The Prairie Thief

by Melissa Wiley

  “Oh, that’s just silly,” said Louisa. “Everybody needs to know how to write a letter, don’t they? My pa says reading and writing are as important as knowing how to cook, sew, shoe a horse, and plow a furrow.”

  The eager light was shining in Jessamine’s eyes again. “Oh, Louisa! Supposing you was to teach me to write! Would you? We could make some ink somehow, couldn’t we?”

  Louisa nodded. “I suppose so. But what would we write on? I’ve got paper at home, but . . .” There was no point in her trying to slip away home again. Mrs. Smirch wasn’t ever going to let her out alone.

  “What about those flat stones by the creek?” Jessamine asked. “You know, over yonder past the Hole.” She spoke the word almost reverently, pointing. “Where he lives.” Then she jumped to her feet, shrieking.

  “Charlie, you get out of there! Winthrop, pull him out!”

  She pelted toward the badger’s hole, Louisa close on her heels. Charlie was on his hands and knees crawling into the hole, just his dirty feet sticking out. Winthrop was urging him on.

  “Go on, I’m a-comin’ right behind you. Don’t be afraid, you gutless—”

  “Winthrop!” Louisa’s voice was stern. “Don’t you encourage him! Grab his ankles before he gets any farther!”

  “Naw, I wanna see where it goes,” said Winthrop, giving Charlie’s bottom a shove. A muffled yelp came from inside the hole. “Might be a cave under there with gold and jewels and stuff.”

  “Ain’t no gold mine!” scoffed Jessamine. “It’s the entrance to a home. Someone lives there!”

  “Maybe a badger,” interjected Louisa, shooting Jessa­mine a warning glance. The last thing they needed was for Winthrop to think some strange little bearded man lived at the end of that tunnel. He’d never rest until he got in there to see for himself. She pushed Winthrop aside and grabbed hold of Charlie’s feet.

  “I’m tellin’!” Winthrop howled, and Charlie let loose with an outraged howl of his own as Louisa yanked him backward.

  Charlie was on his hands and knees crawling into the hole, just his dirty feet sticking out.

  She pulled so hard that she tumbled backward herself, landing painfully on a tree root. Charlie fell half on top of her, his face smacking against the ground. Winthrop laughed and jeered. Jessamine knelt to help little Charlie to his feet. He was wailing loud enough to curdle milk.

  “Hush, honey,” Louisa said, feigning more affection that she felt at the moment. “Are you hurt?”

  “I think he’s all right,” Jessamine called above the blubbering. “Winthrop, you better hush up.”

  “Ha, look at his face!” guffawed Winthrop. “You look like you done took a bath in dirt, Charlie!”

  “My white stone!” Charlie wailed. “I lost my white stone!”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Jessamine wearily. “Not again.”

  “I need to get it,” Charlie insisted. His face had a stormy, thinking-about-biting look.

  Louisa bit her lip, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do. She couldn’t let Charlie go back in, that was certain. She’d have to do it herself. Charlie’s wails were escalating in volume. If there were some kind of critter inside that hole, Charlie was going to rouse it for sure.

  “Hush, Charlie. I’ll try. Maybe it didn’t go in too far. But you have to be quiet.”

  Charlie’s howls subsided to whimpers. Louisa crouched low in front of the hole, peering at the dark ground inside, hunting against hope for a gleam of not-exactly-white. Right away she knew it was going to be hopeless. She’d never be able to see one little rock in that dark earthen tunnel. Cautiously she put a hand inside and felt around on the smooth, hardpacked dirt. Nothing.

  “I’ll have to go in a little way,” she said. Though she was quailing inside, she eased forward into the tunnel on her hands and knees. It smelled cool and dusty, not rank like she expected an animal burrow to smell. That was some small comfort, at least. Maybe it was abandoned. But no, Jessamine was certain she had seen something go into that hole.

  “Didja find it?” demanded Charlie behind her.

  “Hush,” she hissed. She heard Jessamine warning Winthrop not to even think of smacking Louisa in the behind with his stick—which of course meant that Winthrop had been thinking of doing that very thing. Louisa was grateful to Jessamine for sparing her the wallop. She crept forward a tiny bit more, groping, groping . . . and then she froze, her heart turning to lead inside her.

  She was staring right into a pair of eyes. Little round eyes, shining in the darkness, looking right back at her. What kind of creature they belonged to, she couldn’t tell.

  But one thing was certain: they were not the eyes of a badger.

  She was staring right into a pair of eyes. Little round eyes, shining in the darkness, looking right back at her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The White Stone

  LOUISA DIDN’T DARE MOVE. PA SAID A WILD CRITTER would lunge at you if you made any quick motions. Slow and easy—that’s the way to back out of a tight spot. Louisa was afraid to move at all. The voices of the children behind her seemed suddenly very far away. Her body was blocking the daylight, and in the dark tunnel she couldn’t make out more than a shadowy shape around those curious, staring eyes.

  She could hear it breathing. Whatever it was—a fox? A bobcat? No, cats didn’t live in underground dens—whatever it was, it had a funny, faint whistle in its breath. Not a snuffle or a growl, but a gentle fluty sound a little like Charlie’s snoring. And those eyes. They had expression; the gaze was intelligent and scrutinizing, almost—Louisa felt silly thinking it—stern. Now what kind of critter, she wondered, looked at you sternly when you poked your head into its den?

  Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and she began to make out the shape of the critter’s body. The tunnel was wider than she would have guessed, much bigger than a fox would need. A squat, rounded shape filled the space, a compact bulk that did not seem fuzzy or furry at the edges the way it should. And above the eyes . . . But that can’t be, Louisa thought, wishing desperately she had a light.

  If she didn’t know better, she could swear the critter’s shape tapered to a tall point above its eyes.

  “Louisa!” wailed Charlie behind her. He was smacking her on the back, and it hurt. “You find it yet?”

  Louisa held her breath, terrified the critter would pounce. But it held its ground, simply staring. Ever so slowly she edged herself backward. Somehow she had to get out of that tunnel without provoking an attack. Her neck and shoulders ached, and the hard ground was hurting her knees. She scooched another inch backward.

  Then she gasped and froze again. The critter had moved. It had taken a step toward her, she was sure of it. Her backward creeping had shifted her just enough to let in a smidgen of daylight, and she could see that the critter was reaching out toward her with its paw—no, not a paw: it was hairless and pale. She shuddered, fearing her heart would burst. Behind her Jessamine was calling out her name, and the boys were clamoring. The thing that wasn’t a paw extended toward her, opening flat.

  It was a hand.

  And upon its palm lay Charlie’s white stone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Critter with Hands

  PA’S ADVICE UTTERLY FORGOTTEN, LOUISA SCRAMBLED backward out of the hole. Her breath came in ragged, panicky gasps. She felt dizzy. She collided with someone behind her—Charlie, from the sound of the wails—and before she had a chance to untangle herself, something came sailing out of the tunnel, landing with a soft plunk in the dirt between her hands.

  Charlie’s stone.

  That critter had tossed Charlie’s stone to her, as if it had known exactly what she was looking for.

  A critter with hands like a human being. And—she could no longer deny what she’d seen with her own eyes—a pointed hat.

  “My white stone!” Charlie crowed, diving for the precious rock. Louisa started to her feet, never taking her eyes off the tunnel’s entrance.

  “Louisa, what is i
t?” cried Jessamine. “You look like you done seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost,” murmured Louisa, and slowly she turned to look at the other girl. “I saw something,” she whispered so Winthrop wouldn’t hear, “but it wasn’t a ghost.”

  Jessamine stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then gasped, her mouth falling open.

  “You mean—”

  “Yes,” said Louisa, looking back at the hole. There was no sign of the . . . the whatever-it-was.

  Before Louisa could stop her, Jessamine had dropped to her knees before the tunnel’s entrance.

  “No!” Louisa cried, and Winthrop crowded close.

  “Whatcha lookin’ for?” he demanded. “You see somethin’ in there, Louisa?”

  “I found Charlie’s stone,” Louisa said hastily, avoiding the question. “Here, Charlie. Now come on, Jessamine, we’d better get back.”

  She was afraid Jessamine would put up a fuss, but the younger girl rose to her feet, nodding.

  “Yes, let’s get on back,” she said. Her eyes were very bright.

  Clutching his stone, Charlie broke into a run, threading his way back through the trees. Winthrop raced behind him, waving his stick. Louisa lingered for one last cautious glance at the hole. There was nothing to be seen.

  But Jessamine clutched her hand.

  “I saw him,” she whispered. “The one I told you about. And, Louisa—” She looked up at the older girl, her eyes wide with awe. “He put a finger to his lips, like he was saying to shush. He didn’t want me to let the boys know he was there.”

  Watching Winthrop chase Charlie with his stick swishing through the air dangerously close to the smaller boy’s head, Louisa didn’t blame the little man one bit.

  If he was a man. What kind of person lived in a hole under the ground? He was too small to be human—smaller even than a human child. He couldn’t have been more than a foot high. But what else could he be? Animals didn’t wear clothes and hats, and have beards, and have hands with fingers and everything. An animal wouldn’t know how to say shhh by putting a finger to its lips.

  Of all the strange things that had happened to Louisa in the past few days, this was by far the strangest.

  The children were halfway home when Jessamine stopped short, clapping a hand to her head.

  “The hazelnuts!” she cried in dismay.

  Louisa groaned. In all the excitement, she had clean forgotten about collecting nuts for Mrs. Smirch.

  “We left the basket in the grove,” Jessamine added.

  Charlie’s short legs had grown tired by this time, and he was dragging along, holding Jessamine’s hand. Even Winthrop looked hot and weary; the sun was high overhead now, and the pleasant morning cool had given way to a shimmering August heat.

  “You’d better take the boys on home,” said Louisa. “I’ll go back for the nuts.”

  Jessamine looked as though she wanted to protest—Louisa knew she was hoping for another glimpse of the strange little man—but Charlie was pulling on Jessamine’s hand, whining.

  “C’mon, Jessie, let’s go!” he urged. “I want my dinner.”

  Jessamine sighed and nodded. “All right. But, Louisa . . .” She dropped her voice, giving Louisa’s arm a last squeeze. “Be sure to tell me if anything happens.”

  “I will,” Louisa promised. “But I’m just going to fill up the nut pail and come straight back. I don’t want your aunt Mattie thinking I went home again.”

  Jessamine let Charlie tug her over the grass toward his home. Winthrop trudged behind them. Louisa watched them for a moment, then turned and hurried back to the hazel grove. She knew Jessamine had hoped for another encounter with the—the thing, but Louisa rather hoped he’d disappeared far down his tunnel. Too much had happened; she needed time to sit and think about all this. In all the stories Pa had ever told her, he’d never mentioned a word about little old bearded fellows who lived in burrows under the prairie. Louisa aimed to just fill up that pail with nuts and scoot back to the Smirches quick as fire. As it was, she was going to be late for the midday meal, and Mrs. Smirch would have something else to fuss at her about.

  She approached the trees, slowing warily, looking for the little man. There was no sight of him. The grove was deserted. There was the pail, right in the middle, under a tree. She reached for the handle and got another shock.

  The pail was full to the brim with hazelnuts.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  How Softly They Gleamed

  LATE IN THE EVENING, MRS. SMIRCH SET THE GIRLS to washing dishes while she wrestled the boys to bed in the other room. Louisa had been waiting all day for a chance to tell Jessamine about that pail of nuts.

  “How did he know that’s what we came for?” Jessa­mine asked.

  “What else would we bring a pail for?” Louisa shrugged. “Or maybe he heard us talking.”

  “Oh, Louisa!” Jessamine clasped her hands together, water dripping down her sleeves. “He’s awfully nice, ain’t he! What do you suppose he is?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Louisa fervently. She still had that sense of living in a dream. In the past week, hardly one thing had happened that made any sense to her at all.

  “You girls ain’t done yet?” asked Mrs. Smirch, coming out from the back room. “You need to hurry up and get to bed.”

  She sank into her chair by the hearth and reached for her mending basket. Mrs. Smirch was a worker; Louisa had to give her that. The girl still wasn’t impressed with the state of Mrs. Smirch’s floors, but she supposed Winthrop and Charlie had a lot to do with that.

  “Oh, me,” sighed Mrs. Smirch, threading a needle. “I’m plumb wore out. Malcolm ain’t come in from the barn yet? Louisa, what’s that book you been hidin’? I found it in a poke under your nightclothes. I hope it ain’t more stolen goods from your pa’s dugout.”

  Louisa’s mouth fell open in horror. Mrs. Smirch was going through her things! Of all the indignities she’d had to endure since coming here, this was the worst. To be accused of stealing her pa’s own book!

  “It’s my father’s,” she said, hastily drying her hands on her apron. She needed to see the book, to reassure herself that Mrs. Smirch hadn’t harmed it in any way. “Where is it?”

  Mrs. Smirch cocked an eyebrow at her. “Mind your manners, girl,” she said mildly. “Ain’t no need to take my head off. Can’t blame folks for being a mite suspicious after what they found in your pa’s old dugout.”

  “We don’t know how those things got there—” began Louisa for the dozenth time.

  “Save your breath, child,” snapped Mrs. Smirch. “I heard it all before. Now, what I was fixin’ to say afore you got all hot and bothered on me was that I’m of a mind to have you read me a little of that there book. I don’t reckon it’ll do any harm to use it, even if it ain’t your’n.”

  Which is how, some minutes later, Louisa found herself reading Longfellow’s poems to Mrs. Smirch, Jessa­mine, and, when he came in from his barn chores, Mr. Smirch. Mrs. Smirch sat in her rocker, sewing, listening with that same twisted smile. Jessamine sat on the hooked rug before the fire, her hands clasped around her knees, eyes shining, drinking in Louisa’s words like they were water after a drought. Even Mr. Smirch seemed to be enjoying the reading; he was hunkered on a bench with a knife and a strip of leather, but his hands had fallen idle and he was staring at the fire, nodding now and then at a turn of phrase he liked.

  Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

  Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side,

  Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

  It was the most pleasant moment Louisa had known since she first set foot in this house, and for just a minute, all the worries and mysteries that had churned incessantly in her mind for a week subsided, and she felt almost peaceful.

  And then Mrs. Smirch pounced.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  May as Well Get It Over With


  ALL LOUISA DID—SUCH A LITTLE THING—WAS RAISE a hand to scratch her head. She didn’t even notice she was scratching until she felt Mrs. Smirch’s gaze upon her and looked up to find those sharp eyes watching her narrowly, like the woman was a rattler about to strike. Louisa’s voice faltered; her hand fell to the book in her lap, just as Mrs. Smirch thrust aside her sewing and sprang up to inspect the girl’s head.

  Louisa instinctively recoiled, and Mrs. Smirch hissed at her to hold still. She pushed Louisa’s head downward and pawed at her hair, shoving aside the long heavy locks on the girl’s neck, scrabbling, scrabbling.

  “What is it?” Louisa yelped. “A spider?”

  “What in tarnation, Matilda?” asked Mr. Smirch.

  “What were you scratchin’, girl? I saw you scratch,” said Mrs. Smirch. “Hold still so I can get a look at your neck.”

  An awful chill coursed through Louisa’s blood. She knew what Mrs. Smirch was looking for.

  “I don’t have them,” she protested, gasping against the pain of her hair being tugged. “Honest, I don’t! I’ve never had them in my life!”

  “Then what,” said Mrs. Smirch, and her voice was grimmer than Louisa had ever heard it be before, “do you call this?”

  She jerked Louisa’s head back and brandished something before her eyes. Louisa blinked in pain and shame, rearing away from that pinch-fingered hand.

  “I don’t see anything,” she whispered, but she knew, with a sick certainty, that what Mrs. Smirch was waving at her was too tiny to stick out beyond the pinching forefinger and thumb.

  “You . . . got . . . lice!” said Mrs. Smirch, and there was a note of triumph in her voice. “I knew it! Bah!” She smushed the insect between her fingers and flicked it into the fire. “Jessamine, get over here and let me have a look at you.”

  Jessamine’s hand went to her head, her eyes wide and fearful. Louisa’s face burned with shame. Mr. Smirch remained silent, just watching, his lips pressed together in the same old way.