by Lois Lenski
Was it true that the road runner killed rattlesnakes and ate horned toads? Quickly she dug the toad up from his bed of dust and dashed after the road runner. But the faster she went, the faster he ran on ahead. He never flew, his wings were useless. With his long tail down, he ran on flying legs that seemed never to touch the ground. Soon he disappeared.
Breathless Charlie came back and sat down again, dropping the toad in the dust. Doves would be coming for water. She would shoot a few and take them to Mama. They were delicious fried brown—Papa and Uncle Moe ought to have a “bird-fry” soon. Charlie sat ready with her gun, but no doves came. If the dirt tanks dried up, would all the wild life disappear? Hearing a rustle in the dry grass behind her, she saw an armadillo. Was he thirsty too? Did this funny creature with the long snout, encased in a coat of armor, need water to drink?
Charlie aimed her shotgun and fired. But something went wrong. A burst of powder in her hands made her drop the gun to the ground. Her hands were hot as fire, burning. She had not hit the armadillo, after all. He scuttled down a hole.
Gee-whillikens! how her hands did hurt! Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Papa’s shotgun—he had forbidden her to take it unless he was with her. That was his last gun shell too, and she had wasted it. Papa would be mad. She picked the shotgun up and decided to put it back where she found it. Her hands were badly burned, but she could not go into the house and tell Mama. Mama thought she was off riding pasture with Papa. Mama would make a fuss if she knew about the shotgun. No, she could not show her the burned palms of her hands. She’d just have to stand it. After a while, the pain would stop.
Mama did not want her to shoot. Mama was afraid of guns. Maybe Mama was right. The pain kept getting worse—she’d never touch that nasty shotgun again. She had learned her lesson—she had had enough of guns. Shooting wasn’t fun anyway. She would wait till she was grown and then have Papa teach her. She put the gun away, took off her shoes, and walked barefoot out in the lot.
She came to the dipping vat and thought of the exciting day of the dipping. She knelt at the edge and looked down at the back dip. The water had evaporated, but the creosote remained. It was expensive, and could be used over and over. There was no fence around the vat. Uncle Moe told Papa he must build one, and Mama worried for fear somebody might fall in.
Suddenly Charlie had an idea. She remembered the calico dress from McKeever’s store. She would take it to Mrs. Duffy. She wasn’t allowed to go to the Duffys’, but how could she give Mrs. Duffy the dress if she did not go? She would never wear it herself, after the way the family had laughed at her. It was a woman’s dress, too big for her anyhow. Papa had scolded her for riding across the Duffys’ fields. All right! She’d give them the dress to make up for it. She returned to the house, crept around to the little-used front door, opened it and tiptoed in.
With the dress under arm, she started off. It was a long way to walk to the Duffys and ever since she had had a horse, she had given up walking. Bud always said: “A man on foot is no man at all.” She forgot that only an hour before she had sworn she would never ride again. She found Gypsy where Gus had left her and put the poor, mutilated saddle on. Riding over to Nester Duffy’s, Charlie almost forgot mean old Homer and her ruined saddle because of the pain in her hands.
Gypsy was glad to be out, and the ride did not take long. Deer Pasture was dryer than Charlie had ever seen it. The flash storm had not hit here either. She rode across Grundy Draw and wondered if it would ever be filled with water again.
Jake was out in the cornfield, riding his cultivator, which was pulled by the skinny pony and the big raw-boned mule. Corn was up, showing green along the rows. Jake saw her coming and by the time she reached the edge of the field, he was there to meet her.
“Keep off!” he yelled, brandishing a mesquite limb in the air. “By jiggers, Hoot Owl, you’re not settin’ one foot on my land, not you nor your hoss neither. You turn around and git goin’ or I’ll…”
Charlie looked down at him, unafraid. “What’ll you do, you old one-gallus squatter?”
“One step and I’ll show ye!” shouted Jake. “I been waitin’ for a chance to ketch holt of ye, on my own land. You tromped my beans under, you ruiint my cotton and my corn crop…”
“My father gave you seed for replanting,” said Charlie calmly. “What you doin’ now? Loosenin’ the dirt up, so the wind will blow it all away? Your seed will land in Kansas. You’ll have to move up there to harvest your crop.”
“Smart little squirt, ain’t ye?” growled Jake. “What you know about farmin’? All you know is cows, cows, cows.”
“Huh! A man who runs sheep is too dumb to know cows,” snapped Charlie. “You folks movin’ out soon?”
Jake looked up, startled. “Movin’ out? What you mean? Nobody can’t put me out. I’ve paid up my claim.”
“Well, Uncle Moe said when a real drouth came, all the old hoe farmers would leave our country like rats. They’d be starved out!” Charlie smiled. “If a cattleman can’t make a good living on twenty thousand acres, how do you expect to do it on a measly little six hundred and forty?”
“We’re stayin’ on the land,” said Jake Duffy grimly.
“Soon as you go, the grass’ll grow in these fields again,” said the girl, “and we’ll have more feed for our cattle, and more cattle too. You won’t be here to steal our calves and eat them. Your old woollies won’t be eating our grass down to the roots, so it dies when the rains don’t come. This is our country, not yours.”
“We’re not movin’ out!” said Jake Duffy flatly.
“Let me know when you go,” cried Charlie. “I want to ride over and tell you good-by. It’ll sure be nice to see the last of you.”
“You little devil, you! I’d like to wring your neck!”
Just then Mike came up. He smiled at Charlie, showing the empty space where she had knocked his tooth out. Mike did not share his father’s enmity. Ever since the bloody school battle, Mike’s respect for Charlie had increased. But Charlie did not speak to him now. He belonged to the enemy. She wheeled her horse and was about to start off for home, when she remembered her errand.
To ride on Duffy’s land was a challenge, and Charlie was not afraid to try it. Skirting the edge of the cornfield, passing their little flock of sheep and their skinny milk cow tethered to a tree, she entered the lane and rode quickly up to the Duffy house. Mrs. Duffy, lanky and untidy, came running out.
“What you want?” she called. “By ginger, don’t you dare come in here, Charlie Carter. You git OUT!”
What dreadful neighbors! No wonder Mama had no use for them. Charlie wished now she had not come. Jake and Mike were rushing across the field afoot, threatening to tear her to pieces, racing to chase her off their land. Charlie threw the calico dress at Mrs. Duffy and shouted: “It’s a woman’s dress. You can wear it or cut it up for the kids.”
She waited, expecting the woman to spurn the dress and throw it back. But Mrs. Duffy held the garment up in front of her lean body and smiled.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” she cried out. “It ain’t for me, you don’t mean it?” She acted as if she had never had a gift before, and she probably hadn’t.
Jake and Mike came panting up. Jake was waving a hoe now, but his wife stopped him.
“Put down that hoe, you silly galoot!” she cried. “See what I got—a brand-splinterfire-new dress—calico, store-bought. She brung it to me, Charlie Carter did. She’s nice like her Ma. I always did say Beatrice Carter was the sweetest lady in the county. Mike, tie Charlie’s hoss up to the tree. Charlie’s a-comin’ in.”
“Gypsy will stand,” said Charlie, dropping the reins.
There was nothing to do but go in, though Charlie was embarrassed by Mrs. Duffy’s pleasure in the dress and her gratitude. As the woman helped her down from her horse, she saw the girl’s red, swollen hands.
“My goodness, young un, you’ve burnt yourself,” said Mrs. Duffy. “My kids would cry their eyes out with burns like
that. Let me git some oil and tie up your hands.”
Jake started to say something, but changed his mind. He slunk off back to his waiting team in the cornfield, all his anger spent. Mrs. Duffy asked no questions and placed no blame. She took care of the burns and bandaged the girl’s hands.
“Feel better now, don’t they?” she asked.
Charlie nodded, resting her hands in her lap.
Mrs. Duffy began to talk and Charlie listened. She told about taking their homestead claim and how they had lived in a tent for a year and a half. Little Mike had gathered mesquite leaves to serve for a carpet. At the end of three years, they had made three hundred dollars worth of improvements—a well and a windmill and a one-room house fourteen feet square. To get the well drilled, Jake traded his horse and saddle to the driller, and got the driller to credit him for the balance. He bought the windmill on credit—they had to have water.
Charlie listened. How different it sounded to hear Mrs. Duffy tell it. She had never questioned how the Duffys had come to the neighborhood, or what their struggles had been. They had always been called nesters—outsiders, who had no business there.
Mrs. Duffy told how Jake trapped varmints and sold the hides to get money to buy a small flock of sheep, and how the wolves had killed them all in one night. He trapped again, and bought a few more sheep. Sheep were good because they got two crops off of them, a lamb crop and a wool crop.
This was so different from the things people said about the Duffys that Charlie began to feel uncomfortable. For the first time, she saw things from the Duffys’ point of view. She wanted to defend her father’s way of living. She wanted to defend the cattlemen and their hatred of the nesters, but the words stuck in her throat. She got up to go.
“Let me give you a bite to eat,” said Mrs. Duffy.
The three little girls, Fanny May, Clara Belle and Emmaline, crowded round, and Mrs. Duffy gave them each a biscuit spread with molasses. Mike came in, and he and Charlie ate biscuits too. Then they all walked with her to the mesquite tree, where Gypsy waited.
“Aw, come on, Charlie,” begged Mike. “Let’s ride the cultivator with Pa. Let’s have a little fun.”
Charlie shook her head. She didn’t want to see the parched yellow corn leaves, and the poor dried-up cotton.
“We’ll be gittin’ a good rain one of these days,” said Mrs. Duffy, “and then our troubles will be over.”
No—the Duffys were not moving out. Charlie’s eyes lifted to the sky. She wished she could cheer them with the promise of rain, but the glare was so bright, she had to squint.
“We’ll make out,” said Mrs. Duffy.
Jake came up and stood awkwardly by, saying nothing. As Charlie mounted, her shorn saddle brought back the thought of Homer Barton. Jake liked a good joke, so she told him about bringing Homer home on Gypsy.
“ ‘Hold on, Homer, I’m gonna lope!’ ” Jake slapped his overalls and roared with laughter. “Best thing I’ve heard in a coon’s age. Wait till I see Homer! I’ll hoo-rah him good. To think that a little Hoot Owl like you…”
Charlie waved and all the Duffys waved back as she rode off. They were queer and strange, but she did not hate them any more.
Now that she was getting to know them, she almost liked them.
When she entered Little Pasture at home, she saw Bones on Clabber riding out to meet her, with Ringo running alongside. Something must have happened to put Bones on a horse. He rode only when he was forced to. As he came closer, Charlie heard him calling:
“You were lost, but I found you. You better hurry up and come home. Mama’s gonna spank you.”
“Spank me? What for?” asked Charlie.
“You ran off,” said Bones. “We thought you got drowned in the dipping vat. We saw your barefoot tracks all around it, and we couldn’t find you. Mama said maybe you fell in the dirt tank, but Papa said there wasn’t enough water to drown a turtle. And here you are, and there’s nothing wrong at all.” He stared. “Why you got your hands all wrapped up?”
“Never mind,” said Charlie. “Why do I always have to tell where I’m going? Are they firin’ mad at me?”
“They said you ought to be spanked,” said Bones solemnly. “Then when Papa told about your saddle strings being cut off, they felt so sorry for you…”
Charlie smiled and urged Gypsy on. She knew she was safe. They’d all be glad to see her.
CHAPTER IX
A Five-Dollar Bill
“CHARLIE, WHERE ARE YOU going?” asked Grace.
“Out to help Papa,” said Charlie. “He needs me—I’m his pardner.”
“At this time of night?” asked Grace. “Just what do you do? Stand around and wish for rain?”
“When Papa hollers for a hammer, I give it to him,” said the girl. “When he needs a stake or a board or a rock, I run and get it.”
“Hard work!” said Grace. “Lots harder than drying dishes.”
“We’re sleeping by the windmill tonight,” said Charlie, “to keep the pump-jack going. It’s lonely out there. I can’t let Papa stay alone.”
It was July, and the still season had begun. The wind did not blow enough to turn the windmill wheels over even once in twenty-four hours. Charlie missed their rattle and squeak, the steady throbbing of the pumps and the heavy pressure of wind on her eardrums. The water in the dirt tank evaporated so fast, it took two mills to fill it. What one would pump would soak up and evaporate. The other gained a little water.
Uncle Moe had built a rock tank at headquarters, sixty feet in diameter and seven feet deep, cemented and waterproofed inside so not a drop of water should be lost. He wanted to build another at Triangle Ranch, but rock tanks were expensive and there was no extra money in a drouth year.
Dan Carter hooked up the pump-jack, which was run by a gasoline engine, and was trying to get it started. He would have to run one engine all the time now, sometimes two or even three. The water went through a lead pipe into the dirt tank and then into troughs. The cattle lowed for water, pushing close to get to the troughs.
“Confounded cows!” cried Charlie. “They drink till they BUST! That red and white cow drinks three tubfuls, then goes and gets a lick of salt and comes back for more. If five hundred cows do the same thing…”
“We got a big job of pumping ahead,” chuckled her father.
It was no joke—the job was a big one. They had to keep the pump going day and night, for the cattle kept up with the water supply. It seemed impossible to get ahead for storage. The water was always getting lower and lower.
Dan Carter started the pump, and he and Charlie lay down on a tarpaulin near by in their clothes. They talked until they got sleepy, lulled by the rhythmic chug-chugging of the gasoline engine. Then they dozed and finally slept.
The night was hot and that made them restless. There was only dust-filled air to breathe. After a few hours, the pump stopped because of poor-grade gasoline, and the chug-chugging lapsed into silence. Immediately Dan Carter jumped from the depths of sleep, as at the shrill call of an alarm clock.
Charlie woke too. She sat up and watched her father refuel and start the motor again.
The night was as still as death—not even the call of a whippoorwill. Then she heard an owl in a distant tree, hooting mournfully. Was morning coming? She heard the distracted chirping of birds—were they thirsty, too? She thought of all the living creatures that came to the tank for water. Had the cattle scared them off, and where would they go? Suddenly she heard the chilling howl of a coyote, and it made goosebumps break out all over her. Was it feeding on a dead cow or calf? She was glad her dogies and the other calves were safe in the barn.
The engine was going again, shattering the mystery of the other night-sounds. Then above the chug-chugging, she heard again the lowing of the cattle—disturbing, restless moans that meant thirst.
Her father came back to lie down. He studied the bright night sky for possible clouds, but saw none. “Go back to sleep, hon,” he said. They stretched out a
nd slept again.
Charlie dreamed of rain. She was in the house and she heard her mother call, “Get your slickers out!” and she heard rain pounding on the roof. So this is rain, she thought. It pelted the roof, the windows, the trees, the ground. She heard water splashing, birds singing, frogs croaking, horses trotting and lifting their feet out of sticky wet mud. She was running, walking, riding horseback, and the rain poured over her face. Rain was so cool, so sweet and clean—she had forgotten how wonderful it was. Rain…rain…blessed rain…the answer to prayer, the end of hope.
Charlie stirred and turned over. Her father got up and went to the pump. She heard him moving and thought it was Grace getting up and dressing. Charlie rubbed her eyes and sat up.
“Where’s the rain?” she said.
“What rain, hon?” asked her father.
“I dreamed it was raining,” said Charlie, “and the raindrops were splashing up in puddles of water.”
“You sure were dreaming pretty, hon,” said Papa.
But it was as dry as ever. It had not rained at all. The ground was hard like cement, without a blade of grass. The trees looked dead like winter, but it was hot summer.
Morning had come. Charlie ran into the house. Dust, dust, nothing but dust. The air was full of dust. Dust lay piled on the window sills, dust made a coating over chairs, bureau and table. Mama had taken down the lace curtains long ago. There was no water to wash them. Each day, with a cloth tied over her mouth and nose, Mama swept up mounds of dust from the linoleum floors. The rugs were put away too.
Charlie licked her lips and the taste of dust was in her mouth. She could not get away from dust. She picked up the dipper and took a drink of water from the water bucket. Even the water tasted of dust. It had not rained at all. She felt sick at heart with a kind of hopelessness she had never felt before. Would it never rain again?
