all the excitement of getting those men off, I think I’ve worn myself pure out.” I kissed Mattie, Fern, and Lottie and walked home.
Plug was stubborn the next morning. I wondered aloud at his behavior. “What is galling you?” Finally I got him fed and turned out. But by the time my chores were done, it was well after noon dinner that I started off for Perilee’s. Fall nipped at the air, sending a little shiver through me. I remembered all those days this past summer when I’d craved a fresh breeze. I wasn’t going to fuss about a little chill now!
As I walked, I thought about a quilt I’d been wanting to make. I want to create a new pattern, I’d written to Charlie, after he wrote to thank me for the Charlie’s Propeller quilt. Something no one has ever done before. One that captures this Montana country. I had my eye on a piece of soft blue chambray at Mr. Dye’s store for the sky and I’d been saving scraps of brown gingham for the prairie. What would I call it? Montana Muddle? I smiled. That would’ve been a good name for some of the first quilts I made. But my stitching was getting surer and my eye for color stronger. All the Red Cross ladies were asking my opinion now for color combinations for the patchworks they were making to send to the soldiers. Big Sky Star? That sounded real nice. Then it came to me: Hattie’s Heartland. I smiled. That was it. I couldn’t wait to tell Perilee what I’d cooked up.
As I crested the coulee by Perilee’s, I glanced across the prairie. Something didn’t look right. It only took a moment to realize what it was. There was no smoke coming out of Perilee’s chimney. On this cool day. With a new baby.
My feet flew down the hill.
“Perilee? Mattie?” I pounded on the door. “It’s me.” There was no answer but a weak mewl, as if from a newborn kitten. I lifted the latch and stepped inside.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” My legs buckled beneath me. Perilee lay on her bed, the baby across her chest. Mattie and Fern were ashen heaps, feverish on the floor. I tossed my shawl aside and moved to the stove, talking all the while.
“I’m here, Perilee. It’s Hattie. Everything’s going to be all right.” I got a fire lit and set a kettle on to boil. They were all burning up with fever, so there was no point in boiling water, but it gave me time to gather my thoughts to figure out what to do. No time to go for Leafie. I was afraid of what might happen while I was gone.
“Baby.” Perilee whispered the word and handed Lottie to me. She couldn’t have felt hotter if I’d picked her up out of the oven.
“We better get her cooled down,” I said. Perilee nodded weakly. She started to say something else, but the effort launched her into a coughing fit. She turned away, but not before I saw she was coughing up awful stuff.
While I drew water for Lottie’s bath, I saw the still-full jar of sagebrush tea. “Darn you, Perilee,” I said under my breath. It was wretched, but it might have helped. No use fussing now. I poured the tea into a saucepan and set it to warm over the stove.
I stripped the baby out of her sweat-soaked dress and diaper. She cried—hers was the little mewl I’d heard from outside the door. Her tongue was coated white, and her eyelids drooped. “There, there,” I cooed, and gently bathed her with the cool well water. It seemed to ease her some. After the bath, I diapered her but left her otherwise bare. I broke some bread into a bowl, poured milk mixed with sagebrush tea over it, and fed her tiny bits. Then I laid her in her bed and ministered to Mattie and Fern.
Fern seemed to perk
up some after her bath and nourishment, but not Mattie. A wave of nausea swept over me at the sight of her head lolling this way and that when I put her back to bed.
Perilee fought with me when it was her turn for the treatment. “The girls,” she protested hoarsely.
“They’ve had their turn and now it’s yours.” I bathed her face and arms and legs with the cool water. Only three small bites of food passed between her lips before she fell into a fitful sleep. She woke only to cough, a miserable gut-wrenching cough, as if she was trying to turn herself inside out. In the kitchen, I took two onions and sliced them thin and began to fry them on the stove. When they were soft and transparent, I mixed them with flour to make a poultice and put the whole mess on Perilee’s chest. Aunt Ivy had always said onions were the best thing for drawing out the bad vapors of a cough. I didn’t know what else to do.
That poultice brought some quiet. Perilee seemed to sleep, truly sleep, for several hours. During that time, I kept bathing the girls, forcing tea or water or graveyard stew into them.
Fern whimpered at my every ministration, but Mattie didn’t say a word. It was as if it took all of her strength to draw in breath after grating breath. No matter how many times I bathed her, her face was hot and flushed.
This was my pattern all through the day and the night and into the next morning. I moved from one to the next, bathing, coaxing, petting, soothing. I was too busy to even pray.
I had finished bathing Mattie once again. She was as limp as Mulie when I nestled her back in her bed.
“Sleep well, Mattie.” I stroked her damp hair. “When you get to feeling perkier, I promise to buy you any flavor soda you want!”
A tiny smile flickered across her gray face. I squeezed her hand one-two-three in our secret code. She didn’t squeeze back.
“Hattie,” Perilee called softly from the bedroom. I dragged myself in and helped her use the chamber pot. It was getting harder and harder to keep my eyes open. But it was time to change Lottie and Fern and bathe them again. This time, Fern ate ten bites of toast and milk.
